After a fashion
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What is a thirtysomething former Vogue editor to do when her look stops making sense? Jo Craven on her exhausting search for a new wearable wardrobe[/FONT]
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Friday January 4, 2008[/FONT]
[FONT=Geneva,Arial,sans-serif]The Guardian[/FONT]
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Jo Craven: 'Suddenly, my clothes had become unwearable'. Photograph: Graeme Robertson[/FONT]
Last September, as I was about to leave my job of five years as features editor at Vogue, I spotted the much-lauded jacket of 2007 that had been called in for a shoot - the Balenciaga blazer. Ever since it was first seen on the catwalk last spring, it had been referenced non-stop in the fashion world, and cost around £1,500. I could never afford it. I just wanted to see what it looked like on. I squeezed my arms into the sleeves, but became instantly, comically stuck. I couldn't take it off. I was like one of Cinderella's ugly sisters; a flushed, undignified sight - particularly as at least one other editor had just tried it on without incident.
Several minutes of sweaty hysteria later, and after gentle tugging by two colleagues, my arms were free again. But perhaps this was the moment when, for me, fashion began to stop making sense. It wasn't so much the price of the jacket that alarmed me (nothing strange about rare things costing more), but I did take against the fact that it was unwearable for someone like me.
It is now three months since I resigned from Vogue. And almost every day since, I've felt the effect of not dressing for work in that office on my morning ritual. Where once I flung my wardrobe doors open and got dressed in minutes - perhaps a sample-sale Chanel skirt with a Topshop blouse and an old army belt - now I dither and feel drawn to basics such as jeans and cardigans. I wonder if, at 37, I am starting to feel old. My wardrobe had been fine for the Vogue office, where everyone had some individual narrative going on - whether it was the Famous Five impersonator in the art room (shorts with socks and sandals) or the fashion-room assistant dressed as if perpetually ready to board a private jet, but who would probably go home on the bus to her flatmates.
It was a largely female office and, although black and wardrobe staples such as jeans were popular, there would always be a fashion message of clever understatement in these seemingly simple outfits. It was also an office where it was permissible to spend time cooing over crazy shoes or marvelling at the clever design of a pair of jeans. Fashion was all around us, in towers of look books, weighing down rails in corridors and tumbling out of returns bags. There were discounts and invites to sample sales that I rarely resisted, and my hauls now filled my incoherent wardrobe.
But I'd given up the job as a "lifestyle" choice, to move with my husband and two toddlers to build an eco house by the seaside in Suffolk, about as far from my previous life and house in Hackney, north London, as it's possible to go, as long as you discount the number of film directors who seem to have second homes in our village. This was a new life of freelance writing from home and commuting two days a week to London for a new-generation dotcom where, apart from the CEO's dad, I am the oldest employee.
In my new life, I pull down my suitcase on Monday for my night away from home. When I open my wardrobe to pack for the next two days, the confusion sets in. I struggle to put together outfits. My vintage leopard print blouse looks less jokey Cavalli and a bit Barry Manilow. My trusted Ferragamo patents aren't retro-quirky any more: they make me look like my mum. My jewellery, which used to be witty, now looks tacky. They may not have been perfect clothes in the first place but the protective enclave of the Vogue office had given me confidence to leave home wearing them. Suddenly, my clothes have become as unwearable in the life I am now living as any narrow-sleeved blazer. I've swapped a social life of first nights and fashion parties for the sound of crashing waves. I need a new wardrobe. I still want to be fashionable, but don't want to look like I've bought up the entire Toast back catalogue.
As I began my research for clothes that would make sense, one thing became clear: in your mid-30s, the fashion world isn't exactly directing the conversation to you. In fashion terms, you are caught between two stools. You can't ram-raid the high street for your clothes, like most 20-year-olds, because the older you get the cheaper clothes look. (Although a judicious selection of the best pieces sprinkled through your wardrobe still makes sense.) And both cheap clothes and pointless spending now leave a bad ethical taste - most people are trying to curb the habit. You also understand the allure of investment pieces that could see you through a few seasons. Fortunately, you're still too young to qualify as a "grey pound" spender, unless you fancy looking a bit prematurely Saga magazine, or want to wear some nice cashmere. You are, basically, no one's target fashion audience - so you need to be as canny as can be to stay in the conversation without soliciting unkind mutterings of, "Gosh, she looks different."
When I hunted for inspiration in magazines, where just months before I'd seen flights of fantasy I now saw clothes that needed decoding, and not just because the models were all 20 years younger than me. The clothes seemed to be as well. Over-the-knee socks are definitely fun, but on me? It wasn't me getting boring and just wanting wearable clothes: that sounds a snore, like advocating elastic waistbands. The challenge was translating looks that could also work in the country - without looking as though I was trying to "do" country. No Fair Isle Brora cardigans, thanks.
Most women I quizzed about fashion said that they knew their 30s were meant to be a time to fulfil all those years of experimentation and to cement their style. They were meant to have learned all the rules, for better or worse, and to play by them. One said it was like reading a book, then turning the page and finding there was a whole chapter missing. If you didn't want to look like a yummy mummy in silk jersey dresses or to channel your inner sexy secretary with pencil skirts, blouses and belts, what was left for you? I'm all for women not giving into the ageism of dress codes and wearing whatever makes them feel good, but the truth is it's easier to find great clothes to wear when you're 50 than in your 30s. What used to excite me about the fashion world, where the pace of the collections meant you could never catch your breath and where buying a winter coat starts in August, now exhausts me. I've been shopping and settled for classics: a navy blue polo neck, a navy blue coat and a navy blue silk blouse. I think fashion may have stopped making sense. I'm going to wait until I'm 50 before wrestling with it again.
