I’m at the age where pretty much every fashion styling moment I’ve experienced in my life has come round the mountain (at least) one more time. I don’t altogether mind this except for the fact that having lived in New York City where closet space is as valuable as gold (there’s a reason Carrie Bradshaw, she of Sex in the City, used her oven for clothes storage) there was always a clearing going on to make room for the new. Some of my favorite moments—and pieces of clothing—have come from closet clean outs with friends (I’m looking at you, Elizabeth and Ruth). But, truth be, except for the odd pair of jeans or dress, I probably wouldn’t pull out and on what I used to have in regular rotation since it was mostly specific to my time in publishing and city living. I still love style (the original inspiration for this blog, after all), but what I’ve discovered is that my source for ideas has flipped. Thrift/vintage store trolling is still in the top five of my favorite things to do, but paging through fashion magazine has fallen from the list.

From the age of fourteen and up until very recently (last year even), the September issue of Vogue was a marker in my August. The bound, not online, version. A weigh-me-down affair that I always felt bad the postal person had to deliver, since it added at least another five-or-so pounds per issue to their load. In the heyday of magazine advertising, the reason publications can actually be so hefty, Vogue‘s 2012 September issue was the largest in the history of the mag coming in at 916 pages. Even if the bulk of those were pitches for products, it was still fun to thumb. There was a documentary about Vogue‘s September issue, ferChrissakes, and it was called The September Issue. So, you know, a big deal.

When I was young, I dreamt about working for a fashion magazine until music journalism won out. Weighing the choice between covering a cool new pair of shoes or a cool new band, I tipped toward the humans. But after doing time in music, I wanted a rest from humans and stepped into the glossy world of Condé Nast (publishers of many fashion and lifestyle titles) and later Hearst (another powerhouse). For a long time, the air still felt rarified, but as happens when you step behind the curtain, reality barges in and resets the view. By that point, though, I wasn’t as emotionally tied to the thing. The players were less offensive boys and more mean girls (although search sexism and magazine publishing and you’ll come up with plenty of reading material). And, as with music publishing, there were also plenty of fine folks to know. But it was as an observer that I had the most fun watching the pageantry unfold. I once rode the elevator with Anna Wintour and I’m pretty sure that was because A) her private elevator was broken and B) someone was meant to pull me out of the car before the doors closed. But there I was standing like a statue feeling the tension in that rub-off way that happens when you’re with someone who brings about big crazy feelings on all those in their vicinity. We rode twelve floors and it felt like twelve years. By contrast, Grace Coddington, Vogue‘s former creative director, was a hoot the one time I stepped into the elevator with her. Dry sense of humor and, while not exactly trying to get to know her audience, at least open to us being there. I would have ridden a few extra floors with her for sure.

But of course times, they do change. And industries mirror those moments. I was lucky to glide out of my magazine publishing day job from a place of happiness having spent eight-ish years with some really amazing people at Hearst (you know who you are, most excellent ones). So fast forward to Cali and a new way of looking at life. As I stood in the local store, staring at the rack of magazines, it felt surreal. I knew those people putting out those titles, and while not necessarily personally, at least in how they did what they did to produce the issues I was staring at. I instinctively reached for the Vogue, not only because it was reflexive, but also because I’d read a bit about the cover(s). Plus I was curious about how they’d pulled off fashion in these pandemic and racially charged times—a discussion regarding relevance I’d been having with my publishing pals recently. Could they shift and find a different footing that spoke to the times we’re living in? A period when the seams of the clothing industry’s already frayed business model have completely come undone as a good percentage of people have spent the last few months living in sweatpant nation and daywear pajamas. But also on the humanitarian front, a time when the clothing industry had been under the microscope for unethical and inhumane business practices. And so this reckoning combined with the current world and US crises merged like the least successful, too-busy pairing of Marimekko and H&M in 2008. Unfortunately though, and as usual, the people who suffer in the business are the ones who can least afford to.

It was with all that in mind that I bought the Vogue, brought it home, settled into our inflatable pool, and opened it. I tried really really hard to keep the cynicism at bay but I couldn’t get beyond Anna Wintour’s editor’s letter. While I don’t know the woman personally, since you can’t count an elevator ride as a deep connection, and I can’t speak to her demeanor around puppies or kittens, which I often consider a litmus test for kindness or at least heart, but from what I’ve observed and heard of her actions around humans, it’s been no bueno for awhile. Certainly that’s no surprise. For me, though, it’s becoming harder and harder to separate out the person running the show to the show itself and so after reading her words about why the issue was dedicated to hope and thinking how tone deaf they sounded, I completely lost the thread and put the magazine in the pile to be dropped off in our public laundry room.

There is a very distinct emperor’s new clothes moment going on right now, an elemental and spiritual nakedness being exposed everywhere you look in the world. The Venn diagram of health, racial, and political issues are going to be with us for quite a long spell and while I welcome pretty pictures and beautiful things to look at, my approach has changed. I’m looking for more intentional escapism. Still satisfying without the psychic hangover. Two friends have made me think more deeply about this lately. One, who posted on social media regarding what her art is about (or, more specifically, what art is about for those who create it). What resonated is her message of staying with the unanswerable. You don’t have to know outright what a piece or a movement is about. Sit in it, feel discomfort and inspiration and follow where that leads you. And the other instant was a friend who asked how I feel I’ve changed during this pandemic. And what came almost immediately was the sense that I’m quicker to get to feelings. I don’t talk myself out of my thoughts and convictions the way I have in the past. I still need a minute, but it’s not a minute that turns into an hour, then a year, then, ah, forget it. Cutting through some bullshit is a place I’m working on.

So staying power. The uprising of voices calling out crimes against humanity, all of them sewn together into a common quilt: COVID health disparities, police departments attacking Black lives while police unions interrupt the process of bringing those officers to justice, an upcoming election where we know we need to be ready to deal with the current person in the oval office not leaving on his own volition. None of these are good looks. I’m searching out a style, something from top to bottom, that is more along the lines of joy and good intention. I’m searching my proverbial closet. What to wear to the revolution. What about you?