photo friday: bright

When looking through my photos for inspiration as to shooting bright, I noticed that my brightest photos were of my daughter. I generally dress her with as much color as I can put together "without looking like a Christmas tree" (as Veronika once said of my own clothing choices). These photos were all taken this week, on various outings around our neighborhood, and Genevieve was usually more than happy to pose. The last photo was taken on my last attempted shoot, by which time Genevieve had gotten tired of standing against walls; she wouldn't stay put for one second. Here she is running toward me brightly, lips puckered, hoping for a kiss.


P O S T   S C R I P T
For those of you interested in the fashion details: 1) Yellow calico raincoat, hand-me-down from Lola Jane; blue Acoustic Kids dress; yellow leggings present from Grandma Ellen; Oilily socks (via ebay); green crocs hand-me-down from Ike; chicken toy bought at an antique store in New Jersey.
2) Mini Boden dress and cardigan, Wooden Button necklace made by me in our booth at the Harvest Festival, Kiwi leggings, See Kai Run boots.
3) Gap dress (ebay); hand-me-down white cardigan; Egg long-sleeve tee; See Kai Run mary janes; handknit hat a present from Jenny. 4) Room Seven cardigan, apron dress made by me from fabric from Amy Butler's new cameo line; Jefferies footless leggings, boots hand-me-down from Ike. 5) Oilily dress (ebay); Mini Boden cardigan, Tea leggings, See Kai Run boots; bracelet found by her brother on the sidewalk. 6) Oilily jacket (ebay), Egg long-sleeve tee, peasant blouse made by me.

like orthodox jewish women?

A month or two ago a box addressed to Veronika arrived at my office. It was full of clothes that our friend Julia had deemed unsuitable to her new life as mother and Midwesterner. I persuaded Veronika to give me two of the blouses, one a black v-neck with lace trim and the other a denim-colored cotton button-down. All the clothes in the box were simple, stylish, significantly more modest than racy, and reminded me fondly of Julia. I remember the blouses as part of Julia's wardrobe here in New York; now they are refugees from a life she no longer wears. Our fashion sense changes as our lifestyles change, as our bodies age, as we take on or discard roles, or--in the case of Julia--move to small town Midwestern America.

One nice thing about dressing in my thirties is that I have grown more or less comfortable with my body and have worked out a way to dress that both pleases me and flatters my figure. Which means lots of whimsical skirts, simple low-cut blouses, tight-fitting cardigans or jackets, shoes that unite comfort with girliness, and boots as often as weather allows. I also try to incorporate one incongruent item--Adriel's invaluable fashion advice--a pair of green shoes, pale pink fishnet tights, or an orange lucite rose ring. I dress colorfully, artistically, and I like to think attractively. Maybe even sexy. Right?

Well.

Clearly "sexy" means something different to men than it does to women, and doesn't include my beloved moss-green tulle-over-satin Cyndi-Lauper-meets-the-Little-Mermaid skirt. My boyfriend hates it. He also thinks I wear mostly dark colors (read "earth tones") and he mentioned the other day, off-hand, that I dress like an Orthodox Jewish woman. What the heck? My style is being likened to that of a wig-wearing, buttoned-up-blouse, long-skirted Orthodox Jewish woman?? Oi Vey!

I mentioned this outrageous critique of my fashion sense to Veronika, who in turn asked her boyfriend what he thought of her style. "Well, sweetie," he said, "a little like an Orthodox Jewish lady."

So, there it is. Men think we dress like Orthodox Jewish women. Veronika and I wandered around New Haven on Labor Day, looking in askance at the returning undergrad Yale girls prancing around in short shorts, satiny strapless blouses, and showy sheath dresses. Most the girls we saw were more than ten years younger than us, and--although they weren't wearing much--what they were wearing wasn't all that interesting or particularly attractive. But they themselves were beautiful, glowing, their faces hopeful and energetic. Whether or not their clothing looked good on them, they looked good. When I was their age I had no idea how beautiful I was; I was concerned instead with being an adult, with knowing the right things, with pleasing my professors which, in turn, meant displeasing my father.

But I'm a woman in her early thirties who knows she's beautiful. I respond quite warmly to the youthful beauty of these enthusiastic co-eds, albeit not as warmly to the power their attendant sexiness has over men. That is the rub, of course, the place where something sticks inside me. Yet doesn't my own thirty-something beauty come in recognizing that I have nothing to fear from youthful beauty? That dignity comes in dressing appropriate to my age, to my interests, and to my own inner sense of style?

And I don't think I dress like an Orthodox Jewish lady.

I asked my boyfriend what he meant by that comment last night. He considered for a moment, "Well, I didn't mean you dress dowdy. I guess I meant you dress a little retro, a little European." Well, that's better. I dress a little European. Fine.

By the way: this is what comes to mind when I think of Orthodox Jewish ladies--

paschal pumps

It was snowing and we were hungry--scouting out a Mexican restaurant on the Upper East Side while the theatrical sky funneled sun and snow between buildings. I'd suggested a tiny French Caribbean place with organic escargot, but my companion thought the space too small and dark. So I lit a cigarette and drove South.

It was Holy Thursday. I'd spent the morning singing at liturgy, where (to my surprise) I began to cry during the service. As we drove down Second Avenue I wondered at my tears. This Pascha is the first in five years that I've chosen to celebrate in New York, at a parish I more or less attend. Staying in town for Pascha is admitting I live here--and so many of my friends live far away.

We found a place to park on a brownstone and tree-lined street in the eighties. A turquoise awning on Second Avenue promised Mexican, and we headed in that direction. Half-way down the block I stopped short. An elegant pair of low-heeled, buckle-toed, black leather pumps rested on a brick ledge next to the sidewalk. They sat there, gazing up at me.

I knew immediately they were my size. And, as if I always happen upon shoes this way, I unzipped my boot and nestled my foot down into the stylish little pump. It fit perfectly. The snow continued to fall while my companion stared at me, blinking incredulously. I glanced around. Did someone head out for a walk, forgetting her shoes? Or did she leave them here on purpose, hoping someone who loved them would find them? Garbage bags lined the curb, but the shoes sat by themselves on the opposite side of the sidewalk. No one appeared at the door of the nearest brownstone to scold me. I put my boot back on, set the pumps down and walked away. "If they're here when we return, it's a sign from God that I should take them." I said.

I got about 15 feet before I stopped and ran back for the shoes. The mere idea of somebody else snatching them was too much for me. I picked up the shoes and looked around warily, sure their owner would appear any moment to claim her Parisian slippers, and then stashed them in my computer bag. We walked up to Second Avenue but restaurant turned out to be an unappetizing Mexican-themed sports bar. "Let's go back to the French Caribbean place," my friend said, "We were meant to come here for the shoes. And now we can go back." So we did.

I wore the shoes to liturgy this morning, and stood in them through all the Old Testament readings. And I might wear them to Pascha tonight, if it doesn't snow.

not to mention a coach made from a pumpkin

I don't know about you, but I associate ballgowns with amiable woodland creatures. Now the ball is tomorrow, and I have a ballgown, bronze beaded slippers, a glittery wrap, a hair appointment, and princes and princesses by the dozen. But so far no woodland creatures have arrived with succor. I only require a sparrow or two, perhaps a chipmunk, a friendly badger?

All the ball preparations have left my bedroom & bath in shambles--discarded shawls, sparkly hosiery and velvet heels litter the floor. Sigh. The woodland creatures would whip the place into shape in no time, while I'd sing and admire myself in the mirror.

fitted at orchard corset

I purchased three orthodox undergarments last weekend.

One of my co-workers has been raving about a corset shop she visited in Manhattan. Since it was well time I bought a new bra I thought I'd give her shop a whirl. Rachel and I headed down after liturgy and wandered around the Lower East Side until we found what we'd been looking for--a tiny unkempt store front with the faded words "Orchard Corset" above the door. As we headed in I said, "I can't believe this is the place she sent me!"

Behind the counter stood a rather corpulent Orthodox Jewish man and behind him a wall completely shelved with small, well-worn, blue paper boxes. An elegant Jewish woman sat beside the counter crocheting pink baby booties. She repeated what I'd said as I entered, "I can't believe this is the place she sent me!" and then stood. "What are you here for?" she asked.

I felt a bit confused, I didn't see any corsets, much less bras. "A bra?" I said uncertainly. "Let me see your back," she said. I removed my coat and turned around. She touched my back firmly, turned me around and unabashedly felt my chest. She then spun around to the wall of little blue boxes and began pulling out a number of beige bras. She led me firmly toward what with some imagination could be called a "dressing room"--it was more a curtain rigged up with folding chair and a mirror behind it. She didn't have to tell me to remove my shirt and my suddenly unsubstantial-looking Victoria Secret bra, I was onto the agenda by then.

I tried on 15 or more bras. Before I had a chance to respond she'd discarded ones she thought didn't give me proper lift or shape, whittling down my choices to 3 or 4 serious-looking undergarments. I asked if I could try on bras with less, er, material, so that if I chose to wear a low-cut blouse it wouldn't show. While I stood there naked from the waist up, Rachel and another woman plowed through my "dressing room" to another fitting room apparently behind mine. So much for privacy.

I ended up with three lovely bras, and only one is particularly grandma-ish. And at a very reasonable price too. I learned (and this is a bit embarrassing to post online) that I'd been wearing a 36 C when I really am a 34 DD. If you can believe. Sheesh.

Rachel bought a couple of bras as well. As we headed out she said it reminded her of Harry Potter purchasing a wand at Ollivander's in Diagon Alley. We returned to Lower East Side Christmas shopping well-equipped with magic of a different kind, and I happily extend the offer for a magical--and orthodox--fitting to any of my female readers upon their next trip to NYC.