004: One for the Blues
Lemaire, sensual ease, and Period Dressing
The first piece I purchased from Lemaire was a dress with an asymmetric got-slightly-caught-in-the-shredder hem, swaths of grey wool intended for play and to make one’s own. It was 2016, and I’d returned home after a harrowing eight and a half hours seated amongst lawyers for a settlement mediation. I’d quit my job with a former employer after months of bullying and harassment. I would receive the check from my lawyers (who received a handsome percentage) nearly a month after I’d purchased the dress, but nonetheless I bought it because I needed to feel some kind of catharsis that was tangible, something that would bare testimony to the months of what had felt like being dragged through the mud, not being able to be by my grandmother’s side before she passed, and the date of said mediation set two days after her death, my former employer cruelly refusing to postpone the date.
Whew! Anyway! I needed to do something frivolous, and I had never before bought anything for myself that was a brand new designer piece, the sensible and cautious one and only daughter. The dress cost $400 and change, the most I had ever paid for anything at that time, and it terms of style, it was what I needed to feel: secure, certain, comfortable (eventually in my own skin). Something that would make me feel special and held even eight years later, perhaps even forever.
Over the years I’ve collected a few Lemaire pieces, drawn in by what is to me an ethos of sensual ease. One of the things I appreciate about this brand is how they reject the volatility of trends, designs that are a flash in the pan but then crash and burn. Every collection is not an overhaul but rather an enhancement of their DNA, such as roomy outerwear, shirts and dresses that play dual roles of structure and fluidity for whatever mood you may be in that day. One is never tempted to turn out pieces they own or grimace at how dated it may appear, because the Lemaire team have cultivated a universe where nothing ever goes out of style.
Because of its versatility, there isn’t one specific circumstance that Lemaire’s clothing can’t be worn, tried and true day-to-night, and if I did frequent nightclubs, I would absolutely be that one person wearing some blousy something in a sea of spandex. While their clothes are for all occasions, I’m even more inclined to turn to the pieces I own or even to their styling for inspiration when I’m really feeling like a shell of a shell of my former self. Sad, bad, un-glad: when I’m feeling these feelings and have managed to peel myself off the floor with my metaphorical spatula (careful with the edges) to be a participant in society, I want to wear things that mask my interiority without relinquishing total and absolute comfort. And so it goes without saying that this approach to dressing holds most true when Aunt Flo comes to town (not to be confused with Miss Flo).
Once a month she arrives, full throttle, twisting and turning my insides into double knots, a force so powerful she’s been given so many names, but for clarity’s sake we’ll call her Period. For days preceding and most of its duration, my period plays cruel tricks on my mind and body. Suddenly clothes I wear daily are impossible to get on, I don’t walk so much as I waddle, and my self-esteem plummets. If I were Marie Antoinette, I’d draw the curtains and eat cake until the whole ordeal were over. Alas I am not, and while sometimes I can weasel my way out of life and enter a vegetative state on the sofa, there are only so many plans and appointments I can cancel before I begin to contribute to the meme-making of millennials and our penchant for canceling plans.
It’s times like these I’ll reach for clothes that’ll give me a shot of confidence, something that is remarkably hard to find in womenswear. This is not to say that clothes that evoke “QUEEN” and “SLAY” (God forgive me) don’t exist, but they are usually made with the three Ts in mind: tight, taut, and tiny. That is, of course, the first thing that comes to mind when thinking of mainstream definitions of sexuality and sensuality, clothes that define gender so particularly. Still so little is available that is representative of reality in terms of both design and size, clothes acknowledging and inclusive of diversity in shape, clothes that empower and embolden us through the fluctuations of life.
When I get my period – which is a physically and emotionally taxing experience for me because advancements and acknowledgements in women’s reproductive healthcare continues to be a joke – I want to feel beautiful. A cinched waist can be worn relaxed and still remain I daresay chic. Skirts coast along but do not cling. Never slouchy but instead easy, structure held up through clever placement of buttons, darts, seams, ties.
All things Lemaire, but it doesn’t mean that one has to shell out a small fortune to achieve it. I wait for sales, search for pieces I have my eye on which is easy to do with this nifty thing called Google. Because the mainstream market hasn’t really caught on yet, and I hope they never do for our benefit, resale sites are replete with Lemaire at affordable prices. Predecessors of Lemaire, such as Issey Miyake (whose Pleats Please range is universal in sizing and listed sizes reflect length), Zoran, Giorgio Armani, and Yohji Yamamoto are virtuosos of sensual ease widely available in vintage and secondhand markets. Jonathan Anderson is another designer who is generous to the body; these Loewe elastic-waist pants cost a pretty penny (currently on sale), but they’ve carried me through three years and counting of some pretty miserable periods.
If you thought this entry was going to be about Period Dressing, as in Elizabethan collars, frills, and puffy sleeves, I’m sorry but also you’re welcome! Above is the only kind of Period Dressing I’m committed to, and for your viewing pleasure, all photos were taken in the very depths of my bloated, period misery.
Until next time, but not until the next time of the month!
Your version of period dressing is far chicer than mine - the bloated misery may be the same, but you look like someone who actually wants to be awake and dressed (well).
Lemaire is one of my 'maybe someday' labels, I've always craved the serenity of that kind of look and yet it never comes across quite as... monastic... as The Row or other labels in that minimalist design niche.