It started with two throw pillows and this sweet little clutch, and suddenly I was eyeing marigold wallpaper for my cloffice and adding numerous items in this hue to my wardrobe. Was it just a sudden new crush, or had I not realized that the fashion gods had strategically served these little bits to my aesthetic appetite until I craved a whole three-course meal?
Whatever it was, it made me think of Miranda Priestly’s monologue in The Devil Wears Prada, explaining to Andy that “What you don’t know is that that sweater is not just blue, it’s not turquoise, it’s not lapis, it’s actually cerulean. And you’re also blind in the fact that you don’t know that that color represents millions of dollars and countless jobs and and it’s sort of comical how you think that you’ve made a choice that exempts you from the fashion industry when, in fact, you’re wearing a sweater that was selected for you by the people in this room… from a pile of ‘stuff’.” What felt like her own insignificant choice had, in fact, been shaped by an entire industry long before that sweater ever made its way to her. So, did I organically fall in love with marigold this summer, happily spending hours sourcing pieces for this edit? Or was this a perfect study in how trends are served to us so strategically and quietly that we don’t consciously notice our tastes and preferences are being guided?
I guess my answer would be: it doesn’t matter all that much.
I’ve styled that little Tuckernuck clutch more than any other bag in my closet over the past three months, and each time I reach for it, it gives me a little electric burst of aesthetic joy. A feeling I’ve chased since I was a little kid, poking around my older sister’s closet whenever she wasn’t home, coveting her handmade rhinestone-covered synchronized swimming headpieces and colorful beaded competition swimsuits. Marveling at the colors and textures as they glimmered in my little hands.
Never growing out of that search for wonder and sense of awe in the world around me, which so much of the time can feel gray, is something I’m so proud I’ve been able to hold on to. To make time for. I can feel my eight-year-old self reaching up and giving me a high five.
