I can’t imagine a place more ethereal than Paris. Even the air here is androgynous, and I’m not including the relentless fashion sense I breathe daily in the streets and on the metro. During my stay at Jean Monnet, I have seen an eclectic range of wardrobe separates, all blended together to create a peculiar couture-ish look that absolutely works.
In Paris, women depend on their bodies. They have an understated edge of masculinity that defies the delicacy of their appearance. I have seen structured boyfriend jackets, flowing teacup skirts, and colored Mary Jane’s. I have seen wild hair, jagged scarves, boyfriend jeans, and vintage accessories.
It’s both surprising and refreshing to encounter a woman who is unconcerned with the appearance of her face, but absolutely aware of her body and the organic nature of its structure. In Paris, fashion is fashion. It’s about clothes, nothing more or less.
No one cares about makeup or matching in Paris. In fact, the more layers and textures, the better. No one ever wears tennis shoes, t-shirts, or flip-flops in Paris. In fact, no one wears sloppy denim or bright colors either.
In Paris, it’s easy to spot the American. Appropriately, these particular foreigners are always dressed in sloppy graphic tees, unfitted jeans, and the infamous Coach purse/tacky Oakley sunglasses or a face full of eyeliner.
In the city, I have found well-constructed clothing and shoes at prices ranging from $15-15,000 Euros. And although the handbags and briefcases are mostly designer, locals here carry bags that are not burdened by labels. For example, I have seen very limited monogramming. Even the children are well dressed.
The best thing about Parisian fashion is that there are no cultural labels and no limits when it comes to wardrobe.
Go see for yourself.
Swanky
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