Things I've Learned This Year

Realizations on social media, class, intended fit, and occasionally worn clothes

How exactly is it December 17th already? Have I entered a time warp? Am I dreaming? As I’m desperately trying to understand how we got here, I’m in the process of tallying up my style-related purchases for the year. I’m usually not one for end-of-the-year lists (or New Year resolutions for that matter), but when it comes to style and clothes, I try to find clarity through reflecting on the clothes that I’ve bought and my style-related a-ha moments. The two are intertwined, but this newsletter focuses on the latter. (There will be a separate newsletter on the things I’ve bought and how I managed to execute my wardrobe plan this year.)

My most important style realization emerged from my three-month-long Instagram break this fall: I am influenced by social media a lot more than I’d like to admit. IG is fast, furious and addicting. It affects me in ways that I was aware of on some level way before I read Johann Hari’s ‘Stolen Focus’, but I was not prepared to fully witness how deeply other people’s acceptance, outfits and purchases have influenced me over the years. It only came to light when I left IG: for a while I was at a loss as to how to dress for myself, and how to find meaning in my clothes when my IG community wasn’t there to act as a mirror, or a sounding board, to myself and my clothes. Now that I’m back to using IG but I don’t spend nearly as much time there as I used to, I find that it’s possible to enjoy the best aspects of IG and not have it control your life. It takes unfollowing accounts that trigger you, logging off whenever you feel a sense of inadequacy raising its ugly head, and some discipline.

This paves way to another moment of clarity that’s closely linked to social media: clothes are not just personal, they are also social and societal. I had a gut-feeling about this before, but reading W. David Marx’s ‘Status and Culture’ was a huge eye-opener for me this year. Finns tend to steer away from discussing class and status, because our national psyche revolves around the absurd idea that our society is equal. But all societies function on the observation that some people have more than others. The concept of class is inevitable. When it comes to style and clothes, this year I’ve been forced to think about the nature of fashion as profoundly elitist and classist. Fashion is based on exclusivity: when styles become common and achievable for the masses, they are no longer fashionable. The way we buy and wear clothes is always linked to who we are in relation to others, and our clothes signal our status in society, whether we like it or not.

Luckily this doesn’t stop fashion and style lovers of all income levels coming together on social media. I find that, for the most part, the IG fashion/style community doesn’t care if one finds their gems at the thrift store and the other at Prada. I say that because I’ve become friends with people who have a lot of money and I don’t, and I find that our connections on social media are sincere and meaningful. I sometimes wonder, however, if we could, say, go shopping together, in real life. I’m sure my wealthier friends would happily explore the thrift store with me and enjoy it, but I’d probably feel deeply uncomfortable going to a Prada store with them. Wealth is weird like that. It divides people, and the people who feel the division are the ones who don’t have it.

Moving onto lighter topics: earlier this year I had an epiphany about shoes. I wrote about it here. Recognizing that I am very particular about my shoes has allowed me to look at other aspects of my wardrobe with a similar, simple point of view: what do I really like? When I wrote the shoe newsletter in May, I mused:

“My shoes should be a part of me: almost invisible, seamlessly integrated. I wonder if the same could be true for my clothes, too, but I’m just not quite there yet, mentally?”

I’m noticing now, just like I did with shoes, that when I try too hard to achieve a look that’s based on a trend or that I’ve maybe seen on someone else, I tend to make bad decisions with clothes. I’m still trying to figure this out, but I already know that anything that requires additional styling leads me into trouble. I don’t like styling things in complicated ways. I like wearing clothes as they are intended to be worn.

This hit me the other day as I was chatting with a fellow vintage shop owner, who complained about small customers wanting to buy up all the jeans in big sizes in order to achieve ‘the oversized jeans look’. They do that button-to-the-side thing, or cinch the living daylights out of the waistband with a belt, and the end result is just a really poor fit that might look nice in a photo but it’s atrocious when the wearer moves. I’ve noticed a similar trend in my shop when it comes to blazers. People attempt to make beautifully tailored 1990s blazers work in a bigger size by belting them, wrapping up the sleeves, or just letting the blazer hang limp and lifeless. But when that’s not the intended fit, it never works. If the person keeps adjusting their styling in the fitting room every time they move, it will not be any different when they wear it at the office or on the street. I’ve noticed this about myself this year: any type of styling trick that doesn’t stay in place (or if ‘stay in place’ requires extra effort) is useless to me.

In terms of wardrobe organization and culling this year, a major realization for me has been embracing seasonal clothing and holding onto things that I love but might only wear occasionally. Subrina Heyink just wrote about these topics here. (It’s a free post.) I don’t need my clothes to work 12 months out of the year — it’s just not realistic, especially when one lives in Finland. There’s great beauty in season-specific dressing: when it’s time to pull out next season’s clothes from storage, it’s like meeting up with old friends you haven’t hung out with for a while.

When Rachel wrote about The Closet Pyramid and introduced the ‘Treasured Sometimes’ category, it really resonated with me: getting a lot of wear out of one’s clothes is a great goal, but there are pieces that don’t need to be worn a ton. Just because you’re not wearing something all the time, it doesn’t mean that it’s a failed purchase. Life is cyclical, we have different moods, and special items that don’t get worn to death are great for investigating our multi-faceted existence.

Last but not least: I’m a tactile buyer. Lin wrote about buying clothes in person here, and her observation about online buying really hit home: “it’s ridiculous to project so much emotion and energy onto an image of a piece of clothing that I can’t touch or try on before buying”.

I really like to touch the materials and feel the fit of the clothes on my body before buying something. I shop smarter when I have full access to the piece of clothing before I make a decision to purchase. I recently talked to some AI developers who are working on using AI to recognize fabrics and fit in second hand and vintage clothes, and the conversation strengthened my resolve to do most, if not all, of my style-related purchases in person next year. I am not interested in a world where clothes are only images to be interpreted by AI. Clothes can and should be experienced with all of our senses. Why would we choose to limit ourselves?

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Next Sunday is Christmas Eve, so there will be no newsletter. The next one will tackle my 2023 purchases with stats and numbers, and it will arrive in your inbox on New Year’s Eve.

I want to wish my readers a happy holiday season. I appreciate every one of you, and your support means so much to me. Thank you for reading!

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