In elementary school, I had to wear a uniform, except on the occasional Fridays each month on which students were allowed to dress however we pleased. The pseudo-socialist in me has come to appreciate the uniform aesthetic for children, because in my warped idealistic and utopian brain, uniformity means that no kid was "better" than the other. We don't have to concern ourselves with the latest pair of shoes or wether or not our outfits look anything like our favorite Disney Channel star (although, if I could've dressed like Lizzie McGuire in second grade, I absolutely would have). We were all the same at our desks, our otherness was secondary and we sacrificed our individuality for the greater good of sharing and learning and whatever else is important at eight years old (mostly, Pokemon cards). Of course, I'm putting to much meaning in something so mundane, because I'm melodramatic by nature and because everything seems a little more grand under the tint of nostalgia. In reality, our uniforms were a mark of elitism, signifying our position as private schoolers--which, by its very nature is a mark of otherness, one that the pseudo-socialist in me is a little embarrassed over (she's also embarrassed at the fact that I lust of designer goods, but that bout of self deprecation will be reserved for another post). The point I'm working my way to, is the absolute joy I would get at being able to dress myself in more options than emerald green plaid skirts, navy sweaters, white shirt, red tie. Free-dress Fridays were limited only by my imagination (and a rigorous dress code). So, even though I actually couldn't go to school in my Betsey Johnson hand-me-down "princess" crinoline dress and Heely's, just having the freedom to decide was very appealing to my childhood brain. In the end though, whatever outfit I chose was a compromise between my mom and I, the former who like matching ensembles with lots of layers, the latter who wanted to wear every item from their closet all at once. I used to fight my mom tooth and nail over wearing outfits that color coordinated. With a lot huffing and puffing under my breath, as my hair was swept into two ponytails, I'd pout and bemoan that she was no longer my friend because she made me wearing matching shoes and colors that somehow all related to one another, like a dark orange dress with a burnt red sweater instead of the green socks I was hoping for. I didn't appreciate my mom's eye for color as a kid, even when she volunteered to teach art class. Just out of my innate sense of spite, I used to mix all of my finger paints into a great gooey, and muddy-colored mess on whatever canvas I was given. Color coordination was a symbol of uniformity, one that my developing free-spirit wanted absolutely no part in. It's only been in recent years that I began to see the beauty and fun in complimenting colors. There is something so satisfying, in ways that I can't accurate describe about seeing colors fit together seamlessly. It's like sticking your hand into a bag of rice, scrunching your fingers inside, and easing it slowly out to that rain-water sound that dry grains make. Or better yet, like a symphony. In high school, I was in orchestra and a select few (the nerdiest of the nerds) had the opportunity to join a professional orchestra for their Spring recital. Our conductor made an analogy that sticks in my head a lot, about how color and music are two sides of the same coin. It rings particularly true with this outfit, which fits neatly like a puzzle, from my hair color right down to my shoes.
Music is a painting, each instrument is a color and each sound should coincide with the other, they don't clash and overpower, they coordinate and create something beautiful.
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Top: Escada, Vintage from Wasteland, Skirt: Kenzo, Opening Ceremony, Jacket: H&M, Shoes: Zara, Purse: Hermes,