Art teachers are a different breed. They have, almost as a rule, lots of ferns around their desks, extremely filthy fingernails, sort of crazy hair, and they were exactly the person I wanted to go to when I had a stomach ache—never the nurse. The day I peed my pants in the hallway in 3rd grade when Mrs. White wouldn’t let me peace out to the head? If I’d had enough time, I’d have run straight to the art annex and waited by the bay window with the aloe plants for my mom to come save me. That warmth and lunacy was like home to me.
So now, inspired by Ralph Lauren’s ’10 fall show, I’m going to try and dress like one.
To me, it’s all about the weirdly long shirt. Retro elements come and go, but I feel like it’s been a long time since we’ve seen that yanked down, (often) belted, tight tunic-style length. It’s so freaking 90s my head is spinning.
60 degrees here today. Holy guacamole. It’s fall already and I’m completely unprepared. The timing of this snap, combined with Rob’s sudden reintroduction to the life of a commuter, is knocking me off my feet with familiarity. You know how that happens? Everything comes back to you. It’s like the woman who just moved into our building and wears what was my first perfume at age 16—Thierry Mugler’s Angel.
I get in the elevator after her and feel all sorts of strange things—teenage melancholy, anxiety before a physics exam, bliss over the freedom of conversation around the table in the pottery shed, while signing your name on the bottom of your bowl with a toothpick.
And the approval of a great art teacher.