The Long Skirt

I'm one of those people who can't throw anything away. I keep things I most definitely don't need, forever. It drives my mother crazy and drastically limits my closet space. The thing is, I don't enjoy buying new things, so most of the things I have were given to me, and therefore I have some sort of attachment to them. And, as an actress, I just like to keep things so that I can refer to them when I need material for my work.

One of those things is a long green skirt. It's made of a thin cotton and it wraps around my waist and ruffles just slightly in the bottom. It's very poetic and hippie-ish and old-fashioned. It's 7 years old now, and faded and hard to wear, but I still have it. I got it when I was 17, in Spain, on my first back-packing trip through Europe with my friends Marina and Gabi. I had just graduated high-school and, for the most part, wore whatever fashion magazines told me to (see blog post The Doctrine of Vanity on January 16th, 2010, for more on that). My friend Marina had been going through her free-spirited phase for a while now, so this wasn't her first long skirt or "hippie" item, but it was mine. I don't remember why I decided to try it on, but I do remember the feeling I had when I wrapped that delicate cloth around me. I had never really worn anything like that before. There was nothing gripping at my stomach, tucking my tummy in, or shaping my butt, or grabbing at my crotch, or restricting my knee joint. I instantly felt supremely feminine- and not in a mini-skirt-worn-for guys-to-look-at-my-legs kind of way, but rather a feeling-womanly-for-me-and-only-me kind of way, which was extremely empowering and new.

Wearing something for my own pleasure, without worrying about what guys, or even girls, would think? I seriously couldn't remember if I had ever known what that was like.

The skirt was slightly overpriced (80 euros for a piece of green cloth that wraps around you!), but I bought it without hesitation. It became my absolutely favorite thing to wear. And I wore it so much. When I got back from Europe, I wore it because it reminded me of the feeling of freedom and independence that I had gotten to know and love during that trip. Then, when I went to Sarah Lawrence, I wore it on my first day of school. I wore it the first time I went to central park by myself on that first fall away from home. I wore it to my first Women's Studies class. I wore it to my first rehearsal of The Vagina Monologues. I wore it, essentially, all through college, and it became part of my memory of special times. It was the first of many long skirts I would own in college. It became my signature look: long flowy skirt, flip flops or sandals, no bras, long hair dyed red at the tips, and ray-ban sunglasses. I guess I thought I was in the 1970's, but all of us at Sarah Lawrence did, so it was okay.

And then, when I graduated from Sarah Lawrence, I put all my long skirts away in a bag. I was no longer living in the woods/suburbs with 800 powerful, free-spirited women, I was going back to city-life, and my skirt was no longer appropriate. The freedom and openness I felt when wearing it weren't exactly safe for a big city. I learned that when you have an open and sensitive heart, you have to be really careful in urban cities- you have to protect yourself. If you're too vulnerable, you might get hurt. And I wanted to be taken seriously as an adult now, so I had to dress like one. It was time to go back to pants and shorter skirts that made me feel integrated, in control, and slightly closed off from myself- which was my way of becoming an adult now living in New York. My skirts went off to some mysterious corner of my closet and I transitioned into city clothes fairly seamlessly.

I tried to wear one of my long skirts again one day, not long ago, and immediately felt the relief of having all that space and freedom in my body. As soon as I had that much space, I wanted more space. I wanted to put on shoes that didn't restrict my feet or the space between my toes, I wanted to wear a shirt with gentle built-in support so I didn't have a bra rigidly holding my breasts into place, and I wanted to let my hair out of it's controlled pony-tail. But that would have been too much. I wore the skirt, but put on tights and boots and a blazer and kept my hair up. I went out in the city and felt normal. This was a manageable way to wear my skirt. But before I could get to happy, the skirt let me know it didn't want to be worn anymore. It kept coming undone and falling apart on my slippery tights. New York City wind kept messing it up and making it fly open. I was having a hard time walking at my usual city pace. It just didn't fit. And it wasn't really me anymore. It was, but it wasn't. I had the feeling that it might still be me, but in a different setting, some day. I went home, took it off, and put it back in the bag.

But I won't get rid of them, especially my long green one. Not even if my mom offered me a Prada bag in exchange for it. I can't let go of it. And I like having it around, looking at it sometimes, letting it remind me of womanhood, power, strength, independence, and freedom. It makes me happy and I worship that.

I know that it was a big deal when women started wearing pants. They are practical, after all, and they signified a huge leap for women's independence and equal rights. I know there's power in that too. And there's power in mini-skirts as well, for a woman's flirtatious sensuality can be really beautiful and empowering. But for me, nothing feels quite as unbinding and holy as a long skirt, especially if made with a light fabric and not at all gripping in the waist. I love the musicality of it, the sweetness and inviting yet mature femininity of it.

And there's hope yet that I'll come back to my long skirts. When I meditate and envision my entelechy- my realized potential, my future self in ideal circumstances- she is very happy and free. She lives somewhere near nature, where it's safe and spacious. Her inner peace and warm heart are tangible. She is very connected to her womanhood and femininity. And she is always, to my complete delight, wearing a long skirt.

Pictures of me at Sarah Lawrence, 2003-2006, with my long skirts...

The Doctrine of Vanity

Let's talk about superficial things.
I was twelve years old when a completely bizarre problem presented itself in my life. Louis Vuitton launched a $700 back-pack, which was totally revolutionary. $700 for a bag was a lot of money then, even for Louis Vuitton, which was never as expensive as brands like Prada or Chanel. No brand of its caliber created products for young girls to wear to school. Moreover, the bag was completely unpractical- too heavy, oddly shaped, difficult to open, and, well, too expensive for a teenager.
But in Sao Paulo it sold like water, and soon enough half the girls in my school had one. And that's when I started having a problem. I didn't know if I wanted one, but I knew that everyone else wanted one. I didn't know if I was a "patricinha" (the word attributed to the Brazilian gossip girls of the 90's), but I knew that if I wore that bag I would immediately be one. I couldn't buy one and not wear it if I didn't like the profile attached to it. You couldn't un-buy a Louis Vuitton bag. Even if you sold it or gave it away, once you bought a Louis Vuitton bag you were forever someone who had bought a Louis Vuitton bag. It would mean I was part of a group- and there was a certain power attached to being part of that group- a group that was rich and fashionable, and therefore untouchable. Appealing thought for a 12-year-old. But if I didn't buy one I was also part of a group- the group that rejected fashion and money. The latter was a bit risky, though- someone who rejected fashion and money might be really cool, but they might also be super losers. A huge risk for a 12-year-old to take.
I didn't know whether I wanted it or the profile attached to it, but I didn't know who I was otherwise either. I hadn't defined a "personality" yet (and what 12-year-old has??) and I was scared of what might come up if I didn't make something up soon. I still hid in my closet to play with my Barbies, and I kept waiting to "grow up" but had no idea how to do it. Where was my personality, I wondered?
I didn't want to be a loser-hippie who only had one friend. I didn't want to be a nerd- that would require knowing a lot about computers, which was simply never going to happen. I didn't want to be an athlete- I hated sports, I couldn't even have been a cheerleader. There weren't a lot of options.

I bought the bag.

The reactions were subtle, but it was done. I was someone who spent $700 on a bag that hundreds of other girls had. I was someone who spent $700 on a bag I didn't even know I wanted. People would look at me and think anything ranging from, money to futile to luxury. And I was okay with it. It started to feel kind of nice. I started to embrace the life-style. I kept on buying ridiculously expensive accessories and doing my best to "look the part".
I kept it up until I went to college, where I experimented with myself over and over again, trying to figure out what was my style, what I liked, who I was. For a while I wore long skirts and hand-made bags I bought from street vendors, for example.
In the end, I found high-fashion again, but with a clearer mind, and without feeling trapped in it. Now I like Louis Vuitton because that back-pack is still in perfect condition, after 12 years, and I know it will remain so for at least 30 more years. Now I choose Prada shoes because, well, they have my size, and they are also immortal. I like Chanel hand bags because they're classic and elegant- and it so happens that I enjoy everything that's classic and elegant (although it took rejecting all of it to figure that out). And if I see a $5 bag that I love, I'll buy it and wear it as I would a $1200 Balenciaga bag. I love H&M and Old Navy and Zara as much as I love Dolce & Gabbana and Marc Jacobs. I'm clear now about what I like and what I don't like, and I see that elegance and style have very little to do with the material things themselves, but rather with the person wearing them. I like to know what different designers are defining as fashion, but I don't buy or drool over anything I don't like, or that doesn't feel like me. Next to my Ms. Magazine there's usually a Vogue, and next to my Converse sneakers there's usually a pair of Louboutin's. And the truth is that what "feels like me" changes all the time- it can even change several times on one day, and I just have to learn to respect that.
That might just be the key to style: self-respect.