I think I’ve got too much fringe and shimmer but less Isabel Marant bohemian frippery going on to actually fit the formulaic ‘Coachella’ look.
“I have a style penchant with the 70s and can gladly show you some hip-swinging, finger-snapping syncopated strut ala Tony Manero while dressed in tight fitting trousers and kanga orange top, sans bra.”
Let’s live momentarily on the irony of things and dance our troubles away clad in everything gold and shimmery. An instinctual ode to pursue the ethereal and spark-worthy moments in our lives despite everything that contradicts such.
Soul in a languid state. My fingers tracing down the spine of one of my dog-eared books while pondering on the meaning of that last phrase. Fighting the urge to close my eyes yet as Trevor Pinnock serenades me with his Pachelbel Canon.
To be “a hail on a window pane, a swallow’s cry, a black cigar smoked by a dreamer, thunderous applause.” That, I am after.
It’s a day of self-expression. Loud prints, bright colors, uneven silhouettes, odd textures under overt campus scrutiny.
At any rate, I think this look leans more toward the androgynous side of dressing, the kind that would shield you away from unabashed ogling and catcalling. And we should be thankful for that.
I would trade these heels for a trusty pair of gladiator sandals or distressed boots so I could wander freely and squat nonchalantly in front of those snake charmers and story tellers; Soul beaming with newfound love for Chleuh.
Maybe it’s the saccharine, taking control of our minds, luring us into the sweetest pits of sheer fabrics, floral appliqués, romantic silhouettes and unwavering belief to “The One”.
But fret not, I’m not immune to this recurring silhouette either. I find it fascinating how this piece of clothing can magically awaken the aloof Brigitte Bardot or Grace Kelly ‘je ne sais quoi’ spirit inside you.