Love Style Life

by Garance Dore

  Talking on your phone on the bus. Sending texts during a movie. Having a crazy Jaws ringtone. Reading Twitter jokes out loud (oops, I do that all the time). Listening to very, very loud music with your earphones and thinking nobody else can hear it.

  THINGS THAT MAKE US LOOK VERY STUPID

  Taking your phone to the bathroom in a restaurant. It will eventually fall in the water and then you’ll have to ask the waiter to bring you a glass of uncooked rice to put your phone in. (Yes, it sucks up the humidity. You didn’t get that from me.)

  Taking secret pictures of people. When you do, that’s always when the flash decides to pop, and I’m not saying that because I tried to sneak a photo at AntiGravity yoga and got blinded by my own flash in front of the whole class.

  THINGS THAT MAKE US LOOK LIKE WE HAVE NO SELF-AWARENESS

  “Spotted: I think I just saw @VictoriaBeckham at my nail spa on 45th and 5th!”

  I mean, for starters, it’s a little #WhoGivesaShit about where Victoria Beckham is—Okay, to be honest, it’s our natural instinct to be a bit voyeuristic.

  But it’s not okay to share other people’s lives without asking them. This is not sharing; this is papara-gramming. And it’s wrong.

  “Me and my boo at Starbucks this morning. He has a latte and I do blonde roast. Both venti. Isn’t that love?”

  Please, don’t be that couple. Be your own person.

  However you try to spin it, sharing your love for your boyfriend, your baby, your dad, your mom, should be restricted to twice a year. I know, it’s hard. But I really, really don’t care about your mom. Really I don’t. Unless she’s Victoria Beckham, obviously.

  “Look, my baby just threw up on my Balenciaga shirt!!! OMG, how cute!!! #mybabychloe #baby #love #happiness.”

  I’m more tolerant of babies just because I know parents literally can’t help it. It’s like a monster has taken them over. They’re not themselves. It takes two years, or forever. Hang tight; be a good friend.

  “Me and my friend @garancedore OMGOMGOMG, totally wasted!!!”

  Tagging people without asking permission first is really, really bad. Not funny. Any-thing implying that you’re in a state of wastedness should stay private anyway. Also, Garance, I know her—she never gets wasted.

  “Follow me!!!”

  If you’re under fifteen, it’s totally cute. If you’re over fifteen, it’s totally desperate.

  OKAY, SORRY, JUST RECEIVED A TEXT, GOTTA GO.

  “FOLLOW ME!!!”

  IF YOU’RE UNDER 15, IT’S TOTALLY CUTE. IF YOU’RE OVER 15, IT’S TOTALLY DESPERATE.

  ELEGANCE IS NOT…

  I like to make fun of myself, so of course I am pretty quick to make fun of others, too. But I try as much as I can to not judge.

  Because usually when I make a snap judgment about someone, I realize later that I was wrong.

  As we’ve seen, not everybody follows the same etiquette. From Paris to London to New York to Tokyo, the rules are different.

  Plus, everyone acts like an asshole, has disastrous style (some make it a signature!), or cuts the line at Starbucks once in a while. What? You’ve never done it?

  Okay, so you get it. I am all for love and compassion. Still, there are a few times where I can’t help but judge.

  DRESSING IN STATEMENT CLOTHES FROM HEAD TO TOE

  Statement on statement on statement: wrong statement.

  It’s a very soft judgment, but what I see is insecurity.

  I know it’s not hurting anybody to be a walking advertisement—if it makes the person happy, why not? But to judge someone as insecure is still to judge.

  DANCING HALF-NAKED IN FRONT OF A BUNCH OF GUYS

  As a woman, when I see another woman in this situation it saddens me and the big sister in me comes out. I want to go throw a robe over her, but she would be the first one to tell me I’m crazy. I really do believe that we are all sisters and that we should watch out for one another.

  It’s not an extra-bad judgment. It’s kind of funny from a distance. But deep down, it hurts to watch.

  I try to send telepathic messages: “You don’t need to do that to be loved!!! Be careful!!! They’re taking pictures!” But she doesn’t give a damn about what I think, because, as we all do, she’ll learn on her own.

  That said, if you happen to be my friend, it’s not gonna be telepathic and it’s not a robe I would throw on you; it’s a whole ice bucket.

  EVERYONE DESERVES RESPECT AND A “HELLO, HOW ARE YOU?”

  BEING THE GIRL WHO DOESN’T EAT

  I know I shouldn’t judge, because it’s a deep and very difficult problem, but a girl who doesn’t eat ’cause “she’s so not hungry!”, who orders a tea in lieu of a lunch and takes out a Ziploc with three undefined grains for dessert, makes me want to run to the other side of the world, like, to Brooklyn, let’s say.

  I don’t want to address it, and I don’t want to pretend I haven’t noticed. I’ve tried both, and it’s just impossible. It’s not my role. I can’t be a silent witness, but I also can’t help. I am sorry. I judge, and I flee.

  TALKING DOWN TO MY TEAM

  Once again, we’re all guilty once in a while of being an ass, being in a rush, being too brusque.

  But I don’t understand people who talk down to those who work with me.

  There, I judge.

  Why is it okay to talk down to someone who’s “below you”? Do you think I’ll never find out? Don’t you know my assistant might be your boss one day (she’s sort of already mine)? And that even if that never happens, everyone deserves respect and a “hello, how are you?”

  I just don’t get it; it drives me crazy.

  EXTREME GOSSIP

  Believe me, I LOVE a good bit of gossip, and if we were at the café, you and I, I would give you a few that would make you laugh out loud.

  But there are boundaries. Seriously. I call that “disgusting gossip.” Disgossip?

  Health problems that people don’t want to share, who’s having sex with whom, or any other intel way too private to be brought up in the social scene.

  That kind of gossip is a real violation, in my book.

  When someone I don’t know well gives me that type of gossip, I freak out. I don’t know what to do with it, I don’t want to know, I want to bury my face in the sand, forget what I heard, and try to never see the offender again.

  That’s about it! Those are my deal-breakers. For the rest, do whatever you will. I’m all love and compassion!

  Giorgia Tordini

  A sincere smile. Not necessarily a perfect smile, but a radiant one.

  A taxi driver waiting for you to get through your front door to make sure you are safe. Rare but beautiful.

  Having a great sense of humor, and being able to laugh at yourself. Works even better if you’re George Clooney or Barack Obama.

  Attention to others. Have you ever met someone who, when they look into your eyes, makes you feel like the most interesting person in the world?

  Bringing fresh flowers for no reason.

  Politeness. It can seem unnecessary, I know, but wherever you are, knowing a few basic rules of politeness and being able to apply them naturally, without being obvious, is so elegant.

  Holding the door. Please, hold the door. I’m sorry—I know it’s old school, but it’s so worth it.

  Quitting in an honorable way. Tipping in a generous way. Winning in a flamboyant way: Being chic doesn’t mean being self-effacing.

  Knowing when to make an entrance (too early is before your host has finished cooking their turkey, and too late is once the turkey is cold), and knowing how to make an exit—not the first, not the last, right in the middle.

  Reacting to the small accidents of life with laughter.

  A sense of culture that isn’t flaunted or in your face but one that just shows that you are open to the world! Culture is the chic-est accessory in the world. Read a book.

  Apologizing. Sincerely. Explaining why you were wrong, to show that you really too
k the time to think about it. Giving someone time to come back to you. Understanding if they never do.

  Being able to say no without explaining but in a manner that will make people respect it.

  Eloquence. Knowing how to speak. (The secret? Reading and practicing.)

  A waiter running after you to give you your phone back.

  Kindness. I love people who are kind. To me, kindness is the trait of kings. Kind people who don’t profer hasty judgments are often the most intelligent ones.

  Someone who asks, kindly, what seat number you’re sitting in. And laughs with you when you realize you’ve made a mistake with your seat.

  A friend waiting with you till you get your cab.

  Giving back. To a charity, to the young, or to the old. Sharing what you’ve learned, passing it on.

  Giving the people you love freedom, compassion, and understanding.

  Giving yourself freedom, compassion, and understanding. That’s very elegant.

  ON ELEGANCE

  ONE ON ONE WITH A WOMAN WHO INSPIRES ME

  GD: What does elegance mean to you?

  JL: To me, elegance is someone who can apologize. I know that may not sound like your typical idea of elegance, but it’s so important.

  GD: What’s your policy on thank-you notes?

  JL: I never send a thank-you note for a proper gift over e-mail. The exception is if someone sends me flowers or something that’s perishable. Otherwise, take five minutes, pull out your stationery, and write a proper thank-you note.

  GD: I once saw on your wall: “Thank you for the meatloaf sandwich, love.” Was that a thank-you note?

  JL: Yes! That’s from Tom Sachs. He came in and we had lunch, and afterward he just used a Sharpie and some white paper. But I love that. It didn’t take him much time, but it felt meaningful.

  GD: How do you manage social media and the selfie trend?

  JL: I’m six foot three in heels, so everyone is shorter than me. When the selfie thing first started, people would ask, “Can I take a picture with you?” and I would agree, but then they were always taking the picture up my nose. I had to do something! Today I have one requirement: I get to take the picture.

  GD: You are known for changing the rules for elegant evening wear, which I think is amazing. How do you do it?

  JL: Over time I’ve found I feel most elegant when I’m being myself. For me, that means wearing a men’s cashmere sweater with a feather skirt. But I wouldn’t expect everyone to break the rules if they’re not comfortable with it. Doing what’s right for you is where you are going to be your most elegant.

  GD: What’s the secret to elegance at work?

  JL: I work with talented people who are constantly putting their hearts on the page. When you do work like this, there are no right answers. So when I give feedback, I always try to find a way to positively reinforce someone’s work, even if I am telling them no.

  PARIS VS. NEW YORK

  PERFECTION

  In New York, the city of perfection, you have the constant feeling of being a little bit out of it: like, you’re doing okay, but you could always do better.

  No big deal, as long as you decide that being perfect is not your goal in life. But you’d almost have to make yourself a T-shirt that says I DON’T CARE ABOUT PERFECT (or Fuck Perfect, if you’re Cara Delevingne) to get people to leave you in peace with your averageness.

  Because here, and, in fashion in particular, the cult of perfection is really tough, even though we all love Girls! (It’s so nice to see normal people on TV!!!)

  And today, after almost five years of carrying out sociological studies in New York, it seems to me that the pursuit of perfection has its roots in the search for…

  THE PERFECT MAN.

  And looking for him in New York is a serious thing. So. Serious. Too serious.

  You’d better not mess up. We’re going to get into how that can happen. But first, so that you understand where I’m coming from, let me explain how this goes in France.

  Oh, don’t worry. It’s going to be quick.

  For us French people—you meet someone. It might be a friend you’ve had for a long time or someone you’ve just met in a bar. Suddenly it clicks. You talk for hours. You kiss. You might sleep together right away, if you want to. Anyway, you don’t make a big deal of it.

  The next day, if the guy (or the girl) is still there and you’ve made them a coffee, BOOM. It’s done.

  You’re boyfriend and girlfriend! Woooh, as simple as that.

  And no need to go looking elsewhere: You don’t try out the merchandise in France.

  You like someone, and you go for it, right away.

  If it doesn’t work out, then a bit later you have a nice heartbreak, which gives you the occasion to smoke cigarettes while sitting at a café on a rainy day—a very cinematic outcome, indeed.

  Maybe that’s where we get our super-romantic reputation. We don’t shy away from love.

  And maybe that’s why people are so fascinated by our lack of concern for perfection? Who knows.

  In the States, you date. What’s a date? A “date” is a guy you “see.” It means you plan evenings or days together, you learn about each other. It may mean that you kiss, or not. You may sleep with the guy the first night, or not until weeks later.

  But dating doesn’t mean you are “with” him. You’re not his girlfriend; he’s not your boyfriend. He’s just a guy you’re dating, and it’s perfectly possible that he’s dating other girls too. And you totally have the right to date other guys; he wouldn’t have anything to say about it.

  When I make big eyes at people as they tell me this, they always say, “But it makes sense!!! How else would you know which person is the best for you?”

  It’s like some kind of extreme casting call—Survivor style (the last person left standing on a buoy in the middle of an ocean of failed love stories wins). It’s a type of natural selection where everything about the guy is a test—from the places he likes to eat (“He took me to eat a BURGER! Can you imagine? MEAT? I’ll NEVER reply to his texts again, do you hear me?”) to all his different skills (sexual, professional, does he wear a pair of Common Projects like he should?), and you can test him to your heart’s content without actually having to commit to a relationship, until you feel he could be a real candidate for being your future husband.

  Marriage is such an institution in the States. It’s basically the sign that a person “Wins at Life.”

  I won’t even get into how weddings are the culmination of years of fantasizing and social pressure (as you can see in the million romantic comedies about weddings that always end well). Let’s just focus on the myth of the perfect man.

  SO, WHO IS THE PERFECT MAN?

  Well, you can’t trust American movies where the woman (who is adorable, beautiful, stylish, funny, and has a good job) ends up with the nerd (who is slightly chubby, not fully employed, and a little awkward, but so funny and irresistible!!!). These movies were written by the nerdy guys.

  That’s not how it works in real life—sorry, I mean in New York.

  In New York, to be perfect, a guy has to have a really great job (first criteria), has to be attractive (but mainly just the great job—stable, well paid, respectable), has to be relatively not too much of a jerk, and…well, that’s about it, actually.

  Pffff, it’s easy to be the perfect man in New York.

  What’s not so easy is being the perfect woman. There’s a big imbalance. Because there are loads of amazing women in New York, apparently like five times more than there are guys.

  So let’s take a look at our perfect woman. And pardon my clichés, okay?

  THE PERFECT NEW YORK WOMAN HAS THE PERFECT NEW YORK BODY.

  So you got the memo: New York girls are thin and muscular, and anyone who doesn’t have that “perfect” body is seen as the nice friend who isn’t really in the game (I happen to think those are the girls who are really winning at life, but, once again, that’s just my personal point of v
iew as a girl who’s a little off in her own world).

  I don’t have any proof that this is actually what the New York guy is looking for, but I’m going to assume based on what I’ve seen.

  Just think for a second about all the hours we spend at the gym. You have to work to be perfect. On top of already having, well, a real job.

  THE PERFECT NEW YORK WOMAN HAS THE PERFECT NEW YORK JOB.

  And that’s no easy task.

  I was talking to a friend who works in PR (a great job, when you think about it. You can get into all the cool parties!), and she was telling me that the guy she was dating was dating another girl at the same time (I warned you!). This other girl had a dream job in travel (so much better than getting into cool parties—you can fly off on cool trips for free!).

  The real problem was that this guy was also dating (I know what you’re thinking, and I have no idea what the limit is on how many people you can date at once) a model. That pretty much tops it all, even if the only real benefit to dating a model is being able to say, “My girlfriend is a model.”

  Aw, yeah, but give the guy a break; it must feel pretty good.

  And having that dream job, in the city of dreams, it’s not easy.

  So it’s the battle of the dream jobs. Maybe what you really want is a job where you can sit at your computer all day procrastinating, a job that doesn’t stress you out. But I’m sorry to report: That doesn’t look so good on a date.