Why I haven’t posted in a month had something to do with my cultural context.
Q: Why have I not written anything for the last month?
A: Long answer. It begins with G.I. Joe.
When I was 14, I rounded up all my action figures, put them into shoe boxes, and hung posters: Lamborghinis, girls in bikinis, and a couple of rock bands.
I know. Super original.
If you had told me, six months earlier, that my beloved G.I. Joe space station would soon be as irrelevant to my life as a Fisher Price barnyard, I’d have said, in the parlance of the day, “bite me.”
And yet, that’s exactly what happened. One spring day, with very little fanfare, I hid the space station, the stealth fighter, and even the awesome Terrordrome under the bed, in the back of the closet, and behind the extra sofa in the attic. (Where they are to this very day).
In my life, I have gone through many phases and fads. I have been, at various times, obsessed with (in no particular order): electric guitar, capoeira, the Best American Short-Fiction series, Indian New-Age kitsch, salsa dance, Chinese tea, Bioshock, Dungeons and Dragons, vintage tube-amp stereo systems, and comic books. With each of these, I threw myself in, feeling a burning passion to understand, learn, do, master. Then, at some point, it no longer seemed relevant, and I put it away.
A prime sample of Jerusalem’s Fashion Glitteratti.
This summer, I spent three weeks in Jerusalem. Say what you like about the magic and the power and the history of the city, it’s one of the least stylish places imaginable. An image search for “Srugim” (an Israeli TV show, similar to “Friends,” but depicting life in the hub of Jerusalem’s religious-singles’ scene) can confirm that everyone looks sort of shlumpy.
I’d packed my suitcase with some red, summer chinos, a couple of skinny bow-ties, a light-weight blazer, some Fred Perry polo shirts — all the stuff I wear when I want to look dapper on vacation. But most of it sat, unworn, in my suitcase. Instead, I wore the same three T-shirts, over and over, washing them in my hotel sink. On Shabbat, I wore a white dress shirt.
In the span of three days, I’d lost interest in anything having to do with clothes. And as someone who has been passionate about style for years, I have to admit – I was a little concerned. Would I return home in droopy khakis and billowy, white dress shirts? Would StyleForDorks.com go the way of the G.I. Joe Mobile Command Center?
My main source of inspiration.
As it turns out, once home, many things returned to normal. I was reunited with my main source of inspiration, and I dove headfirst into a pile of cardigan sweaters, gleeful both for the variety and also for the Bay Area weather, permitting my stylish layering.
Some might credit my fashion-fluctuation with Jerusalem’s inherent spirituality obliterating my interest in all things vain.
I, however, believe it’s about context.
There is nothing very funny about a pirate, per se. But a pirate on an escalator? The misalignment in context makes for a comic spectacle.
Likewise, amidst swimming-suited beachgoers… look at that man in a tuxedo! Awkward and absurd! Let’s go shove him into a sand castle!
A seersucker suit belongs in Jerusalem like a pirate belongs on an escalator.
Style is about dressing for the place and the time. In summer, bright colors. Linen. Stylistic nods to Nantucket, Hawaii, Cuba, Southern California, the Mediterranean. In Winter, wool and tweed, sweaters, muted tones, and stylistic nods to the Ivy-League campus, to ski slopes, to the Holidays.
In winter, I lose interest in my summer outfits, and in summer, I lose interest in my winter gear. And in Jerusalem, I focused on other things: teaching. Food. My memories. And my outfits fit that context. Everything was easy to wear, easy to wash, and easy to shove into a suitcase.
Preparing to shop in Jerusalem’s ultra-orthodox neighborhood, Meah Sha’arim. Wearing ritual fringes for Kosher-Steez credit.
On the other hand, not ironically, cloth and clothes did play a major role for me in Jerusalem.
Future posts will explore how (and why) I spent an impressive amount of time tracking down a wool prayer shawl (tallis) and a white, linen robe (kittel) with a fervor I normally reserve for a Black Fleece suit. I agonized over white kind of white Kippah to purchase for a very significant event next summer. I even wore fringes to blend into the cultural milieux of an ultra-orthodox neighborhood. In other words, I didn’t lose interest in style. But style manifested in other ways.
It was, and is, an expression of who and where I am. The constant is that style is about the Self in context.
Even if that Self moves forward from time to time.