Wayward, Rumpled, and Ink-Splattered
I shed several artificial style identities before arriving at a wardrobe that reflects my life and roots on the Oregon Coast
Pictured: Me in my backyard, in rumpled clothing, comfortably framed by kayaks, hammock chairs, weak coffee, and xtra tufs. I generally dislike (and often fear) being photographed, but this outfit and environment is my element.
By Emma Geddes
Instagram
Like any good millennial and dutiful member of the Tumblr generation, I’ve flipped through a number of aesthetic identities from adolescence into adulthood: wannabe scene kid (2005-2008), J. Crew clearance scavenger, AKA “young professional” (2009-2012), a brief stint as a literal farmhand (2013), pseudo-heavy metal girlfriend (2014-2016), and now what feels like — but with this track record is likely not — my Final Aesthetic Evolution: stoner artist type drinking lukewarm wine on a windy, probably also rainy, beach.
I’ve always taken personal style seriously — to a bit of a fault. Not in the sense that I was very successful at it, but in that I believed very firmly in its ability to communicate my Personhood to others. In my lowest emotional years, before I learned that what I was experiencing was, in fact, clinical depression, the one thing that made me feel that I’d pulled off a great heist of perceived stability was a carefully curated wardrobe and a curling iron dependency. Those years (specifically the J. Crew era mentioned above) were rough. I won’t dig into that much, but they were also the years when I appeared the most “pulled together.” Later, as I emerged from the general denial of my mental state, I sunk my energy into a rocky relationship which I told myself was proof of my stability. It was not. I shifted my outward identity to fit my new surroundings (enter the pseudo-heavy metal phase), and focused my attention on crafting this New Me.
Pictured: Visual excerpts from my J. Crew phase, wherein I idealized delicately winged eyeliner, resort wear and everything loosely associated with the French.
We’ll skip the details but after a few years of consciously stepping back from what I thought I wanted — a raucous social life, a chaotic sleep schedule, and attempts at appearing socially “chill” and “unbothered” — I leaned into what felt right. This past year of concentrated isolation was particularly good to me. I recognize that this is rare and lucky and, to be honest, it feels selfish and gross to say out loud. But it’s true. I needed this time to fold into myself and to remember (learn) who I am underneath the artificial veneers. Had 2020 gone business-as-usual, I’m convinced I’d still be pretty miserable right now.
In pulling back from all things social, the external pressure to appear pulled together nearly disappeared. The decades I’d spent dyeing, flat-ironing, and curling my hair suddenly felt counterproductive, and I realized that I actually loved how my hair behaved when left to its own devices in a humid environment. I stopped wearing makeup and saw my own face for the first time. I didn’t want to cover her up anymore. This is only a commentary on my own relationship with makeup. If makeup makes you feel good, that’s wonderful. For me, makeup was making me feel bad about how I looked without it. I found I was better off without it.
So I threw out all of my products, switched to bar soap and conditioner, and occasionally sprayed some sea salt water to mimic the post-boogie boarding look that made me feel a measure of recklessness. In a claustrophobic panic, I aggressively filtered through my overstuffed closet and dresser and got rid of anything that wasn’t either utilitarian or made of natural fibers (save a few frivolous exceptions because I can’t resist a vintage dress).
Pictured left-to-right: A progression from pseudo-scene kid, to polished but chaotic, to rockabilly bar fly, to today’s version of my outer persona in grey linen and considerably less hair dye.
What remained was scattered and a few pieces short of versatile, but it felt true to me in a different way than any of my previous style identities. I was left only with pieces that fit my body — in its current state, not some fabled future or past — and were made to actually wear. No more onion-sweating in polyester tops, wrap skirts that expose my ass with a slight breeze, jackets that don’t quite button up the front, or ill-fitting shoes with dubious traction. Now I was only surrounded by things that loved me back, and that felt good.
Looking at this new/old spread, I could see how much my environment in this working river town shapes what I wear. My daily drivers, the most worn-in of all of my clothing and accessories, all have a particular purpose in this climate and the habits I’ve developed.
Green Rubber Slicker (not pictured): Bought on clearance at the local marine supply store, made without pockets and fastened down the front by a confusing, twisted snap configuration that keeps the rain from dripping inside.
Fisherman-Grade Wellies: Made to keep you on deck in a sideways storm, but also great for a full day of rainy errands without the risk of splitting rubber or sore feet (for any day when it’s too wet for pull-on Chelsea boots or Crocs — shoe laces are for chumps).
Shrunken Aran Sweater: Perfectly felted in an accidental trip through the dryer, warm enough for winter but the wool keeps me sweat-free at nighttime beach bonfires in the summer. A hand-me-down from a friend.
Black Cotton Leggings: Usually with holes in the knees from the cat or from tools snagging on it at the studio.
Black Cotton Floral Mini Dress: Also fairly holey (maybe I’ll mend it someday, maybe not). I’ve worn this regularly for almost a decade, proof that it can navigate almost any personal brand. Thrifted.
Grey Linen Cross Back Pinafore Apron: Made by a friend (Becky of Shift — she doesn’t make these anymore because of the fabric waste involved in the process, but everything she does make is beautiful) and used as a studio shell. There’s a big glob of white silkscreen ink on the front pocket that multiple people have assumed is toothpaste.
Silk Tie Scarf: From salvaged Indian silk, also from Becky (again, sorry, she doesn’t make these anymore. But she does work with a local indigo grower on annual batches of gorgeous scarves in a similar cut.) Held together by a brass cuff from Short Wave, a shop in Astoria.
Heavy Workwear Flannels (not pictured): These are my most commonly worn items — used as a sweater, jacket, shirt, dress, whatever. Always thrifted and always oversized and unfitted.
Pictured: Weather dependent variations on a theme, featuring cotton floral minidress, linen pinafore apron, me-made upholstery chore coat, fishing boots, torn leggings, and a handmade silk scarf shaped by a friend.
When I wear these clothes I feel the most myself, like I’ve cracked some kind of old code. On trips to my grandparents’ coastal ranch house as a kid, I’d spend hours lying on the floor, pouring over the watercolor illustrations in Mairi Hedderwick’s Katie Morag books. Katie lived on a fictional Scottish isle, modeled closely after the place where my great-grandmother grew up and where I still have family. She traipses around the island in oversized black wellies, a beautifully grubbied wool sweater, and tartan skirt, chasing after the Big Boy Cousins and rescuing muddy sheep from muck puddles. I recently found a compendium of the books, and laughed as I saw that I’d grown full circle into the adult version of Katie — hopefully with a hint of Granny Island’s brassy aura.
Pictured: Style icon Katie Morag, in Katie Morag Delivers the Mail, written and illustrated by Mairi Hedderwick.
It’s taken almost two decades of flailing my way through outward-facing identities to realize that my own comfort and enjoyment of the things I wear is more important, and more defining than whether or not the resulting look conforms to some prescribed social group’s norms. I still take personal style a bit too seriously, as you can tell by the fact that I wrote this essay. But now I see it more as a bloom of expression that can be as accidental as it is crafted, and not as a way to prove myself one way or the other. It feels good, and so do I.
Editor: Anna Hou | Designer/Photographer: Emma Geddes | Copy Editor: Katie Frankowicz | Communication/Support/Outreach: Meg Chellew
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