Fashion Scholar on Sabbatical
I’m letting go of my studied self-image and learning to play again
By Sarah Finley Purdy
Blog
It feels odd to reflect on personal style after a year of staying home — most of that time spent in some kind of stretchy pants and old hoodies while the more exciting garments on my clothing rack gathered literal dust. I’m sure that after a year of quarantine most people feel the same way. Late last summer, I realized that without the ritual of getting dressed to leave the house, I had barely been using a mirror. I stopped and really looked at myself. I felt I had no point of reference to interpret what I was seeing.
When my husband took new headshots of me for a virtual conference I was presenting at in the fall, I posted my favorites on Instagram with the caption: “Quarantine is odd in that, because I go places less, I look in the mirror less, thus I spend less time on my appearance and I take fewer photos of myself. Having less documentation of myself is an interesting phenomenon; apparently I believed I was only worthy of note when I was public-facing. Now, when I see my dressed body and made-up face, I feel like a character or actor. Maybe I always was?”
With this figurative and literal stripping away of identifying clothing and makeup, I began to wonder who I was when I wasn’t being seen. How did my self-perception reach this point? Did it have to be this way?
Clothing was an extension of my imagination and fantasy — I could be someone, a heightened version of my reality — and it never made me feel negatively about myself.
Some of my earliest memories of my personal style involve playing dress-up as a young child. When I was around 4 years old, my grandmother got me a waitress outfit as a gift. I vividly remember the blouse: white eyelet cotton, cropped, with elastic at the waist and ruffles and volume across the chest and sleeves. It was the most glamorous piece of clothing I had owned up to that point, barely beyond toddlerhood. Of equal importance was my ballet outfit: a light-pink unitard with a tulle skirt that was soft, not too stiff or voluminous, quite modern and much less fussy than present day iterations I see for children. The pink of the unitard was comforting to me and quickly became my favorite color.
The majority of what I had were hand-me-downs or thrift store finds, and my favorite pieces were those that captured my present interests: cartoon characters, animals and nature. I loved T-shirts, especially those with stylized neon palm trees or favorite Disney characters. Sometimes a generous relative would buy me a new outfit — a matching floral or graphic print set — for my birthday, and I would wear it every opportunity I had.
Pictured: Young Sarah in some of her favorite outfits. Left: Sarah sporting a Simba graphic tee and matching, animal-print shorts. Right: Sarah wearing a pink and red getup that includes an embellished sweatshirt with red fringe.
During this stage in life, clothing was an extension of my imagination and fantasy — I could be someone, a heightened version of my reality — and it never made me feel negatively about myself. I can’t ever remember thinking, “How do I look?” I remember loving what I wore and feeling special as I got dressed.
After my body began to change and I switched to a public school for junior high, clothing and style took on much weightier and more negative roles. I was suddenly surrounded by hundreds of other adolescent bodies. I initially favored baggy shirts and jeans, tending to prize comfort as all of my favorite activities required ease of movement. But after experiencing teasing and rejection in my first few weeks, I began to compare my appearance to other girls’. I took note on a deep level of what was the “right” and “wrong” way to dress, and I strove the rest of my time in high school to dress the “right” way. I started using clothing to fit in.
Pictured: Sarah in middle school, wearing her favorite flared Mudd jeans with a patriotic gray t-shirt.
Every day, I wore a pair of light-washed flared Mudd jeans my mom had found for me at Kohls. I would wash them mid-week because I didn’t dare wear my looser fitting, second-hand utility jeans to school. Naturally, I paired the flares with tiny shirts, camisoles and cardigans from either Aeropostale or Hollister, usually found on sale. I really loved the graphic tees at Hollister, and thought my navy blue shirt with a lone seagull minimally encapsulated the beach aesthetic I was going for. My look was always finished with a chunky belt and some just as chunky footwear. I begged my parents to shop at the mall more, but typically if I had anything brand-name to wear, I’d found it at a second-hand store. This was when I began negating myself and doubting how I looked. I began to think of myself as “fat,” “ugly,” and a host of other adjectives that, frankly, were not true, but that I believed to a crippling level. These toxic thoughts remained at the back of my mind through the ups and downs of my 20s and 30s.
In college, my attitude toward clothing shifted in a more positive direction. Away from anyone who knew me in high school, I felt free to experiment and try things I had never worn before. I would take the earnings from my campus library job and go shopping at my favorite mall stores like American Eagle, Aerie and Express. Some of my most prized garments included three pairs of skinny jeans, a houndstooth coat and a bright yellow Pacsun purse. My sartorial world opened up even wider when my brother started parading around campus in flashy jackets he found at a local thrift shop, and I realized second-hand clothes were not just a “consequence” of growing up in the lower class, but held real power for expression and identity.
Pictured: Photos from Sarah’s college days, when she began having more fun with secondhand and vintage clothes. Left: Sarah and her brother, wearing colorful, thrifted shirts and jeans with shoes bought at the mall. Right: Sarah in another thrifted look, featuring a blue dress, tights, and flats.
Around the same time, a coworker gave me a copy of Harper’s Bazaar. I don’t think I would have picked up that type of fashion magazine on my own, but once I had been given it, I read it religiously. Here I found fantasy — with a capital F! — and my imagination went wild on my trips to the local Salvation Army, trying to recreate vintage and high fashion looks. (Imagine my excitement when I found a pair of silk Dior scarves one evening after class!)
I bought countless blazers in all shapes and sizes, and loved pairing them with a skinny pant and a classic pair of pointed flats. I went through a big Audrey Hepburn phase and tried to encapsulate her classic look by stocking up on black turtlenecks and pants, a go-to look I still throw on to this day. My love for the 1960s and that decade’s classic mini dresses was born during this self-experimental era. As a sort of counter to my vintage looks, one of my favorite fashion bloggers was from LA, and she wore minimal silk button-ups paired with vintage Coach bags. This would become another uniform of sorts that would take me all the way through college.
Thrifting soon became a way to bond with other women who, like me, wanted to figure out where they fit in. They weren’t afraid to push the edges of their personal style. We would leave the Salvation Army with bags full of clothes, and eventually swap things that didn’t suit us. One of my absolute favorite ’60s leather skirts came from one of these experiences. All of this inspired me to remain curious about clothing and people.
In the circles I traversed, having the right clothes equated to acceptance and, sometimes, superiority, be it social, economic, or educational.
By 2013, my love of clothing had grown so deep that I moved from my small hometown in Ohio to New York City to pursue my Master’s degree in fashion and textile history at the Fashion Institute of Technology. I went through various style phases during the five years I lived in New York, took in the visual stimuli around me, and tried to recreate what I perceived as the “right” looks.
When I first arrived, I was already in a phase where I mostly wore black or white. I clung to my vintage looks, but soon traded almost all of my flats for sleek, leather boots that paired well with dresses or denim. I started shopping at Zara and H&M, often opting for trendy ’60s inspired mini dresses. One night at Century21, I bought a bright purple striped Marc Jacobs tent blouse, a wildcard piece for my wardrobe. It had caught my eye a month or so before. When it went on sale, I scooped it up.
Upon graduating from grad school, I went to work in the archives at Calvin Klein. My style began to lean more towards minimalism, and I continued to wear trendy pieces, almost always in black. I eventually took a job in the Costume Institute at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where I was inspired on a daily basis by both my coworkers and the objects I was working with. I bought my first Black Crane dress on sale from La Garconne: a grey-green cocoon in velvet. It was so much nicer, and much more daring, than anything I had put on before. I learned during this time that clothing in adulthood equaled power, which I mistook for confidence. In the circles I was traversed, having the right clothes equated to acceptance and, sometimes, superiority, be it social, economic, or educational.
Pictured: Sarah’s minimalist phase. Left: Sarah smiling in a belted, slate-blue dress with crossbody bag and leather boots. Right: Sarah posing in front of an imposing, metal door, modeling a boxy tunic top with sheer black stockings, studded ankle boots, and a statement necklace.
Clothing became thrilling, all-encompassing. It defined not only my status and identity, but the status and identity of everyone I interacted with. In my pursuit of acceptance, I now reacted negatively not only to my own image but also to the images of others. These negative perceptions often came to a head in professional settings. I would daydream about what to wear to the next exhibition opening or scholarly lecture I would be attending, but when the day came, I would be so wracked with anxiety about who would be there that I would never wear my nice clothes; I would hide in something “simple” and “safe.” This cycle led to a lot of self-criticism over my lack of confidence and for never fitting in the way I thought I should.
As I rethink my personal style post-lockdown, it’s been helpful to pinpoint my motivations and see where they’re taking me. Living in Philadelphia for a few years prior to the COVID outbreak had already allowed me to drop some of the pressure I’d been putting on myself to control how I looked. The expectation to “dress” for everyday events didn’t exist to the extent that it had in New York, and was at first, admittedly, an adjustment on the verge of an identity crisis. During this phase, I began to be more intentional about my purchases, buying more secondhand and from sustainable brands. I also started gravitating towards more streamlined and architectural pieces.
I had learned from my museum training to discern high quality textiles, and I no longer wanted to fill my closet with flimsy, fast fashion fabrics. EBay helped me find designer clothes within my budget: a Black Crane two-piece yellow jumpsuit and a gorgeous Issey Miyake Pleats Please column dress. I had special occasions to wear these things to, but often found that a good uniform of pants and a chore jacket took me a long way, day to day. I often paired these pieces with a beat up pair of Chuck Taylors I got for $4 at the thrift store near my apartment.
The pieces I gravitated to the most this past year are beloved objects and extensions of my life, but they do not define my identity.
In January 2020, I ended up working in a dusty archive as it was undergoing renovation. This didn’t leave me much room to really “dress” for work each day, so I started getting used to wearing jeans and T-shirts to the office.
When COVID hit and everything closed, I went from working full-time, on-site in a museum archive to working in our living room-turned-office in my old hoodies. I finally shut the door on the unrealistic standards I’d been placing on myself for so long — to play a part that wasn’t truly required of me.
Pictured: Sarah’s version of getting “dressed up” for work, pre-COVID (left) and heading into lockdown (right). On the left, Sarah stands in the Barnes Collection (Philadelphia) wearing a black tunic with circle cutouts, tan pants, and black pointy-toed shoes with laces. On the right, Sarah in her apartment in Philadelphia wearing a light-wash, denim-on-denim look over a black mock-turtleneck top with a pair of black Chuck Taylor shoes.
I had suddenly stopped looking at myself so much, stopped getting dressed, stopped comparing. I had nowhere to go and no reason to engage in the usual inner monologue about what to wear. This experience shocked me into reevaluating my personal style. Now, in a world slowly starting to reopen, I see how warped my sense of style had become.
When I have had the occasion to get dressed, the pieces I gravitated to the most this past year are things I really love — pieces that spark my imagination, that are comfortable to move in, that hold special meaning because they were gifts from dear friends. I view these things as beloved objects and extensions of my life. But at the same time, they do not define my identity. They are inherently protective coverings doing the jobs they were designed to do: add joy and playfulness to life.
Pictured: Sarah on her first museum outing, a year after the shutdown, wearing a Bonnie Cashin coat gifted to her via snail mail by her dear friend Michelle.
This spring my husband and I moved back to Ohio, not far from where I grew up and went to college. Digging through my parents’ basement and rediscovering some of my favorite old clothes has been part of a healing meditation on getting dressed. In taking the time to remember who I am, to be inspired by my past sincerity, I’ve finally remembered that clothing and style are supposed to be fun.
I’m striving to really like myself and how I look, no matter the shape or size of my body, no matter if I have on any makeup, no matter who sees me day to day — and, certainly, no matter what I’m wearing. My childhood self always did. Why shouldn’t I?
Editor: kat baus | Designer: Emma Geddes | Copy Editor: Katie Frankowicz | Communication/Support/Outreach: Meg Chellew
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