Doing the Back to School Dance

By: Alyssa Garrison

Me on my first day of Kindergarden in a brand new outfit, complete with matching socks and the necessary scrunchie.

Practically since preschool, the only reason I’ve found to look forward to another year of school has been those magic words my mother always uttered right around the beginning of August: “We’ll have to go get you some new clothes.” Each year, my mall-loathing parents dragged themselves to the overcrowded, sweaty shops and put forth their credit cards, presenting me with the chance to grab as many new items as possible and convince them ridiculous finds, like the Aritzia spandex track suits of Grade 7, were necessities.

For me, the strangest thing about back to school shopping was the odd set of rules that my mother strictly enforced for my sister and I. Her rules, combined with my efforts to get as many new things as possible on my parents’ tab, looked a little like this:

1a) We MUST get a new backpack, even if last year’s model is in perfectly good condition.
b) After Grade 8, backpacks were embarrassing and were promptly replaced with trendy, impractical shoulder bags.
c) Coordinate all other purchases around colour scheme on new backpack/bag.

2. Items are to be bought in outfits, from hats down to socks, not as single pieces. This creates a cohesive “school look.”

3. Keep in contact with close friends to ensure they’re not choosing the same pieces, and if they are, at least claim rights to your favorite colour.

4. Even if it’s still 20+ degrees outside, back to school clothing has to include tights, sweaters, jeans and jackets. Tank tops are to be avoided at all costs unless part of an outfit and accompanied by a cardigan.

5. Clothing bought during the back to school shop (or shops) are not to be worn, tried on, or removed of tags before the first day of school. My mother’s theory behind this was that the clothing would no longer be truly “new” if worn too soon. I think it was her secret way of making me excited for the first day of classes.

At the time, back to school shopping was simply a chance to buy new things, but in retrospect, it was also my chance each year to change and grow through my wardrobe, and, when I wasn’t fighting with my mother, to exercise my freedom to shape myself. I’d spend hours consulting friends, sketching warped versions of myself, and laying out my purchases on the bed to ensure I had a new look for each day of the first week back in advance. The clothing I chose depicted the person I wanted to be, and as I began to make my own money, I learned who I was and how I’d changed based on the items I chose to take home.

Although the money is no longer provided by my parents and my school wardrobe is mostly based around surviving the Toronto winter, the need to reinvent myself each fall has continued. I find myself altering the items I do own, thrifting, trading with friends, and splurging on the occasional extra-special item to create the wardrobe I will live in for my last year of university. I can’t help but wonder however, when fall returns next year and I’m no longer cleaning out my computer and buying note books, will I continue to clean out my closet and find a new me?

text by Alyssa Garrison

Crushing on Ohbijou

By: Alyssa Garrison

The bar is packed from wall to wall despite the icy Toronto weather. A half-dozen eclectic-looking musicians walk onto a small stage carrying a variety of instruments. The crowd falls silent, folding to the ground kindergarten-style, and all eyes are drawn to two diminutive women standing at the edge of the group. One wears a sheer blouse and high-waisted shorts, the other jeans and a simple white hoodie covering most of her bespectacled face; one holds a violin and the other is empty handed. They couldn’t appear more different, but the audience is uniformly spellbound.

Casey and Jenny Mesija, the sisters behind Toronto’s haunting orchestral pop band Ohbijou, seem to have a lot in common. When they agreed to talk clothes with WORN, I assumed that, along with genes and music, they’d have coinciding views on style. What is it they say about making assumptions?

Do you two ever share your clothes, now or in the past? Was a hand-me-down system ever put into place?

C: Not really, we have very different body types. There are articles of clothing that we each own that make us envious of the other; I often buy shirts that end up looking better on Jenny.

J: I never got hand-me-downs from Casey. It was usually her that borrowed (or sneakily took) my clothing.

How would you compare and contrast your style to your sister’s?

C: I don’t intend to be stylish. My sister on the other hand is incredibly fashionable. I’m lucky because I have a partner who knows how to dress so I get some help in that department, but my sister looks stylish in whatever she decides to wear.

J: Casey and I share a common attraction to all things neutral, and we’re not really attracted to patterns. We share similar tastes in cuts and fits of clothing, and seem to be most comfortable in loose fitting T-shirts.

Do you think that how you dress has any relation to the music you make? Is there a connection between music and fashion in general?

C: There’s definitely a connection. Every aspect of yourself is a part of your performance, from what you wear to the instruments you buy. When you feel the most comfortable, you’ll likely perform the best. If you feel good and confident with what you’re wearing then it will lend itself to a better performance. We try to dress in the same colour palette to keep a cohesive aesthetic on stage. We like to make every performance special and show our audience that we really care about what we’re doing, so changing clothes is a small detail that helps elevate our performance.

J: Style of dress doesn’t really have any relation to the music that we make or our performance. We’re going to make more of an effort to have performance dress in order to get in the mindset of a performer and have a more cohesive stage presence. I think that many musicians share this same outlook with stage dress. Stage dress allows musicians to get into the mode of the character or how they want to perform on stage.

What was your most memorable show and what were you each wearing?

C: One of our first shows was at a tiny festival in Guelph called Track and Field. My sister and I decided to pin red feathers to our grey shirts for that show — something about it felt very special. We felt in flight, perhaps, at ease and so lucky to be performing outside while the sun was setting — it was a perfect summer evening.

J: Our CD release show for Beacons. We all made an effort to dress up and when we changed into our outfits before the show it made us even more excited to get on stage to play.

Notice a pattern? The Mecija’s never saw one another’s answers; in the name of convenience, we communicated via e-mail. It was interesting to discover that, perhaps by virtue of their responding independently, they have drastically different ways of thinking about their world. Although Casey and Jenny share a last name, a hometown, and a band, and though often their aesthetics collide, the ideological paths they take to get there are unique.

Fashion has a very particular way of fitting people into groups. We look around and make assumptions daily: hipster, conservative, wealthy, slob. But generalizations don’t really describe much more than the surface. In fashion as in everything else, our motives are our own. That is, until we find our common ground.

How much of your personality is attached to what you wear?

C: I like to think that my personality is in the clothes I choose each day. Perhaps subconsciously more than anything — if I’m having a bad day I’d probably reach for dark clothing without even fully realizing.

J: I definitely have personal preferences in terms of styles of clothing and shoes that I will wear, but my style is something I don’t think too much about; I know what I like, and picking the clothes I want to have in my closet comes naturally.

Interview by Alyssa Garrison

The Untimely Death of Diana’s Dresses

By: Alyssa Garrison

Flanked by overexcited white haired women with large digital cameras and cute cardigans, I found myself at the Toronto Design Exchange’s newest exhibit, “Diana, The Dresses,” a collection of 14 gowns Diana, Princess of Wales once owned and wore. The 14 now belong to a woman named Maureen Rorech Dunkel from Tampa Bay, who purchased them at Diana’s famous charity auction at Christie’s in 1997, just two months before Diana was killed. On June 23, the dresses will again find new owners: Waddington’s, a Canadian auction house, will be selling the famous gowns, from designers like Victor Edelstein and Catherine Walker, with prices estimated as high as $1,000,000. Until then, the dresses are available for public viewing at the Design Exchange building.

Knowing all of this ahead of time, I had prepared myself to be amazed. The exhibit promised an inside look at the wardrobe of the most photographed woman in history, and one of the 20th century’s most notable fashion icons. The chance to get up close and personal with Diana’s customized dresses sounded like a dream, especially in the midst of the fever produced by the recent royal wedding. But arriving at the small room, where lines of white, faceless mannequins modeled the floor-length frocks and a biography video illuminated the back wall, I felt an emotion I had not expected: sadness.

The gowns hung like ghosts on their plastic wearers, lifeless and still like the woman they once belonged to. Gazing at the intricate patterns, rich royal fabrics, and delicate details, I couldn’t help but wonder, will these dresses ever be worn again? The answer, sadly, is most likely no; the dresses themselves signify something far too personal. The off the shoulder midnight blue silk velvet evening gown by Victor Edelstein was worn to a Reagan state dinner, at which Diana danced with John Trovolta. The black silk crepe halter dress by Catherine walker was worn in a famous photoshoot with Mario Testino for Vanity Fair. The deep green silk velvet dinner dress with buttons down the back was worn only at state dinners, and has a child’s handprint mid thigh, most likely from a young prince. Although Lady Diana is dead and gone, these dresses hold her memories. My concern is: Can a life be held in fabric and threads?

For me, the answer is no. The collection was educational, beautiful and interesting, and the pieces included showed a sort of evolution of Diana, moving from whimsical airy white day dresses worn early in the princess’ life, to dark velvet creations with shocking necklines worn after her divorce. But as much as I looked and read, something was missing: Princess Diana wasn’t there, and her dresses were nothing without her 5’10 figure to don them. Patrons of the exhibit, like me, surely visited to feel they were coming closer to Diana, an unattainable public figure so many admired but few got to meet. Sadly, the exhibit only made me feel farther from the humanitarian “people’s princess” who once grabbed the entire world’s attention. The dresses have lost their grandeur, offering lists of memories that aren’t ours to keep, and metres of beautiful fabric we will never wear. The dresses themselves, like Diana, Princess of Wales, have suffered an untimely death.

- Alyssa Garrison

Photos courtesy of the Toronto Design Exchange

Shoe Blues

By: Alyssa Garrison

I’m big on lists. I write them in my planner, on scraps of paper (when said planner is unavailable), and when things get really desperate, in smudgy scribbles on my hands. My favorite type is of the “to buy” assortment, although mine always seems to grow and can never be completed, creating one giant, ongoing list. Almost every time I head to a shop, be it alone or with friends, for large pieces of furniture or just groceries, I will secretly be clutching a list detailing exactly what I’d like to buy. There’s just one problem: no matter what I have on my list, I somehow always end up bringing home the same thing. Shoes.

Last weekend, I went out looking for a vintage trunk to use as a coffee table in my new place. What did I come home with? Vintage suede slippers with a delicately embroidered toe in a delicious olive green. A few weeks earlier, it was black patent vintage Ferragamos with a fabric bow and gold detailing, a pair so precious they managed to trump my basic food needs for the week. No matter how final my lists are on paper, my mind always seems to have a subconscious agenda that constantly pulls me to the footwear department, distracting me from the things I actually need.

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