Hi pigs.
My last style post was many years ago. It was a one-time attempt at fashion writing when this blog was new. I was in college and had thoughts on how guys in college should dress.
I don’t know how well that post aged — you can decide — but I know well I did. I crossed into my thirties two years ago and now have more style thoughts. Better ones, I hope.
I am still not a big fashion guy, but I like how I wear myself, in all ways, now more than ever, and that feels good. Maybe that is the magic of the thirties, or maybe it’s me. It feels like a magic trick I managed to pull out of life: how to wear it loosely, more easily, with more love.
I don’t follow fashion blogs or read fashion magazines beyond German Vogue, for language practice, and Mr Porter. I read GQ until they let go of Glenn O’Brien — the original Style Guy columnist, pictured above from sometime in his dirty thirties.
More than an advice writer, O’Brien was a connoisseur of cool, a true man of letters who happened to tackle subjects of style and living in deft, deadpan prose. His Lebenslauf was full of so many famous names and brands that it’s hard to say who he didn’t rub shoulders with. He hung out with Bowie, wrote for Interview under Warhol, was editor of Maxim and High Times, and sometimes Basquiat drew doodles in his apartment. He wrote plays and books and hosted TV shows. He partied hard in the 70s and 80s. He was part of a vanishing New York and wrote about it.
O’Brien’s departure from GQ was bitter and made the magazine look sloppily run — as it likely was — though, later, when O’Brien died in 2017, GQ‘s then-editor-in-chief did a moving piece about him, as did every other menswear magazine that owed him an inspirational debt. I read GQ mostly for O’Brien’s tips. In hindsight, I see my first style post here was a nod to him — and to those years in the closet when I read GQ as gay-adjacent media when anything more was forbidden or inaccessible. This post is such a nod too. Thank you, Glenn.
In those closeted years, style was dangerous. It could betray you as a pansy-ass fag. Later, as fags know, style marked community and outness. Every crowd I tried to be part of — from art school kids to circuit gays — came with sartorial markers. Hipster wear gave way to harnesses and Nasty Pig. Then, finally, the chase stopped. I hit my late twenties, and somewhere in that hinge time, I figured out that the only person I have to try to be true to — the only one I need to impress — is me. That sounds hackneyed and saccharine, but it’s true. It’s the feeling of being an adult.
I was at dinner recently in Berlin with some friends and one of them teased me about my style. He was being playful, but it hurt some. I thought my style had gotten better with age: style, now, was just me, just my quirks. I saw him as being very fashionable and still do. Though we do not go for the same clothes, I chalked that up to differences in style, not taste. But then I wasn’t so sure.
Yes, my moccasins are ridiculous and my jewellery can tip into “white girl at Coachella” territory. I love feathers and fringe. Once, I showed up to a reading in moccasins and a cowboy hat (a wool Stetson from Austin), and my editor said, “Alex, you cannot play cowboys and Indians in the same look. Take one off.” (His words echoed the tip espoused by Coco Chanel regarding accessories: before you step out the door, take one thing off. Presumably not your pants.)
I talked to my friend about his words. He did not mean to hurt and apologised. There was no need: feedback can sting, but it’s better to have people in your life whose tastes you trust, even and especially if you only half-listen to them. So that’s my first style advice for your thirties: have stylish friends, or friends whose tastes you trust and respect. Their tastes don’t have to fully align with yours. That’s fine. We build ourselves off and around the people we like and listen to.
I trust certain people (truly, just two or three) to say when I’ve crossed the line from a look to a getup. But the fact that my style can go too far — that I am playful enough now with myself to do that — makes me happy. It means I have figured out something important: it really doesn’t matter. The stakes are low. The goal is to wear life like a loose-fitting garment. It’s just for fun.
When we are young, we care too much about what others think — as, maybe, we must. Those are years we try different scenes on to see how they fit. In your fourth decade, you know how big the reject pile is. You know your career, your favourite and least favourite people, and your money.
One inspiration for this post was a recent article in Mr Porter, “How To Dress Well In Your Thirties.” It has some okay parts, like this bit, which rings true:
Entering your thirties often comes with a confidence and clarity of personal style where you’re no longer swayed by fleeting trends or conscious of what people might think and you start dressing for yourself. … “In my early twenties, I dabbled in styles and trends that were definitely not my style – which I knew at the time – but it’s easy to get swept up in the hype of products or brands,” Wightman says. “I have a much better grasp on what I like, what suits me and makes me feel my best.”
But when you read a Mr Porter article, you must remember it’s an ad. This one is to make you buy higher-price-point stuff: a suit, a coat, dress boots, and the like. It’s not bad advice, just not for everyone. Working creatives can (and do) dress differently than the upward-moving yuppies in fin-tech this article is for. Since I don’t work in tech or finance, I will never again have to wear a collared button-down shirt — a wardrobe staple for most men — and may never. I hate them.
Have fewer clothes. Develop an aesthetic for things that leans toward ornate, artful clutter, or clean minimalism. I think both one’s home and wardrobe should be one or the other. I don’t like lots of stuff — in fact, I may be too eager to throw stuff away — so I cultivate a small collection of nice things. My home and wardrobe are not minimal to the point of being severe or monastic, but I try to keep everything very intentional. My living space is impeccable, as I grew up to be one of those fussy, round-the-clock stress-tidiers, and this informs how I dress: a wardrobe of mostly earth tones and neutrals in which all pieces can be paired with any other so that I take the next shirt and the next pair of pants hanging and put them together without worrying if they match. I like honey colours, ore colours: black, bronze, tan, brown (not mustard), and the like. My home reflects this, and my clothes do. I’m a brown. My whole being screams to be a clawed, woody thing. I don’t spend time in front of a mirror to make a “look”. My closet is the look. Everything matches.
Since it’s easy to make impulse buys from brands on Instagram, do this: make a list of brands that work. Once you find one that makes your pants, stop looking for pants. Divide this list into categories of types of clothing, since we tend to not like all products from brands we buy from. I divide mine into: t-shirts, pants, jeans, casual jackets, dress clothes and suits, casual shoes, gym shoes, gym shorts, socks, underwear, and jewellery. Under each category, I have three subsections: Buy, Try, and Never Again. “Buy” is for clothes I’ll get again — tried-and-true things I know work. “Try” is for brands and clothes I’ve not tried, but might. “Never Again,” of course, are brands I’ll never buy again — either because I regret those purchases or have just outgrown them.
Some are in multiple categories. For example, Y,IWO, a Brooklyn-based gym brand, makes great socks and gym shorts, but I’ll never buy their t-shirts again. Lonsdale, an English brand that makes boxing and MMA gear, makes great underwear, but I’ll never buy anything else. I am 100% certain I will buy a leather jacket from Schott one day, probably at their flagship in Greenwich Village, but I haven’t. I love tattoo-inspired brands, but I’ve outgrown ones like Sullen Art Collective and Straight to Hell, so these are now both “Never Again” brands (as are, probably, all tattoo-culture brands). Boy London, once my favourite, is now “Never Again” because I just outgrew it.
All brands are easily in my price range. Few are fast fashion retailers like Zara or H&M, as I don’t think these clothes are worth even their low costs, nor are they good for the environment. But they’re also not all luxury brands, as these are rare and special purchases for me. I have some pricey things, like Balenciaga sneakers, but luxury does not compose the bulk of my closet. In an unexpected twist of life, I have reached a point where, if I wanted, I could build a (pared-down) closet of expensive designer clothes — I could afford it — but it comes down to values. That money would go from my stash for tattoos, gym, and travel — things I value more. My body is expensive so my clothes don’t have to be. If I had a maxim, it’d be “wear cheap clothes and good shoes”. I spend a quarter of my life naked, so it’s just as important for me to look good without clothes as with.
I’m not a big label whore. Nor is Berin, the city I live in. Anna Wintour dislikes heavily branded clothes and so do I. Kids in Berlin here dress in dark colors. They look like they went rolling through thrift shops picking out all the right things — a bold, clubby, no-fucks style — and my style, even in the short time I’ve lived here, has grown from partying with them.
My “Buy, Try, and Never Again” list has kept me shopping intentionally and consistently. It shows me what I need and don’t: if there are “Buy” brands in each category, I’ve bought those clothes and, unless they get destroyed, don’t need more. I feel a little past the age of trying lots of new brands. I’m not sure how much longer this list will be helpful, since it doesn’t really work for thrifting and recycled clothing, and an increasing percentage of my clothes are used. My closet lately feels evenly split between Diesel and Humana, Berlin’s favorite recycled clothing chain.
Every six to twelve months, I throw out what I don’t like or won’t wear again, or donate it. I do this room-by-room in my apartment, for everything I own. Having less stuff keeps me happier and more organised and makes me appreciate what I have. I don’t buy “circuit clothes,” “party clothes,” or anything meant to be worn once, or a couple times, then tossed. I don’t buy costumes — I make them from what I have. You can do anything with some scissors and creative thinking.
Reuse clothes. I never buy gym shirts; I take old T-shirts and make them “shredders” by cutting off the sleeves. I get summer shorts from old pants. New clothes are fun, but old ones have a lived-in charm that can’t be bought.
I know where I splurge. I like good perfumes and good shoes. I love jewellery and keep mine organised in an antique jewellery box, a gift from a past lover who was a jewellery designer. It is one of my great treasures. Jewellery lets me express myself, and jewellery best accents a muted wardrobe, so that’s how mine is, for the most part.
But how to define a personal style in the first place? I think it really goes back to your friends. I am influenced by people I’ve crossed paths with, sometimes without them knowing it. That said, a mood board is great. Keeping a digital mood board on your phone can help you shop. If there are celebrities or film and TV characters whose looks you like, add them. Besides those unwitting style people who shaped me, I love how Beat writers look in old photographs. I love ageing rock stars. I love Daniel Craig’s and Rooney Mara’s clothes in The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo and I like to tell myself that my personal style falls somewhere between them.
Since I spend so much time in the gym, I like clothes that show it, but I caution against going too tight. Derek Guy, editor of Put This On, has amassed a following on Twitter for his takedowns of male celebs in bad-fitting suits. He has proven that the tight suit thing is boyish and not as good-looking as we think. He advocates for a return to the looser form and drape of men’s suits in decades past. A recent tweet: “There’s a difference between a very sculpted, shaped garment — made through tailoring and pressing — and a limp garment that has been taken in within an inch of its life. Many garments I see on celebrities are the second.”
If you’re nearing thirty, you’ve likely realised that caring for one’s skin outweighs caring for one’s clothes. Clothes get less exciting and skincare gets urgent. At night I use retinol and in the morning I do an astringent toner, then the Multi-Peptide + HA Serum from The Ordinary, then a moisturiser with SPF — every day. The most important changes in my self-care regimen since my last post have been showering less, drinking more water, drinking less alcohol, daily meditation, and not washing my hair. After I stopped stripping my hair of its natural oils and styling it with heavy gunk, I found it has a natural curl, especially if I grow it out a little bit, so now I just use salt spray or leave-in conditioner. When I was younger, I was told to use sunscreen and not mess with my hair too much. I wish I had listened; my hair and skin are damaged, and I will be forever fighting that. If you haven’t started using sunscreen every day, start right now. Right. Now.
The trick to feeling good in my body now is to get enough sleep, stay active, watch my sugar intake, and all that boring stuff kids don’t worry about. The gym is necessary to keep my depression at bay; daily meditation keeps me anchored. My whole life is sobering — in every way — and the only drugs I do now are psychedelics. I have occasional nice, well-made cocktails with friends. I don’t drink beer. Life feels clearer and cleaner — better — than at twenty-three.
Style now just means accepting my quirks and giving fewer fucks — a growth point that feels universal to other thirtysomethings I know. Nearly every person older than me said how great it felt when they ran out of fucks to give, and boy, it sure does. More than ever, I love my bookishness, my moodiness, my stupid sense of humour, my communication style; I like the people I find interesting, the scenes I cultivate, and how I decorate a room.
All this is style. I’m not rich, so I’m restricted from cultivating a style that someone with a six-figure income can. But I’m more content than ever with my money and my life, and I guess that’s because I’ve gotten better at both. I know how far my money goes now. I shop smarter.
I have the privilege and joy of being stylish and creative within these financial limits — the same ones that every writer, artist, and musician in history dealt with at one point. Artists make it work with less; most struggle all their lives to make it work. That’s bohemia, baby. Broke and sexy.
If you’re hitting thirty soon, do not mourn the loss of your youth. Focus on what everyone is saying: your best years are ahead. Be neat and presentable when the occasion requires it and wear clothes that fit your body. Besides that, experiment. Play. Make bolder choices. Now is the time to “tune into your frequency”, to borrow a line from that dumb Mr Porter piece. Develop a jewellery thing. Change your look. Then change it again. Kiss those fucks goodbye.
Love, Beastly
LOVE, BEASTLY 