Breaking the (Dress) Code

About a dozen years ago, my husband and I swapped our New York loft for a house, two cars and slice of stubbornly brown yard in L.A. Within weeks, I had already negotiated several challenges of our adopted city: my first plate-rattling earthquake, the Ventura Freeway in a fine drizzle at 6:05 p.m., and exactly what real estate agents meant by the phrase “an emotional property.” But what really threw me was our first dinner party, a Sunday evening, host and hostess both entertainment industry professionals. It posed the knotty question: What do you wear in Los Angeles?

For my husband, it wasn’t much of an issue. After abandoning the all-T-shirt-and-jeans posture of his post-college years, he’d hit upon a flattering uniform of sports jacket over pullover sweater or English shirting, with, or preferably without, a tie. But I liked to keep a bit more au courant--if not exactly on the cutting edge of fashion, at least maintaining a semblance of chic. I just didn’t quite grasp what that meant in Southern California.

Manhattan had been easy; it was largely just a question of getting my blacks to match. Did a charcoal stretch turtleneck tee go with a mascara-black suede miniskirt? If so, with the proper finesse of accessories, it was as cool an ensemble at Carnegie Hall as it was at the Mudd Club.

But in this city of glaring sunshine and year-round bougainvillea, wearing black made me feel like a vampira at the Easter Parade. So something light and bright was called for, I decided. And since the invitation was for a sit-down dinner, and the Brentwood address reasonably swanky, I figured a somewhat dressy outfit was in order. I trotted out a short-sleeved almond linen sheath, open-toed sandals and, for a kicky California accent, a choker of little gold penguins from a Melrose boutique. Perfect, I thought.

Until the hostess answered the door. She had on a slouchy sweater that looked like a hand-me-down from a particularly husky lobsterman, brown leggings and scuffed white Keds. Her eyes glazed slightly at my somewhat dressy ensemble. “You look so . . . festive!” she said brightly, the first time I’d heard the word used as a synonym for “overdressed.”

She ushered us inside to meet a group of people all clad in similar degrees of slouchy. The host, who, in coordinated burgundy sweats, looked as if he’d just completed a sprint around the reservoir, awarded me the same rather glassy smile I’d received from his wife. “Don’t you look . . . . “ he began, then faltered in search of the right euphemism.

“Festive?” I supplied.

“Yes, exactly,” he said with relief. “Very festive.”

With the next invitation, I felt I had the dress angle knocked. A housewarming, thrown by an architect friend, a guy so casual he made Bruce Willis look buttoned-down. Chili and beer was the advertised menu. A clear call, I reasoned, for a simple shirt and jeans.

The party was every bit as informal as I’d imagined. Folks lounged in the kitchen, half-watching the World Series on TV. Others gathered outside, scarfing chili off paper plates and knocking back Pilsner long-necks . . . .

Except they were all dressed up. Italian silk ties galore. Flashy jewelry coruscating in the setting sun, high heels sinking into the newly laid sod.

I began to feel that there was a dress code of the day that was broadcast somewhere secretly, and that everyone was in on the secret except me. Maybe it was the weatherman on Channel 4--when he said “partly cloudy,” it was the signal to wear khakis and blazers for the next 24 hours.

I soon discovered that sometimes an event did come with a suggested dress code, but it usually just made things worse. There was the wedding invitation that called for “California Black Tie” (which one friend interpreted by wearing a tux with short pants). But more frequently it was that terrifying oxymoron, “dressy casual.”

The first time I encountered these words, I was stymied. Did it mean jeans with a tiara? A Valentino gown with Air Jordans? Eventually I came to understand that it meant something I couldn’t hope to achieve, but could recognize when I saw it. I began to think of it as simply The Look.

The Look is created by spending three hours working to appear as if you’ve thrown yourself together in 15 minutes. It’s investing as much sweat in dressing down as the Duchess of Windsor put into dressing up. There’s no pattern book for The Look. It’s not dictated by Vogue or Mirabella; rather, it’s patched from bits and pieces of style originating in the Sports Connection and gay bars, street gangs and “Baywatch” auditions.

The Look has a lot to do with layers. Also with mixing trash and designer items, with throwing together the good, the bad and the hideous and having it somehow come out fantastic. And, at least for a while, it had something to do with exposing your navel.

But if I couldn’t duplicate The Look, I did begin to pick up a few clues to being comme il faut. For instance, there’s the day of the week to consider. For some reason, Thursday night seems to draw the dressiest crowd, while Sunday evening is an excuse to practically shuffle out in your pajamas.

Also, you have to determine the particular climate you need to prepare for. If it’s a daytime fete in August, will it be al fresco under a blistering sun, or inside in air conditioning set for the comfort of a snow leopard? If it’s a supper in early June, will you be seated in front of a searing eucalyptus fire, or outdoors with the fog swirling so densely you can’t tell the radicchio from the radishes on your plate?

Lately I’ve come to a conclusion that I suppose the natives have known all along: the true L.A. dress code is Anything Goes. Find your own look, be it retro or L.L. Bean, slick or sloppy, and shazam! You’ve got a perfectly valid fashion statement.

For instance, to Anita, who runs my dry-cleaner, it’s not about adorning your body with clothes, it’s about adorning your body. She’ll show you her three tattoos, including the faux diamond earring etched on her left lobe, and her manicure--two-inch talons painted with little Mickeys, Donalds and Goofys.

Herbie at the carwash agrees it’s not your clothes that count. “In L.A., your car’s your wardrobe,” he declares with authority. “All you need’s a cool ride, and you don’t need nothing else.”

Nothing is literally what the guy who lives across the canyon from me opts for. He wears nothing to practice his evening yoga, nothing when he brews his cup of Morning Thunder, and on a sunny afternoon he’s been known to sprawl on his terrace in all the glory of his birthday suit.

For me, the acid test of my new Anything Goes philosophy came recently. It was the premiere of a Major Motion Picture, the sort of star-studded bash that once upon a time would have summoned ladies in evening gowns and gentlemen in tuxedos. This time I was determined not to obsess. Instead, I reached for an outfit I’d always felt good in, a 5-year-old Dolce & Gabbana vanilla ice cream-colored suit.

And yeah, at the party, I fit right in. So did the guys in muscle shirts and the gals in Lycra bicycle shorts and the old gent in an opera cape. There were also people of both sexes in slightly rumpled Armani who’d rushed straight from the office, even a few gowns and tuxes.

And almost everyone under 30 was wearing black.