My Own Muse

When I was young, I thought I had three birth defects: the smudge of a birthmark on my back, two toes on my left foot that didn’t correspond with the same toes on my right foot, and my lack of style.

Clearly, the latter defect was the only one I could address without painful surgery. But it has been a grueling journey.

For many years, my apparent inability to synthesize, imitate or even grasp mainstream concepts of style was puzzling given my genetic credentials. Both my parents, after all, have always been worthy of being photographed, even in casual clothes. The house I grew up in was stylish and tasteful.

Things in our home either matched or they were color-coordinated. Many came in pairs--lamps, vases, chairs. As a child, I was given to understand that this was part of good interior design, but since I had trouble locating two shoes that matched, I can’t say I grasped the concept. I remember trying to understand, though, one afternoon when I came home from school dressed in my navy blue uniform and watched as a man carried a 2-foot-tall porcelain elephant into the entryway. It was clearly an elephant, but its porcelain costume was red and blue with squiggles of gold running through it. Its back was flat as a book.

“What’s wrong with his back?” I asked my mother.

“It’s a plant stand,” she answered, poised and stylish in her slacks and sweater set. I tried in vain to scrape a dollop of peanut butter from my navy blue skirt. I was never poised and stylish; I was hardly ever without stains. I had a nasty habit of eating like a Neanderthal and wearing much of what I had devoured.

Then the man carried in another elephant, exactly like the first.

“Why do you need two?” I asked.

“For symmetry,” my mother said. “Some pieces--like these--should be in pairs so you can place them evenly in a room.”

“What if you only want one?”

“Then it wouldn’t be a pair,” she said.

I was left to wonder: Would only one elephant be unstylish?

Even without an answer, I started to define style as symmetry, careful placement, matched pieces. I never placed anything carefully, and I found symmetry a bit frightening--like someone had gone through the room with a measuring stick. My sense of style must be like my toes--an unfortunate accident of birth.

The sofas in our living room matched the armchairs. The art had color schemes that seemed to blend smoothly with the fabric. As a child, I found the room intimidating because of all the small, delicate objects placed elegantly on small, delicate tables. I felt clumsy and dangerous.

My personal preference for interior decorating was Miss Kitty’s room on “Gunsmoke.” It was a clutter of fabrics and pillows, oil lamps and beads hanging in doorways. “I want a room like hers,” I announced one evening when the show was on. My parents probably retired for the evening wondering if their daughter was going to live in a bordello, or something resembling it, when she grew up.

It wasn’t just home decor that baffled me; wardrobe seemed an impossible challenge. Everything I saw about fashion, from magazines to the clothes in my mother’s closet, made me more certain my absence of style was a birth defect. I was continually dressing myself in outfits that didn’t match or “go together”--whatever that meant. I was often told to go back and change into something more acceptable. What was wrong, I wondered, with wearing that short little kimono Aunt Emily gave me for Christmas with my jeans and sneakers? What else was I supposed to do with a kimono? Besides, I liked the colors. I liked the way they didn’t match my jeans.

I bungled my way through the years, believing that my own choices were wrong, but feeling horribly uncomfortable when I was dressed in what was deemed appropriate and stylish.

Then came the ‘60s. Thank God. Thousands of people across the country seemed to have the same defect I did. Suddenly, I wasn’t alone in my mismatched thrift-store finds, hand-embroidered faded jeans, halter tops made from scarves, denim skirts made from oversized jeans and decorated with antique lace and old fabric.

In the ‘70s, I really hit my stride. I was a confident thrift-store shopper. I could go in, spend less than $15 and come out with an armload of clothes.

I didn’t, however, regard this as an indication of style. No, this was rebellion. This was a generation making a statement. This was vast numbers of people who couldn’t navigate their way through Saks Fifth Avenue, but were models of efficiency in junk stores and flea markets.

In my first apartment, I had a large wooden trunk covered in velvet that I got at a junk store for $10. I made curtains from old lace tablecloths, turned shawls into covers for pillows. The most formal thing in my closet was a vintage black velvet dress that I had lovingly repaired along the seams and secured with old crystal buttons.

When the ‘80s came and my father was elected president, I thought--sadly--I guess I have to grow up now, wear grown-up clothes. And I tried. But I always picked the wrong thing. I was on several worst-dressed lists, deservedly so.

One of my most public faux pas happened on the night my parents gave a dinner for Queen Elizabeth II. It was not black tie, it was “cocktail attire”--not a language I understood.

I had discovered the Beverly Hills store Laise Adzer and thought I had finally found an upscale version of my taste: fringe, shawls, large belts, slouchy tops. It was there that I prepared for my night with the queen.

To say I looked out of place in my faded, mauve, Indian-inspired outfit is an understatement. I looked like Pocahontas after a botched shopping spree. A newspaper the next day had a memorable quote: “There were 300 guests at the dinner. Two hundred ninety-nine of them were appropriately dressed.”

Which brings me back to the subject of style. I have finally decided that I might not be defective, just different.

Style has to do with individuality, following some kind of internal muse, even if you occasionally make mistakes, and even if People magazine does put you on its worst-dressed list.

Years ago, Ali MacGraw started a trend in tight, crocheted caps pulled down low on the forehead. She later revealed that the cap that started the trend had been a purse. She pulled out the drawstring and stretched it over her head. Style is about looking beyond how something is supposed to be perceived.

Style is also about having the courage of your convictions. I assume that if someone had said to Ali MacGraw, “Excuse me, but are you planning on going out with a purse on your head?” she’d have smiled graciously and answered, “Yes, I am.”

I may never make it onto a best-dressed list, but I’m learning. And I have more confidence now.

Last week, I bought an old cotton tablecloth at a flea market for $10. Half of it is damaged, so I’m going to cut it in two and make a summer top from the undamaged part. I’ll make straps from old satin ribbon. I will hold my head high, and if anyone asks if I’m wearing a tablecloth, I’ll say, “Yes, I am.”