While I have a healthy dose of skepticism when it comes to contemporary fashion, some new Rachel Comey stuff in my inbox today was just delightfully refreshing. Which is ironic given that it is mostly the color of a raw-mushroom-and-protein-powder-smoothie . It's just so lovely to see clothes that are intended to do something other than desperately, pathetically re-interpret the female body for random passersby.
Comey's clothes say don't bother me I'm reading or my body is a cherished vessel that's none of your business. At its most friendly, it might ask: would you like to meet in an anonymous chain cafe near Penn Station and discuss Agnes Martin? In any case, it never says I need you to like me, or here is what I have to bargain with.
Further on this theme: the New York Times and many of its female readers are embracing comfortable, authoritative cotton underpants. May this new fascination usher in the quick yet excruciating death of the thong.
Bodies are about SO many things. They're public, but only incidentally. Unless you're someone who introduces herself to the world via her sexual abilities or interests, in which case, Brava, Your Body Your Choice, etc., why should your clothes be about sex?