style: an adornment narrative

simmering the indigo cauldron & a riot of muses riding shotgun

Apr 07, 2026

accidental character inspo

Since working in Film, on occasion sister costumers while gathering intel to shop for a particular character and prep for their busy day ahead, have texted:

”Hey, what brands do you wear?

I am shopping for a character that kinda has your style…”

Time always a premium, thinking fast and texting on the fly, they toss out a few labels, inevitably ticking off a plethora of made-overseas mega brands.

You know the ones: cheap and cheerful, mass produced, found in malls, laden with lookbooks of faux vintage meets Cali boho, meets cute cowgirl, meets beachy babe, meets ya-i’m-going-to-Cochella-or-maybe-Burning-Man-idk, but definitely swinging by a rodeo to lasso me a cowboy for a spell…

And speaking of spells, on the next page of said marketing hoopla, everything one needs to whip up a witchy girls night, with gossamer and black lace, bejewelled and bedecked, shot under a full moon, crystals, ouija board and tarot cards at the ready, with a bazillion candles burning and sage smoke appropriated, wafting aesthetically in the background.

Not a chance darlin’

Unwittingly bumbling, the text continues, citing a handful of modern day celebs with the additional prompts:

“…. she’s like a combo of boho, witchy, coastal cowgirl western, with cool hippie-ish vibe…. you know?”

My inside voice ricochets in protest

snarrrrllllll

labeling folks: the look thinking

I get it.

It’s the “look” thinking.

On any given show, our job as Costumers is to analyze and make visual connections from the design mood boards to where to dig up and shop all necessary accoutrement imagined for any given character.

We lean into the universally shared short-hand of fashion categorizations, have studied the wide sweep of style and trend by decade and era, consider place and regional dress, and deep dive into subtleties of obscure genre combos as part of our job.

We clock the latest celebrity style influence(r)s, keep a pulse on what and who is trending, note what the kids are clad in at street level, and observe the quirks and niche details in wearables for every and any demographic with a magnified lens.

Visual categorization by means of what we are wearing, is not just a costumes thing of course. Forever utilized as inter-social survival crutch, a residue of an inevitable ancestral inclination perhaps, the unconscious associations are at worse an “us-and-them” thinking, and at “best”, ornamental cues that function as the evident mechanism to finding your peeps in a crowd.

Even though we all do it, even though labelling folks with grindingly overused and common style allocations is a short cut to a shared understanding - I am not a big fan. Mostly because labeling folks regarding how they put themselves together, is inevitably a prejudicial presumption on so many levels.

The ruffle for me is the claim to knowing the inner life translated to an outer expression.

When really, we don’t.

We can’t know the inherent meaningfulness and innermost connections to our peek-a-boo moment of a wearer’s chosen cocoon, and surely we miss the subtle nuances of an adornment narrative with our grand sweeping and dismissive classifications.

For me, an externally slapped on style moniker feels strangely invasive, disorienting, rumbling an internal “get the hell out of my business!” whilst unintentionally prodded so. Akin to a sudden roping in the midst of a full blown gallop, whipped into entrapment, no longer flying free to an inner compass with wind tousling hair, smile blown wide, beating to one’s own storytelling drum.

My colleagues were clocking something in me, sure. But missing the grit of the story, the bones of the visual telling, and mostly, that the way I put myself together has no intention to create a “look” or to anchor myself to some prescriptive genre of style.

I’ve bolted off script, gone rogue, a lone wolf in the midst of her very own true blue memory parade.

define and dissect: don’t you slap that on me

However

At the expense of myself, if I had to define and dissect my “style”, endeavouring this whole pigeonholing business into a pre-prescribed category, to be avoidant I’d go for a quick and dirty answer, straight to brevity, in an attempt to shut that shit down.

ok ok ok

Vintage Western

ish

But, it’s just a wee bit more… yarn tangled… than that.

an adornment narrative tale

My yarn tale, the what and why in the ritual of habiliment, is an adornment narrative woven from an intricate tangle of steadfast values, “herstoried” threads, interconnections of quiet meaningfulness, and jacked lupine senses. The day’s get-ups must have a resonant inner and outer harmony, a somatic synchronicity as imperative, holding the sensibilities awoken with on the day.

Ever so intrinsic and labyrinthine this natural relationship to cloth and wearing, a sensibility I’ve had since I was a child.

Led with a devotion to beloved eras and serendipitous hand-me-downs, the whole motley confluence is a visual retrospective spiced up with present day green-collar clothiers, a riot muses from other decades riding shotgun, topped off with a practice of hand-stitch-that-beauty-back-up-with-indigo-dyed-silk-thread mindset when torn, snagged, holey, pierced or broken.

diurnal toolbox: denim upon denim upon denim

The toolbox for this diurnal adventure, my armoire, is an indigo cauldron of denim upon denim upon denim, brimming with spirited textiles resonant of herstory’s creative hand, a treasure trove of rescued textiles mended and tended by yours truly, hunted garments riddled with clues from a ménage of live’s lived, made anew for a serendipitous sequel in ornament and dress.

The whole shebang reflects fiercely held values with a heartfelt bow to this unbelievably awe-smacking wonder of a planet, Earth, where we all get to live…

Once apparel is donned, the garniture is found & hand forged finery, vintage and artisan crafted, chunks of southwestern turquoise set in oxidized silver and gold. Held in handmade ceramic vessels and tucked in vintage painted Kashmiri boxes, the daily bling is clad upon wrist and fingers most definitely, dangling near solar plexus and heart, a buckle on occasion, and ears when getting seriously dolled up.

The daily get-ups are harmonized with a sturdy fleet of real cowboy boots, no matter the occasion or weather, sounding the everyday back beat in rhythmic stomp and stride. Folks crow at knowing it’s me, either in a resigned sigh, or here she comes smile, as concrete floors and sonic surfaces are acousmatic to my arrival.

“How many pairs of cowboy boots do you actually have?” comes the inevitable and oftentimes query.

Well now… that seems a rather personal question, ain’t it?

wink and slow smile

My Grandmothers drilled into me: we don’t ask a gal her age…! and I would add - or how many pairs of boots she has.

Manners, darlin’

Side Wangle: When investing in brand “new” garb, my held firm principles for shopping hold a loyal and defiant stance: small brand, slow clothes ethic, made in Canada or US.
Charity, thrift, vintage and second hand hunt is preferential.
Vintage made in Canada & the US, is always a great find (especially 100% cotton denim) “Union Made” on that label? Dang, that’s gold
If made overseas, then made traditionally within the country of origin with skilled handwork of place, with the folks who made & crafted actually getting paid properly.
Never fast fashion. Ever.
Hard core ethos. Non-negotiable
Point final.

simmering the indigo cauldron

If one sleuthed for clues a la Nancy Drew, by unravelling textiles and yarn, examining labels sporting vintage fonts and graphics, researched brands worn, diagnosed eras by silhouette and picked apart seams, endeavouring to pin a nomenclature, or replicate this style of mine with pieces found and purchased…

One could call the mishmash of inner outer tapestry - something

But, in so doing miss the quiet hidden recipe, cellular confluence of story, hidden and blatant earthy values, and the eye of the beholder aesthetic resonance.

A sartorial known-by-heart recipe is my indigo cauldron simmering, composed of a dash of this and a pinch of that, imbuing the singular weaving of a narrative life lived, cultivated from cradle into the bravely morphing landscape of midlife.

Instead, to answer this nomenclature folly, I would invite the consideration of an adornment narrative. To spice up this moving target, my wordy effervescent heart will cast the dice of beloved characters as visual clues, then road trip this caravan off into the sunset, with my band of style muses riding shotgun.

The inner woven sartorial recipe goes something like this….

style muses holler: roll credits

a splash of 70’s Rustler, snap shirts, rigid jeans, boots a thumping, hat tipped and sun burnished skin sporting chiseled life lines and cheshire grin

a stomp of Pinky Tuscadero coming to town - ya, Fonzarelli better hop to it

a sprinkle of Victorian pin tucks and silk handwork, patient, stitching by sun and candlelight, days endless and simple, cabbage roses in vases and tea steaming in porcelain cups

a dash of Robert Plant swagger, X-marks-the-spot with hand embroidered peace doves the focal point on his painted-on, low rise, hip hugger denim

a flash of Marilyn Monroe as Rosyln in The Misfits, Lee Storm Rider jacket off as she rages witnessing the dispiriting of a captured wild horse

a misty wave to MM again, wrapped in that hand knit shawl cardigan, her last photo shoot on July 1962 on Santa Monica beach, almost gone

a chaser of renegade Easy Rider rumbling through town, root chakra bass rattle of customized vintage Harley Davidson mufflers, black leather worn and warm, chisel toed harness boots

a whiff of chop my own firewood and load the wood stove in morning, calico homespun stitched by evening lamplight

a hand clap and heel clack of flamenco dancing, live in the 70’s in that dark bar in Spain, 8 yr old self eyes riveted, spine atingle, radiating through nervous system from crown to foot

a wolf whistle to Gloria Steinem, sharp intellect and unending chic, reclaiming beauty, her rallying cry an insistence to rewire with a feminist gaze and mind

a bow to Brigitte Bardot, badass and courageous in her visible, unflinching look-you-right-in-the-eye ageing, gorgeous in every one of her 9 decades with us

a howl to Janis Joplin, her laughter at the end of Mercedes Benz… the attached memory of “hey Janis…” in 1986-7, the greeting given by my high school English writing teacher warmly effused passing me in the hallway

a whoop in the back seat, Thelma and Louise soaring over canyon, racing to freedom, when I’m all jacked up on menopausal sass

a flip of 70’s corona, Charlie’s Angels feathered curls and deep décolletage, heavy lean towards Jill - when Farrah Fawcett was part of the dream team

a getcha getcha getcha call out to Blondie, platinum hair and black liner rimmed eyes, and leading the band with her bombshell punk

a kaapow 70’s spin, Diana transforming into Wonder Woman, Lynda Carter sprinting in red and white suede boots with 3.5 inch heels, blazing blue eyes alight in earnest and fierce protection of mere mortals foolhardy with greed and bad guy foibles

a wink to my wee child self who must dance hearing a fiddle and bodhrán, a la Irish Traveller…. “and she’s away with the raggle taggle Gypsy-ooooo”

a hushed awe, Georgia O’Keefe’s exquisitely self made wardrobe, the guided wander through her pantry and bedroom, heart caught in throat and eyes brimming

a ballad sung, skiing with the wild man clad in shaggy rust fur vest, brown corduroys, Irish ivory knit turtle neck, whose arm is suddenly scooping around the middle of my 8 yr old child self gone rogue toward the cliff, harmonies sung in minor keys, Harris tweed damp with rain, hat pulled low, wool sweaters, dark eyes like mine, a winked echoing reminder to “keep your thinking cap on”

un bisou pour Jeanne, radieuse, décolté, aimable, lightest of blonde bob, 70’s crocheted white dress, gentle love, tending, the smell of cooking macaroni with V8 and strawberry rhubarb pie in her warm kitchen

a peck on the cheek to Mona, arriving with inside shoes in a cloth drawstring bag, snow melting on fur coat, girdle tight, wool suit, perfectly put together, her sharp fashion critic and dignity

a kiss to my Maman, a flash of long hair, pin tuck white cotton blouse, hip hugger bell bottom denim, oversized cognac leather bag with pockets on the outside, tall brown leather boots, wide smile with full lips and black cat’s eyes then a la BB

Ode to the muses, alive and spirit-side, a full ruckus singing the back seat, ever present, the daily chorus in my head.

Track us if you can….

xxA

PS: personal style designation?

Oh, I got it!

Denim whiplash