Turned 25 today. In a few weekends time I’m celebrating the shinny silver years with friends at a private dinner under the stars. It will be opulent.
Call it nostalgia, or just old age, but in recent days I’ve come to appreciate the fashion heritage that my grandmothers left me. On one side, the extreme fashionista I share my middle name with. Patterns and bright colours and exuberant living… On the other, demure Ina Jones. She only dressed in black trouser suits with the same staple pieces of jewellery. The occasional wedding she would dawn a skirt. Never heels. Always flats. Black. On occasion navy, but preferably black.
I’ve definitely inherited these extremes in my wardrobe. However, in the past few years the same addict to the darker shade of black has developed. I regularly wear the same jewellery, I have every shade of Black, and I tend to choose this above colour when dashing out somewhere (I tend to always dash, never been one to be composed).
With the light of a new quarter, I’m going with black. She’s perfection. She’s kept me. She’s been the sexy little number I wear when I go out, and she’s the consistent companion to my zanny personality.
“A drop of No 5 and nothing else”
Image Sourced:
Vogue Italia (nov 2008) Katrin Thormann by Steven Meisel
ourbones.tumblr.com
stellacooper.tumblr.com
Harpers Bazaar (Sample No 5 insert)
