Society & Culture // Notre Dame Magazine // Notre Dame Magazine

Graduates, you can go home again

2012-05-18T10:00:00-04:00

I was doing a little spring cleaning a few days ago, listening to NPR and dusting my apartment when I heard a jarring statistic: 85 percent of college graduates between 2006 and 2011 returned to their parents’ homes after graduation. I learned as I kept listening that the statistic turned out to be false, and a recent Pew study affirmed that number is actually around 30 percent, which still seemed high. I thought fondly back to two years ago, when I, too, fell into that category of “boomerangers” — the generation of kids who leave home for college only to come full circle and end up back at their parents’ house, jobless.

In the competitive world of undergraduates at Notre Dame, where not having a plan for life post-senior year seems unheard of, the prospect of moving back home after graduation felt akin to failure of the worst kind. More than disappointing anyone else, it would mean a personal disappointment, as the past four years would have seemed wasted. It would surely mean a return to curfews, financial dependence once again, our parents driving us insane.

Complete freedom — financial and emotional from those who reared us — certainly was an end goal of many like me growing up. We worked tirelessly as baristas and babysitters to have a couple bucks of our own, and negotiated and broke curfews, feeling suffocated by the iron fist of diligent parents. In high school we studied hard to get into colleges far from home, and then in college we networked and interviewed to get jobs in our dream cities, close to friends and far from home. The American dream for Notre Dame undergrads.

My American Studies-Spanish major did not exactly lend itself to a shoo-in job after college, however, and I found myself back in my old room in my parents’ house, despairing over my new sentiment as an adult-child failure. I wallowed and job-searched for about two months before doing some real self-evaluating and coming to a refreshing conclusion.

Having supportive parents and a place to go back to, as it turns out, is not the worst thing in the world. Besides rent-free living, wholesome home-cooked meals and nicer stuff than I could ever afford on an entry-level salary, living with my parents once again after four years of relative self-sufficiency proved to be both easy and enjoyable.

I lived (and worked for a bit) at home for almost six months before hightailing to Chicago, sans secure income, in pursuit of, well, life. Now having experienced about 18 months at an established ad agency, bills and rent of my own as well as the blissful feeling of no one telling me what to do, I find myself remembering fondly the days of 7 p.m. on-the-dot dinners, Scrabble nights with my parents and the lovable bickering with my little sister over the then-important arguments, like who put gas in the car last.

There’s a comfort to living with those who take care of you. Yes, my dear roommates also will offer care, but parents are different. I felt the pangs of needing to be taken care of when I was sick a few weeks ago and left work early. Back in the days of living on Summerlake Road, my mother would have taken my temperature, rubbed my back and made me warm tea. With the unforgiving Chicago wind beating at my window on that particular day, however, there was no way I would set foot outside to go to the pharmacy for myself.

Along with the nurturing our parents provide even post-college, a weird transition takes place: Our parents become almost cool. I am not referring to the fact that my parents have both Twitter and Facebook (a fact I find decidedly horrifying), but rather to the fact that I truly enjoy spending time with them now, much like I enjoy passing the time with my friends. Over glasses of Nobilo Sauvignon Blanc on the deck on warm Carolina evenings, my mother and I would talk about politics, books, life plans and everything in between. I looked forward to a Saturday morning run on the nature trail with my dad more than the evening I planned for the night before with friends. These relationships truly blossomed during my time at home post-college, and I look forward to any opportunity I can find now to make my way back home.

Moving back home for those few brief months after the whirlwind of senior year felt like someone had gifted me a pair of training wheels before I launched myself into the scary world of two-wheel big-kid bikes. I understood what it felt like to begin to manage my own finances and start paying cell phone bills, but I had the comfort of my parents guiding me as I took that first ride. I crossed the emotional hump of learning to live far away from the friends with whom I had grown so close during college, but I also had close by my commiserating parents, who had gone through the same thing a mere 30 years prior.

The challenge of growing up lies in a number of areas for those of my generation. Working 9-to-5 (or 6 or 7 or 8) and taking charge of personal finances are the simplest of challenges in light of the real ones we face — taking care of ourselves, finding comfort in the homes we create for ourselves as well as in the people we decide to surround ourselves with. Moving forward makes life easy when we have people helping us though what’s expected next. My interim step of life at home, while not a permanent one, eased that transition in a way I could not have imagined possible, and I am forever grateful for it.

Katie Peralta is a former Notre Dame Magazine intern who now lives and works in the Chicago area.

Photo by Matt MacGillivray.

Making It on Her Own . . . and You Can, Too

2012-05-17T09:00:00-04:00

Meg McElwee ’03 knows that the best things in life are often the most simple, like buzzing two pieces of fabric through a sewing machine, sketching out plans for a new dress or running her fingers over the fabric that will soon become a fort for her boys.

“Like any creative art, the pleasure and balm is found in the process and the product,” says McElwee, who learned to sew as a young girl.

While working as a teacher in Chihuahua, Mexico, McElwee was inspired by the rural landscape’s bold colors and the simple lifestyle of those around her. Instead of being able to run to a store when she wanted a new shirt, McElwee would sew it up herself.

She designed and created her own clothing, countless objects for her home and tools for her classroom, including aprons for her students’ cooking and painting activities. “The process,” says McElwee, “is, at once, meditative and challenging. The product is a thing of functional beauty.”

Related article
Meg McElwee’s favorite ways to personalize her home and clothing

With the encouragement of her husband, Patrick, McElwee began selling her patterns online. At first, this was a simple way to fund her “fabric habit.”

By the time the couple moved to Durham, North Carolina, her hobby was a growing business, Sew Liberated. She soon gave birth to Finn, now 2½, and Lachlan, 1, and running her own business fulfilled the dream of working from home while raising the children.

McElwee believes the benefits extend far beyond the income and personal satisfaction that Sew Liberated generates. “My design work,” she says, “helps fill me with a relaxed enthusiasm that I can then transfer to mothering my boys, and being an inspired parent has a far-reaching ripple effect on society.”

She enjoys creating spaces for her young boys to play, read and explore, as well as clothing that is well-suited for their active lifestyle. “I’m making Lachlan a pair of insulated, waterproof pants,” says McElwee, “so that he can comfortably sit and scoot while we explore the natural world during our frequent nature walks.”

The 30-year-old loves the fact that design and sewing give her the ability to customize clothing and home to suit her style — practical, simple, comfortable — while living within her means. She also enjoys “the freedom that comes with being able to sew clothing that fits your body, not the unrealistic measurements of the fashion industry.”

This freedom and adaptability is part of what make her sewing patterns, and the projects found in her books, Sew Liberated (2010) and Growing Up Sew Liberated (2011), appealing to so many — her company has sold more than 55,000 patterns. The clothing’s simple and elegant construction can be adjusted to any body type or fit. Sewists use the basic project as a blank slate, allowing their fabric choices, unique embellishments and personal touches to shine.

Through Sew Liberated, McElwee shares her love of this process and encourages others to showcase their unique style. “Sewing, design and crafting spaces are creative activities that replenish my energy reserve. Mothers must make it a priority to fill their own cups,” says McElwee, “and one way to do that is to delve into sewing and design.”

Grace Myers is a freelance writer who blogs at BetterWritinginBusiness.com. During her free time, she enjoys crafting and has made three versions of Sew Liberated’s Schoolhouse Tunic.

By Natural Design

2012-05-17T08:45:00-04:00

Andrew Sarnecki ’00 will tell you, “I don’t like the word ‘fashion.’” At least, that is, not in relation to his business.

This from a guy whose merchandise sells in more than 500 shops in 16 countries, including Australia, Japan and Costa Rica. That merchandise? Men’s surfing and climbing apparel.

But to him, he explains, the word “fashion” evokes images of runways and models. “I think of ‘high fashion,’” he adds. “Something that is not obtainable for most people.”

And Sarnecki, the 34-year-old creator and part-owner of HippyTree, a home-grown clothing company geared toward the “open-minded,” as its website states, is no elitist clothier. Images at the site of Sarnecki sporting flip-flops kind of give that away. “I didn’t go to design school or study fashion,” he says. “We’re into making wearable goods for your everyday person.”

Sarnecki grew up in La Habra, California. There, he and his family enjoyed the area’s many beaches, with Huntington and Newport as two of their favorites. During those early years, he says, he found himself swept up in something other than the tide. “The surf culture caught my eye,” Sarnecki says. “Whether it was the bright clothes or the baggy pants, I don’t know. That may have been a small part of it.”

But as a teen, he adds, the anti-establishment attitude of the surf culture really gripped his attention and his imagination. “It had its own fashion, music and art scene,” he explains, noting the brilliantly designed displays in local surf shops and print ads in surf magazines. Even “the graphics on the clothing and decals on the surfboards were inspiring.”

At that time, he says, “Many of the companies making surfboards and surf wear were not large corporations. They were start-up companies founded in people’s garages, and they were selling their products to independently owned surf shops run by surfers. This was all very appealing to me.”

So much so that after graduating from Notre Dame, where he majored in photography and graphic design, Sarnecki made the trek back home seeking work in the surfing industry.

Not long after his return, he took a job at Body Glove, a wetsuit company in Redondo Beach. During his six-plus years there, Sarnecki says, he touched all the creative functions of the business. Starting as an entry-level designer he moved from crafting hang tags and logos to product design of surfing wetsuits. Eventually he transitioned into advertising and marketing for the label and was hired as art director. All the while, he pursued his true career goal, surf and underwater photography.

He submitted his photos to the local surf magazines. “I was getting stuff published,” he says, “but things weren’t lining up the way I wanted.”

So Sarnecki, who had since moved to Hermosa Beach, in an area southwest of Los Angeles known as South Bay, started publishing his own surf photo booklets. He distributed them for free to surf shops. “I was building relationships with the shop owners,” who strongly encouraged him to create products they could sell in their stores, he says. In 2004, he released his first tide calendar, featuring his own art-driven photography, and a T-shirt under the HippyTree label. Within months, 12 stores sold out of his goods.

He continued to add to his product line, specializing in T-shirts that featured his playful graphics and photography. The company took off from there. “I’m an artist,” Sarnecki says. “I’m into designing practical garments that people need.” And what guy doesn’t need a dozen T-shirts a year and a sweet pair of nonbinding board shorts?

It may sound easy, Sarnecki says, but it isn’t. His sister Carolyn, who is a partner and the company’s COO, laughs, albeit sweetly, about her brother’s success. “We always knew Andrew had a special talent and that he would do something creative with it,” she says. “But, really, Andrew was an accidental businessman.”

However, she adds, over the years she has watched Sarnecki and the business evolve. The corporatization of the surf industry, marked notably by surf giant Billabong’s acquisition of other surfing retailers, she says, forced the company to adapt. In this regard, Carolyn credits her brother for his vision for the business. “He was able to look ahead and see how things would be changing,” she says, noting that the company is remapping its website and launching an online store. Still, she adds, “we appreciate the importance of the core surf shops. In order to be a relevant brand in our industry, you have to have a core.”

In return, Sarnecki lauds his sister, who holds an MBA from Columbia University, for keeping questionable business decisions in check. If he wants to shoot photos at Yosemite with some of their sponsored climbing athletes, for instance, his sister is there to weigh in on deadlines and dollars. Recently the label added climbing apparel to its line, Sarnecki says, tapping into the camping and outdoor industry with its “Surf and Stone” marketing platform. Reaching that niche, he adds, has been good for business.

Though HippyTree’s product-line is modest — mostly men’s T’s, sweatshirts and swim trunks — its marketing techniques take it beyond ordinary.

Sales manager and third business partner Josh Sweeney touts the company’s “Plant a Seed” campaign as proof of the effectiveness of building relationships in business. For the promotion, HippyTree packaged sunflower seeds in some of its product tags. They then asked buyers to grow a plant from those seeds and send in pictures of themselves with the plants when they bloomed.

“It took several months for people to grow that seed,” says Sweeney, a childhood friend of Sarnecki’s. “And every time they touch it they are subconsciously thinking of our company.” Plus, he adds, he and his associates like the personal reward that comes from “creating a cool conversation and dialogue” with people around the world. “It’s fun.”

The casual wear continues to sport Sarnecki’s unexpected and whimsical graphics — a tree shaped in the hang-loose surf symbol, a curl of a wave formed by wheat grass. Images, he says, that reflect both his childhood and adult experiences of nature that range from the Sequoia National Forest to Patagonia to the Galapagos Islands. “Of course all these beautiful landscapes I’ve witnessed have inspired the work.”

Nature imagery reaches every age and demographic because everyone can relate to it, says Sarnecki, who gets a surf in every couple of days before heading to the office. And if business wasn’t such a natural part of his life already, even Sarnecki’s mom helps out with billing and inventory a few days a week.

“It’s important that we are accessible and touchable,” adds Sweeney. “Our customers and fans see that we are normal people, just like them.”

Jessica Trobaugh Temple is a freelance writer living in South Bend.

Teacher Evaluation

2012-05-17T08:30:00-04:00

Writing a column on faculty fashion is no small task. Indeed, the first thought that comes to mind is, “Faculty fashion? Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

It’s no secret that faculty members are famous for dressing poorly, outlandishly or, even at their best, in styles that lost popularity a decade or two or even more ago (the length of that time-lag is dependent primarily on the year the professor in question entered graduate school). What is it about academia that seemingly produces an inability to pay attention to dress and hair styles — styles that are a ubiquitous presence in the media and our daily encounters with normal people? Does graduate school somehow produce the superpower of resisting the conformity pressures of society? Or, as we like to say in the social sciences, perhaps this really is the result of a selection effect: Academia doesn’t produce the fashion faux pas tendency; rather, people with a stunted sense of style are somehow inordinately drawn to the profession of teaching and research.

My favorite explanation: Perhaps we just aren’t paying these people enough and so they have to continue wearing the subsistence sweatshirts from their grad school days.

Really, I don’t think it’s any of these — and particularly not because they can’t afford a trip to Hermès, Gucci or at least T.J. Maxx or the outlet mall. These people, contrary to what a casual observer might infer, are making conscious choices about what they wear, and those choices are intended to convey something. Now they might be mistaken about what message the viewer of their outfits receives, but we are all, professors included, constantly and purposely sending messages to others through the way we present ourselves.

What message might academics be trying to send when they flout the dictates of fashion and good taste, and ignore the color-clash pain they inflict on others? Well, it flows from the same reason we drive beat-up cars (rust-buckets that are still only automobiles in the academic sense) and refuse to edge our lawns. These choices are rarely driven by financial necessity, but rather because we take some kind of perverse pleasure in conspicuously displaying our disinterest in the material world. We wish to demonstrate that we just don’t care about these kinds of mundane trappings because we are so engrossed in the ethereal, all-consuming life of the mind.

Ah, it’s a lovely image, isn’t it? So taken with our own deep thoughts, we don’t even notice that our pants haven’t fit for 10 years, our belts don’t match our shoes, our collars aren’t buttoned down and maybe even that our shirts are inside-out. As long as we don’t get arrested for indecent exposure, well, then, that’s just good enough. The slobs, in fact, sometimes look down their noses at those who do dress more fashionably, as if to say that anyone who actually coordinates their shirt, pants and socks couldn’t possibly be very serious about their scholarly work.

Now that I’m spending more time doing administrative activities, I’ve encountered a different set of messages sent by clothing choices: Efficiency and formality conveyed by the suit — an industrious and hardworking demeanor reinforced when we take off the blazer and roll up our shirt sleeves, and, my favorite, the loosened-tie look that seems to say, “I had to dress up for something important today, but it wasn’t you!”

The question, though, is whether the messages sent are in fact the ones received. I’m afraid in the case of university faculty (who, it has been proven, can be pretty clueless about social interaction and norms) this often is not the case. It won’t surprise anyone to hear that students are considerably more fashion-conscious than their teachers. And believe me, they notice what you are wearing. I’ve heard many a snarky observation by students traipsing out of other people’s classes and have even had comments written on my teaching evaluations about how that student’s other professors dress! (Really, the half-page tirade I once received about some misguided soul who wore the same outfit — a red sweater and black slacks — to class every day was something to behold.)

Their reaction, by and large, is not, “Professor Doffsweater must be brilliant!” More likely it’s, “What a schmo” or “Wow, is she out-of-touch.” Or more pointed and problematic, “He doesn’t even care about himself — he clearly can’t give a second thought to me.” One thing is certain: While they are labeling the prof as a dweeb in their heads, they aren’t likely to also be thinking, “This person is just like me, I want to be just like her when I grow up!”

And let’s not leave us administrators out. When we refuse to stoop to even business casual, the message to our colleagues can often be something different than efficiency and industriousness. More likely, distance and inappropriate status display are inferred, neither of which is likely to help produce a genuine or productive interaction.

What to do to correct all of this? We’ve got a long way to go, judging from the sartorial sensibilities displayed at the most recent faculty gathering I attended. But before we call in Joan Rivers to critique what happened on the O’Shag carpet last week, ask Professor Blackwell to create a worst- and best-dressed list at the annual President’s dinner, or create a hot-or-not voting website to accompany Course Instructor Feedback evaluations, we could just start small. Spend a few moments thinking about what kind of reactions might result from the following small set of faculty fashion flops. Then go, and sin no more:

Twenty popular faculty styles **

1. I’m not an Oxford professor, but I play one at Notre Dame.

2. This outfit worked at IBM in 1957, so why not wear it every day?

3. Why tuck in my shirt? I’ll just have to do it again tomorrow.

4. Bow ties say “intellectual,” are not the slightest bit nerdy and, as a bonus, they emphasize my growing midsection.

5. Versace Monday, Armani Wednesday: I’m sure to get a red hot pepper on rateyourprofessor.com.

6. I don’t have time to iron. I was up all night changing how we understand the fundamental building blocks of the entire universe.

7. That hole burned by 18 molar hydrochloric acid isn’t that bad. Why waste a perfectly functional pair of pants?

8. If you can get it at Sears, it’s still in style.

9. Suspenders and a belt. I teach security studies after all.

10. No one will notice I’m wearing black tennis shoes with this suit.

11. I need those elbow patches. Reading is hard work!

12. Polyester is the new black.

13. My gigantic glasses from 1987 are still in perfectly good shape. I think I’ll just replace the lenses.

14. Peace and Love. It’s still the ’60s, isn’t it?

15.This leather jacket will let them know that I’m cool, man . . . I mean, dude.

16. I’m a low-level administrator, but I really, really, really want to be a high-level administrator.

17. I wanna wear jeans! But I’d better make it formal by adding a blazer.

18. It’s not that dirty. It was on the top of the laundry hamper.

19. My black pants aren’t too short. How else am I going to show off my new white socks?

20.To Tweed or not to Tweed? That is the question. And the answer is: To Tweed!!

**Fictional composites of well-known stereotypes — any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. However, if you resemble one (or more) of these descriptions, you might want to reconsider your fashion choices.

Daniel J. Myers is vice president and associate provost for faculty affairs and a professor of sociology at Notre Dame.

An Embarrassment of Clothes

2012-05-09T09:00:00-04:00

One of my favorite childhood photos is a fashion shot of me at about age 3. I’m standing on our pea-green carpeting, next to a jug of fake flowers, wearing an orange-and-yellow knock-off Pucci tunic vest. I’m hesitant to make eye contact with the camera, with a wary expression on my face that says, “I look like Bea Arthur. I will never forgive you for this.”

Sure, you could blame the ’70s. But when are parents going to step up and take some responsibility? Why don’t they just admit it? “When we dress our kids, we don’t always have their best interests at heart.”

I wasn’t the only fashion victim. Look closely at a photo of any small child dressed up in a sailor suit or reindeer antlers, and you’ll see an unmistakable message in their eyes:

“Help me.”

If you doubt it, visit awkwardfamilyphotos.com. You’ll get an eyeful. The category devoted to the ’80s is particularly enlightening.

Why the embarrassing clothes? Is this our way of punishing our kids for all the future misery they’re bound to bring us?

In the course of my anecdotal research, I’ve found that there are four distinct stages of dressing kids.

Stage one: We dress kids for a good laugh.

New parents are giddy with power. We have all the control — but deep down, we know this period is cruelly brief. So we assert our dominance while we can, before our babies can learn to crawl away from bad fashion choices.

In this first stage, we dress kids as peapods and gnomes for Halloween. We photograph them in flowerpots. We snicker as we put them in onesies that say “Does this diaper make my butt look big?” and “I only cry when ugly people hold me.”

There is a photo of future President Franklin Delano Roosevelt as a toddler, wearing a white frilly dress and patent Mary Janes, holding a hat with a marabou feather and pioneering a hairstyle that’s a cross between a bowl cut and a mullet. It’s proof that even the great ones can’t escape this widespread, socially approved fashion hazing.

If we truly respected our kids, we’d buy them comfortable black separates, with maybe a tasteful pacifier for a splash of color.

We would not — and I am guilty of this myself — dress them as poodles.

Above all, we would not excuse our behavior by insisting, “But it builds character!”

Stage two: We dress kids for identification purposes.

It goes without saying that we need to dress our children to stand out, or we’re likely to bring the wrong stroller home from Starbucks. All kids start out bald and drooling, after all. But if you pop yours into a leopard-print romper, there’s less chance of a tragic mix-up.

More common, though, is color-coding our kids. We dress them to match their siblings or sometimes the car upholstery. And we color-code them according to their gender.

Just recently, kids’ clothing giant Gymboree marketed onesies that said “Smart like Dad” and “Pretty like Mommy.” And JC Penney sold sweatshirts that said “I’m too pretty to do homework so my brother has to do it for me.”

Are we worried that we’ll accidentally play trucks with the girls and put tiaras on the boys? Or are we worried that the kids themselves will forget their gender?

Does it matter?

Whatever the motivation, we dress the girls in hyper-feminine tops that declare “Divalicious!,” while all boys’ clothes must be endorsed by a time-tested superhero or winning sports team.

The girls, confusingly, end up looking like overzealous drag queens, while the boys — well, the boys look exactly like they will in 20 years, when they are still living in our basements: under-bathed, in layers of sweats.

Stage three: We dress them better than ourselves.

When my son was born, among the usual gifts (receiving blankets, Peepee Teepees) was a set of heavenly blue Burberry pajamas.

For the baby!

I’m not ready to publicly confess that I was jealous. I will, though, share my first thought upon opening the box: “But he hasn’t earned them!”

Sadly, seven years later, I’m still waiting for my first item of Burberry clothing. And my son still hasn’t earned his.

Yes, of course we want our kids to have it better than we did. We want to give them the world. Designers have been taking advantage of this for years, making a bundle off teeny Oscar de la Renta frocks, Gucci hoodies, Dolce & Gabbana sneakers and Ed Hardy skull T-shirts that say “Love Kills Slowly” (just $24.95!).

I’ll say it. In my day, we wore mix-and-match Garanimals — and we liked it.

Time will tell if baby Ugg boots will warp these kids’ values. But if you want my opinion, when you get Burberry at birth, I can pretty much guarantee you that life is downhill from there.

Stage four: Kids strike back.

I don’t remember caring about what I wore until junior high, when I begged my mom for a pair of dark-wash, high-waisted Jordache jeans. (Timeless!) But my second grader already rejects whatever I pull out of the closet, saying, “I don’t want to look cute! That’s not my style.”

Her style, near as I can tell, is “materialistic hippie”: glittery, mass-marketed peace-sign T-shirts that are appropriate for all occasions.

Last year, a well-publicized study from Ohio’s Kenyon College concluded that almost a third of young girls’ clothing is sexualized. Well, sure, if you consider lace miniskirts to be oversexualized. They do go nicely, though, with the lower-back temporary tattoos (“tramp stamps”) girls can buy at Toys “R” Us.

We should probably be more worried about boys’ sartorial choices. Trend-setter Justin Bieber has been open about his preference for women’s slim-fit jeans, with the waist hitting just under the butt. I’m not sure if that’s categorized as oversexualized, but it is efficient: When it comes to de-pantsing, why not cut out the middle man?

And this is where we have to learn to let go. Just when it’s most painful to watch, we have to lovingly set our kids free. Like any good fashion fad, it all comes back full circle.

We may start out dressing them in embarrassing, clownlike clothes, but we make the most of the few years we can influence their wardrobes. We show them how to have fun with what they wear. We nurture their identities and build up their confidence. And it’s all for this:

So our kids can choose embarrassing, clownlike clothes on their own.

Paige Smoron Wiser is a writer for Michigan Avenue magazine and reviews movies as half of “Paige & Plummer” on ABC-7’s Windy City Live. She lives in Inverness, Illinois, with her husband and two stylish children.

Rockin’ The Pony

2012-05-08T08:30:00-04:00

In the beachfront ghetto of Asbury Park, New Jersey, a dank, dirty dive bar called The Stone Pony slouches between a weedy parking lot and worn boardwalk, the last defiant sentinel of a bygone era when the sweaty heroes of rock and roll called its sooty sleaze their home.

Like everything in Asbury Park, the Pony has seen better days. No longer do the leather-jacketed bards of the boardwalk stomp its stage. But once upon a time the likes of Bruce Springsteen and Southside Johnny launched their careers here, and one clear Sunday afternoon five years ago a group of unshaven suburban kids made their debut at this lead-painted cradle of rock.

We clearly had no idea what the hell we were doing.

“Excuse me, do you have a riser I can put my keyboard on?” I asked the stage manager.

“You want a riser? Who the f___ do you think you are, Britney Spears?”

Greetings from Asbury Park.

It was the summer of 2007, and my high-school band had finally landed a gig at the biggest banner in the local rock band circuit. A good Stone Pony gig was immediate street cred, but we got even luckier: We were opening for the Jonas Brothers, a bubble-gum pop band that was clearly on its way, getting scooped up by the Disney machine a few months later. So lots of girls were showing up to this gig, and, sure, the venue meant getting our name out there — but hordes of screaming girls was another matter entirely. We knew the real reason we had joined the band.

We practiced about six hours a week, which put us way above most of the other bands on the circuit. We were pretty good, by local band standards, but the rock gods would not bear such hubris, as we were about to find out.

To the Stone Pony’s management and the crowd, we were about as meaningless as a Catholic classical pianist playing keyboards in a guitar-driven rock band — which, of course, I was. I had spent the morning lectoring Sunday Mass for the old ladies at St. Dorothea’s, looking polished in my Catholic-school uniform of jacket and tie, desperately pretending I was not going to spend my afternoon inhaling secondhand smoke at a dive bar in Asbury Park — which, of course, I was.

The band arrived early to load in at the Stone Pony, where my request for a riser as a pianist with a local band earned us a spot on the afternoon’s food chain somewhere between small rodents and whatever small rodents eat. We weren’t a “national act” like the professional punks who toured the country playing bars like the Pony. Those guys knew they were cool. They had the expensive gear, the nicotine-stained fingernails and all the street cred. One national act’s guitarist kept referring to the head stage manager as “that funny cat,” but he got away with it.

We had spent the past few weeks desperately promoting our gig to all our friends on MySpace (MySpace!), and between our friends and grandmothers we had sold about 30 tickets. The stage manager smiled, collected all the ticket money we had made and gave us 10 percent — which we immediately decided to save for recording-studio rent (although we did buy a monster basket of fries from the bar’s grill, whose chef looked like a toad, though a cheery toad, and whose fries were damn good, particularly with the house-blend BBQ sauce, although I was afraid to ask The Toad what was in the sauce).

We hauled our amplifiers and instrument cases from my dad’s aging Suburban to the back stage, my eyes struggling to adjust from the wholesome clear of that Atlantic afternoon to the dive’s grimy dim. The Pony was a weary madam, her chipping paint and sticky floors lit by the purple-green glow of the arcade games. The bathroom walls bore the words of the prophets before us, the disaffected youth of that benighted decade — the ’90s.

The female bartenders wore cowboy hats and ripped, skintight jeans. I imagined they were husky-voiced ex-strippers from the seedy club down the block, and their lives of cigarettes and late nights had dragged them well past their prime. (Not that our drummer didn’t occasionally skip a beat when one of those pairs of jeans walked by.)

The Sound Guy, a bearded barbarian in the back booth, was the ultimate power in our minds. At his array of dials and buttons, he wielded the ability to take any band from mediocre to great. Or, more usually, from bad to worse. Above the sound board, Sound Guy had taped his own Dantean warning:

Sorry, I can’t un-suck the band.

We had some time to kill before we played, so we sat around and tried unsuccessfully to look very tough in front of the other bands. The staging area looked like a garbage-man convention in the hold of a pirate ship. Dirty Converses, ripped jeans. Flannel shirts over yellowing Ramones tees and stained wifebeaters. I glanced over my own costume of choice. My shoes were a little too clean, my plain white shirt a little too bleached, my scruff a little too even. My Catholic high school had a dress code, man, and I had been to Mass.

I took stock of my band. Jimmy, the guitarist, was only 15, but he looked and played like he was born with a Fender in one hand and a pack of Marlboro Reds in the other. He was a lousy student — I did his English homework in middle school — but a fearsome lead guitar. His full beard, mane of long hair and constant don’t-worry-be-happy grin gave the impression of a shaggy mutt playing a Gibson, which might be my favorite image of all time. Also: he could play a Les Paul behind his head.

Our drummer was Jeff. If the Scooby-Doo characters Daphne and Shaggy had a kid, that kid would have been Jeff. A pale, weedy ginger with a scrubby red goatee, Jeff worked landscaping, so he was always showing up to gigs in a rusting ’87 Chevy loaded with grass clippings or Mexican farmhands. Jeff had a penchant for gray wifebeaters, menthol cigs and mumbling. He was also damn good at the drums.

Chris, our bassist, was a phenomenally talented musician who made up for his technical ferocity on the bass with a complete lack of social charm, particularly via ripping his shirt off at shows. Chris once asked out a girl he knew via text message. She presumably had replied, “Thanks, honey, but to me you’re like a brother.” Poor Chris. Friend zoned. (He actually quit the band not long after the Pony show. His replacement, Sean, had a charming habit of forcefully hiccuping during awkward silences.)

Our fearless leader was Cam, a guitarist with an imposing Napoleon complex to compensate for his distinctly nasally voice — and, you know, his height. This was Cam’s band. Cam wanted us to sound like the Dave Matthews Band, but Cam sang nothing like Dave Matthews. We sounded like Oasis with a better guitarist. And when you are sitting in the staging area of the Stone Pony, you do not want to be anything close to Oasis. Oasis is fungus on the food chain of rock ’n’ roll.

The band before us, aptly named something like Nine Reasons to Die, had apparently finished early, because the head stage manager suddenly shouted for us to load our gear onstage. At least, that’s what I think he said. He really said something like: “WHOEVEA THE F___IN’ NEX’ BAND IS BETTA F___IN’ GET DEH S__T ONSTAGE IN LIKE TREE MINITES O’ I’M’A PUNCH YAS.”

The Pony’s stage manager had the cheerful disposition of a hung-over Oscar the Grouch and the beady-eyed appearance of an overfed gutter rat. His name was Elmo. Elmo was 5 feet tall. Elmo had a ponytail. And I was dead certain Elmo’s enormous bushy eyebrows were carnivorous.

Stage hands are a funny breed, because they are perpetually smoking, cursing angrily or both. Asking them for anything out of the ordinary will probably just earn you an insult to your manhood. The Pony’s knuckle-dragging cave dwellers were pale-faced, flippant toward authority figures and deeply suspicious of the new brand of BBQ sauce at The Toad’s grill. So go ahead, tell a stage hand that your band’s keyboard player needs a specialized input jack for the PA system. No? Didn’t think so.

We scrambled to get our gear on stage. The guitarists needed to tune, so I was left to carry my instrument up to the stage by myself. My weapon of choice was a Yamaha S90, a not-quite-top-of-the-line keyboard that weighed in at a literally staggering 52 pounds. We sound checked. I wiped the sweat from my forehead, suddenly nervous and self-aware. Sound Guy did his best to un-suck our sound, then gave us the thumbs up. Fans of the Jonas Brothers were nowhere near the stage. Chris scanned the audience, preparing to once again rip off his shirt.

Cam launched into his usual pre-show introduction of the band. His introduction sounded something like this: “Hiiieveryone, we’re Hollander an’ we’regonnasing asong feryou now, we reallyhopeyoulike it.”

Um, yeah. Let’s rock?

The entire concert was a sweaty haze of green and orange, courtesy of the colored stage lights that blinded us from seeing the audience. At one point, however, I did notice that most of our grandmothers had shown up to watch us play: a clutch of marmalade-haired ladies in floral sweaters, smiling proudly and doing their best to blend in with the Pony’s home crowd of barflies, bartenders and bouncers. Nice, too, to see strong representation from the church.

The undisputed highlight of the show? One of the speakers caught fire, a sacrifice to the rock gods. Elmo, cursing mightily, clawed his way up the stage and unplugged it, but not before everyone in the bar started cheering for our accidental pyrotechnics display. (To be honest, it had a much better tone when engulfed in flames.) Jimmy, ever the entertainer, started playing his Flying V so fiercely that I can only assume he was trying to ignite the rest of the amplifiers. Chris ripped his shirt off. No one noticed.

We finished the last song in our half-hour set to a roar of applause from our handful of friends. It sounded like we had won a few new fans. Our grandmothers cheered, and Elmo, scowling, roared for the next band to get onstage before he ripped off deh heads an’ fed ’em to the bouncers.

We had finally played a concert at the Stone Pony, the fiery crucible of rock royalty. We survived.

“Not bad, right Cam?” I said, trying to goad our Negative Napoleon into a positive mood.

“Dude, we sounded like ass. I couldn’t even hear myself think, your keyboard was so loud.”

Huh. I couldn’t hear my keyboard. Thanks, Cam. Sound Guy, who was finally unplugging the last of our gear, was surprised, however. “Dude,” he said, “little man over there is harsh.”

I shrugged. The smoke from the amplifier — or was it something else? — hung in the air.

“Sorry,” I laughed. “I can’t un-suck the band.”

Michael Rodio, a music major from Oceanport, New Jersey, is a senior in Notre Dame’s Gallivan Program in Journalism, Ethics & Democracy and this magazine’s spring 2012 semester intern.

The Lost Art of Dress

2012-04-30T09:00:00-04:00

A box about the size of a computer rests on the table in Linda Przybyszewski’s kitchen, filled with just a portion of her vast collection of vintage Vogue and Simplicity pattern books from the 1940s to the 1960s. Sorting through the box, she gestures and turns as the skirt of her dress swirls and swishes, a la Donna Reed in It’s a Wonderful Life.

I compliment the dress, asking about its design. That’s all it takes to get Przybyszewski gushing about the dress she’s made using a vintage 1945 Vogue pattern. The passion in her voice as she marvels at the garment’s details brings to mind Julia Child describing a perfectly cooked beef bourguignon — some of the terms may be unfamiliar, but it doesn’t matter because you know by the sounds that it must be nearly perfect:

“It’s my new favorite from 1945. I made it in navy blue polka-dot rayon faille with long sleeves gathered here at the cuffs. Look at this gored and pleated skirt — and the bodice is cleverly yoked to allow gathers over the bust. It’s the quintessential 1940s skirt from wartime. If you think of what it would look like in white with short sleeves, it would make the perfect nurse’s uniform!”

Related article
Having coffee with Linda Przybyszewski

Przybyszewski (pronounced preh-beh-SHEV-ski) is a Notre Dame associate professor of history, master dressmaker, collector of vintage pattern books and expert on the history of fashion. She owns more than 600 vintage pattern publications, fashion magazines, home economics textbooks and U.S. Department of Agriculture pamphlets. She’s written a book to be published next year whose working title is Nation of Slobs — an attempt, she says, to bring back the art of dress.

“We used to live a world where people cared about how they dressed. I am shocked how often I will be out somewhere, whether on a street or in a restaurant, and I see only a handful of people who seem dressed appropriately, and even fewer dressed beautifully,” she says.

Drawing inspiration from generations of women who taught the principles of dress in high schools and colleges — women she refers to as the “Dress Doctors,” Przybyszewski longs for the days when women in this country, well, knew how to dress appropriately.

She even teaches a class called Nation of Slobs: The Art, Ethics and Economics of Dress in Modern America, though her areas of academic specialization are actually cultural and legal history.

So how have we lapsed from a culture which so valued the art of appropriate dressing that it was included in public education curricula across the nation, to a culture that accepts (nearly expects!) to encounter grown women wearing pajama pants and slippers at the grocery store?

Throughout the first half of the 20th century, educating young women in the “art” of dress was as integral a part of their formal education as the “science” of housekeeping. High school and college textbooks with titles like The Mode in Dress and Home and Art in Home and Clothing enlightened the young female mind, assuring that garish gauntlets or passé peplums never hampered the future happiness and productivity of educated American women.

In 1923, the United States added a national Bureau of Home Economics to the USDA. By the 1930s, every public high school in the country and 36 land grant colleges had Home Economics Departments right alongside English and Science departments. Basic information like the six occasions for dress was taught to young women with the same academic rigor as algebraic equations or the periodic table of elements. (Incidentally, the six occasions for dress were: school; work/travel/city; housework; sports/spectator; evening in or out; afternoon affairs/tea.)

Simple, artful dressing (and living) was at one time so valued that home economists elevated the concept to the level of morality and honesty. Consider this, from Shelter and Clothing, a 1914 college textbook written by two women who taught at Teachers College at Columbia University:

A home based on the right principles will be simple. There will be simplicity of living, honesty in the expression of what is offered in the home. No ostentation or living beyond one’s means; simplicity in entertainment and in offering freely of what one has to friends, without apology or explanation; simple furnishings, simple, healthful food, simple, artistic clothing, all help to simplify life and give the homemakers more time for the family joys and intercourse.

So what happened?

“Blame it on the Baby Boomers!” says Przybyszewski.

“An increasing informality crept in after World War II as parents of Baby Boomers moved to the suburbs, and suddenly patios and dens became central to entertaining. People didn’t have to dress in formal attire as frequently.”

No need for evening gowns at a patio party, right?

Then women’s hairstyles began to slowly supplant the hat — a sartorial symbol of propriety.

“Poodle cuts, the sort of big hairdos, start in the late ’50s, and when you’ve inflated your hair to that degree, you don’t want to wear a hat and squish it. Sure, you’d see Jackie Kennedy wearing hats, but they really didn’t fit because of her big hairdo,” Przybyszewski says.

Then came the Youth Movement of the 1960s. In bygone eras, a teenage girl would look forward to looking like a grown-up, but when the ’60s rolled around, all the grown-ups wanted to look like teenage girls.

“If you take pattern books from the 1950s and the 1960s and you lay them side-by-side, it’s as if every model became a child. You go from this extraordinarily sophisticated look in the ’50s — sophisticated in design, sophisticated in cut, in color, so worldly, really — to just one decade later, when everyone is sporting what would have been known in another era as a toddler’s dress: a simple, A-line dress.” The gradual simplifying of design, according to Przybyszewski, eventually just becomes “stupidity of design.”

Paging wistfully through the couture section of a mid-1950s pattern book, she explains, “Dress designs of the 1950s were just more complicated, more difficult to create. So much more thought was put into them. There wasn’t even such a thing as a crew neck in dressmaking in the 1950s — this is what they did instead,” Przybyszewski says, pointing out a chic trapeze neckline.

Fast forward just one decade, to the mid-’60s: “Even the way fashion illustrators draw the models is transformed in the ’60s. These are supposed to be adults,” she says, scoffing at the models’ disproportionately oversized heads and large eyes, reminiscent of a small child. Think Twiggy.

“They don’t even bother to cut out sleeves in these dress styles. . . . They’re just sort of all one piece.”

Then came the 1970s, when home economics began to be formally dismantled, starting with a collective feminist sneer at the entire field, accompanied by congresswomen who openly criticized the federal funding of home economics on the grounds that it stereotyped people — 96 percent of people in the field were women.

“The number of people pursuing graduate degrees in home economics, specializing in costumes and textiles, drops precipitously in the 1970s,” Przybyszewski explains. “People just fled this field. The thought was: ‘If you’re not going to consider teaching people how to dress as a traditional art, then why should you bother studying the art principles and how they apply to clothing?’”

Home Economics in public schools got dumbed down or shrunk during the ’70s, and the entire system of teaching dressing, both in schools and in women’s magazines, was dismantled.

“All the knowledge that the Dress Doctors used to pass on to new generations was gone,” Przybyszewski says.

But there’s an interesting moment in the 1980s, as more women entered the workforce, when a book titled Dress for Success, first published in 1975, attempted to resurrect some semblance of the art of dressing.

“What this book did,” says Przybyszewski, “is rediscover some of the basic principles of what the Dress Doctors had been teaching for decades. The author advises that since women are going to enter the workforce, they had to dress in a more professional way.

“And since everyone during the ’60s and ’70s dressed like they were going to either the playground or a patio party, women needed to learn how to re-dress. Unfortunately, what they ended up with were lots of suits with little ties — designers’ attempts to re-create for women what men had in a standard suit and tie.”

It didn’t work.

So where does that leave us today? Are we doomed? Despite the gradual dismantling and marginalization of the art of dressing as an academic subject, how is it that some 21st century people still have managed to learn and apply the Dress Doctors’ basic principles of design, fit, color and occasion?

“Well, bits of the Dress Doctors’ advice, as though the pages were scattered to the wind, do show up in magazines and modern books, and some people may have put it all together. Secondly, these well-dressed people may simply prove that the Dress Doctors were right — that the principles of art, when applied to dress, naturally satisfy the mind and the eye. Some people still seek that satisfaction when they get dressed.”

But probably not the lady in pajama pants at the grocery store.

Susan Guibert is an assistant director in the Notre Dame office of public relations. She can be reached at sguibert@nd.edu.

O’Brien embodies commercial success

2012-04-30T08:45:00-04:00

Actor Dan O’Brien ’99 was tailgating before the Notre Dame at Stanford game last Thanksgiving weekend when a fellow tailgater began gesturing wildly in his direction and approached him.

As one of the co-stars of Whitney, NBC’s hit ensemble comedy (think Friends) O’Brien has had to adjust to being recognized — and sometimes accosted — by fans.

But this fan did not recognize O’Brien from the show. He was absolutely certain he had come upon the Fighting Irish leprechaun mascot — traveling incognito — and was determined to unmask him. “Yes you are! Don’t lie! I know you are!” the man insisted.

“I suggested the man might be thinking of the Xerox commercial that plays during Notre Dame games,” O’Brien recalls, chuckling. In it, O’Brien’s character discusses photocopying with a cardboard cutout of the leprechaun. “See! I knew it!” the man announced triumphantly before asking O’Brien to pose for a photo with him.

When O’Brien traveled to his native Alexandria, Virginia, for Christmas — he is part of a large, close-knit Irish-Italian family — his cousins stopped by to have photos taken with him, “so they could prove to their friends we were related.”

Such attention, though flattering, seems to have little effect on O’Brien, who recently moved his family from New York City to Los Angeles, where Whitney is filmed. Despite being a seasoned pro — his resume boasts an impressive array of stage and screen credits — the 34-year-old actor displays none of the self-absorption one might expect from a guy on the fast track to Hollywood stardom.

He’s just jazzed to have the gig.

Working on a sitcom filmed before a studio audience, “is the best of both worlds,” O’Brien enthuses, “It’s like live theater — but with do-overs.” In addition, he says, “It’s the best schedule in Hollywood. You go to work every morning and come home every afternoon.” Whitney allows him to spend “more time than ever before” with his wife and three children.

His acting life wasn’t always so cushy. Before he landed the role on Whitney, O’Brien spent 10 years in New York — primarily on the stage. He worked “every odd job under the sun.” Some part-time jobs were what one might consider typical for an aspiring actor — waiter, bartender, theater manager, extra on Law and Order — others were more unusual, such as supernumerary (nonspeaking actor) in productions at the Metropolitan Opera.

“As an actor you are always having to quit jobs when you get a play,” O’Brien says, “so I was always on the make.” One of the “craziest” jobs was “working as an undercover spy for a private eye firm.” O’Brien’s job was to track down and tally the number of knock-offs (counterfeit products) in Chinatown. “They hired a lot of out-of-work actors,” he explains. To avoid being recognized, “we had to wear really silly costumes.”

Despite the odd jobs, “I was always sort of ‘making it’ as an actor in my mind because I was always working on a play,” O’Brien says. His break came when he was doing a play with friend Michael Hannon, who “took me under his wing and introduced me to his agent,” O’Brien says. “I owe my career to him.”

That agent helped O’Brien get commercial auditions and finally “break into the business” (defined as getting paying work) when he was hired to do a commercial for America Online in 2004. “I thought I’d be on easy street,” he recalls, “but in fact they hardly played it. I just barely covered my union entry fees.”

As his reputation grew, more work followed. “About five years ago I started making really good money doing commercials — conveniently around the time I started a family,” he says. But easy street wasn’t always easy for the stage actor who had labored long and hard for the purity of his craft. O’Brien struggled with nagging doubts: Had he “sold out” by doing advertisements?

“I had a moment when I walked into my commercial agency and told them I couldn’t do it. I told my wife we needed to give back the money I’d made. She was pregnant with our first child at the time. She was nearly in tears. I prayed about it and asked God to give me a simple answer. I talked to my parents’ priest. Finally, one guy, Father David, said, ‘Get a grip. Keep doing the commercials — you can use your money to do good things.’”

He met his wife, Julie Shavers, a playwright and fellow actor, in 2002 when he answered a casting call in Back Stage magazine for a play she had written. At the audition, he recalls, “Julie told the director she had to cast me, because she was going to marry me.” O’Brien says he “knew” too, by the play’s second rehearsal. The couple has produced four plays together, including Silver Bullet Trailer, written by Shavers. They were married in 2005 and have three boys, Ammon, 5; Ivie James, 3; and Austin, 1.

O’Brien says the couple’s decision to move to Los Angeles was “a leap of faith. I prayed a lot about it. My sister-in-law is fond of saying ‘the Lord takes care of babies and fools,’ so I figured I was covered on all fronts.” Former classmate Andrea Kavoosi ’99 covered one front, introducing him to Vikram Dhawer of Authentic Talent and Literary Management, who became his agent in L.A. Dhawer worked to get O’Brien many film and television auditions — including the one that earned him the role of Mark on Whitney.

“As soon as I watched his commercial reel,” Dhawer recalls, “I knew I wanted to work with him because he was ‘that guy’— the guy I had seen in multiple commercials who was always funny and interesting enough to actually make me pay attention to the commercial.”

O’Brien credits Dhawer with also steering him toward more creative ways to get work — such as video auditioning for roles. With the advent of YouTube, if an actor wants a part nowadays, O’Brien says, it’s not uncommon for him to videotape himself reading the part and send a video link to a director or casting agent. One online audition caught the attention of actor/director Clint Eastwood — and nearly landed O’Brien a part in the film Gran Torino.

Even live auditions that don’t pan out are not a waste of time, O’Brien says. “If you do a good job and maybe aren’t exactly right for a part, a director will remember you and you could get called for something else.” Such was the case when O’Brien auditioned for Ben Stiller, who was directing a television pilot. O’Brien didn’t get the role, but Stiller was so impressed with O’Brien’s reading that he hired him to participate in a reading of a film script by Aaron Sorkin.

O’Brien admits he was a little star-struck when he arrived at Sorkin’s Hollywood Hills home to find a room full of well known actors with whom he’d be reading. Despite being on a successful prime-time sitcom, O’Brien has trouble even now imagining himself a peer to legendary actors. Achieving celebrity later — rather than sooner in one’s career — “keeps you humble,” he says.

On Whitney, O’Brien plays Mark — an irreverent, girl-chasing, commitment-phobic police officer with a penchant for blurting purple prose. O’Brien, in contrast, is a devoted husband and father and devout Catholic who recently put his two older boys in “timeout” for calling each other “dummies.” His children are not allowed to watch the show — too adult.

The day after an episode airs, O’Brien says, he is often teased by friends about the “dirty” things he says on camera. But, O’Brien adds, “I like giving this guy a voice. He has a point of view, and I want to show it . . . to show how he got there.”

Whitney Cummings, O’Brien’s boss as well as co-star, says, “I saw hundreds of actors, and he had the job when he said the first line in his first audition. He was so fresh, so real, so inherently funny. I knew I had struck gold.”

As the character evolves, viewers get to see Mark’s vulnerability, and O’Brien’s influence. In one episode, Mark is a Notre Dame fan (O’Brien, whose father, grandfather and brother are also ND grads, lobbied for it in the script). In another, Mark lets slip that he’s not as sexually experienced as he’d claimed. When he’s called on it, he explains he was raised Catholic — and considers “the act” to be something “special.”

Cummings says she is “the most protective of the role of Mark because secretly Mark is me and all my propaganda. Mark is a very complex character who keeps unveiling new dimensions that I think are surprising everyone . . . watching him negotiate who he thinks he should be with what makes him happy.” On O’Brien’s influence, Cummings deadpans, “Dan’s real life isn’t much of an inspiration, because from what I know he just constantly churns out children.”

Bitten by the acting bug in 7th grade after landing a part in a school play, O’Brien began acting lessons, fell in love and never looked back. In high school, “I did all the plays and really found my group of friends there.”

He landed his first professional role — lead in an off-off-Broadway play — the summer after his sophomore year at Notre Dame. Today his resume reflects a solid balance of stage and screen work, plus a few special skills — “stage combat,” “accents” and “an unbelievably realistic cricket sound.” A lifelong musician and composer, O’Brien enjoys playing piano and guitar, and still plays in a garage band “when my wife is out.” He also plays the trumpet, an instrument he played in the Notre Dame Marching Band his freshman year.

O’Brien hopes to do more writing and directing, and is currently at work on a screenplay with fellow Notre Dame alum Pete Cilella ’99. He would also, someday, like to write a script “about the Catholic experience . . . being Catholic . . . from a liturgical point of view. So much is happening right now . . . changes to the Mass. I would really like to explore some of that.”

Liz (Woyton) Warren is a freelance writer and lifelong Irish fan. She lives with her husband in Southern California.

Sidewalk style

2012-04-20T07:00:00-04:00

At first glance, Notre Dame in the wintertime isn’t exactly a bastion of fashion. Couture takes a backseat to cozy in the teeth of South Bend’s chilling climate.

But take a look past the dull blacks and browns, and ND’s subtle sidewalk style starts to emerge. Outlined against the blue-gray sky, bursts of bold color and offbeat accessories announce individuality, moxie and a determination to look — dare we say it — cool.

Dressing Up

2012-04-20T06:55:00-04:00

Bandage skirts wrap shivering legs tight, as chattering platforms tap the alleyway pavement. Eager eyes scan the crowd, taking in the color, fit and cut of each costume. Girls pretend they see a friend and dart to the front of the line. Boys jealously watch, miles from the entrance. Holding out their IDs, the ladies wait for evaluation. Bouncers appraise each entry, with a quick peek at the card and a much longer look at the outfit.

It’s a Thursday night at Feve.

To Feve or not to Feve — is that even a question? Notre Dame undergrads eagerly anticipate the day they can get into Club Fever, known as The Backstage Grill by day and the hottest club South Bend has to offer on Thursday nights. It’s a Domer hot spot that starts the weekend off on a fun, carefree note, a place to forget exams and obligations for a few blissful hours.

Once inside, lacy layers abound, as everywhere you turn another skirt rides up another behind. Men rock plaid shirts and jeans, emphasizing just how “chill” they are. Hazy lights illuminate the basement, where Domers meet and mingle amid drinks. Conversation flows, easy and worry-free.

As you lay your eyes on your love for the night, you slowly but surely make your way to the dance floor. Maybe, just maybe, you end up in “the cage,” a barred and elevated stage students love to dance on. Whatever happens, it’s sure to guarantee laughs the next day.

Feve demands different levels of fashion intensity from guys and girls. Men keep it simple and casual, rarely venturing from their standard T-shirts or button-downs. For the ladies, however, Feve is a land of short skirts, tight shirts and heels your mother would die seeing you in. Girls let their hair down and their hemlines up during this special night each week, taking advantage of the chance to be somebody outside their classes and extracurriculars.

From 9 to 5, it’s all about the J. Crew cardigans, Ralph Lauren cords, Frye leather boots and Tory Burch totes. Between 5 and 7, it’s time to throw on some running shorts and take a jog around the lakes. After that, pull on the Uggs and sweats, sit around and relax. Once the clock strikes 9:30, the transformation begins.

The contradiction between the classroom and Feve uniforms epitomizes a challenge Notre Dame girls face. It’s the Rory Gilmore vs. Carrie Bradshaw, Hermione Granger vs. Serena van der Woodsen dilemma. We’re expected to be smart, quirky and cute, but there’s no denying the pressure to be beautiful, seductive and loads of carefree fun.

On Notre Dame’s campus, these personae collide just as they eventually did for the more conservative characters of our childhood. Rory, the sweet bookish teen on the WB’s old hit show Gilmore Girls, eventually rebelled and flew her scandalous flag. Harry Potter’s know-it-all Hermione coursed through puberty, and suddenly the jerseys were chasing her instead of vice versa.

Gossip Girl’s glamorous Serena van der Woodsen always commanded an audience among men, and Sex and the City’s Carrie Bradshaw was unashamedly focused on attracting male attention. An emphasis on drawing the eyes of the opposite sex exponentially multiplies in college, where hormones and hopes run high and wide.

At Notre Dame, we’re spiritual sisters by day, sorority sisters by night. The University expects us to be exemplary members of society. The reality of college calls us to be a pretty party in a petite package.

While strapping on our heels and heading out for the evening, we find ourselves asking, “Who will we be this time around? Rory and Hermione? Or Serena and Carrie?”

Girls just want to have fun. Cyndi Lauper knew what she was talking about then, and her words still ring true today. Being young and free is a blessing, and we don’t want to miss taking advantage of it.

But no one can deny that the pressure to be a femme fatale sometimes weighs just as heavily as those textbooks in our backpacks. It’s hard to find the balance, and it’s hard to discern if and when we really need to. For now, when it becomes too much to worry about, you can find us on the Feve dance floor.

Adriana Pratt of Carmel, Indiana, is majoring in political science, with a minor in journalism, ethics and democracy. She is an assistant managing editor at Notre Dame’s independent student-run paper, The Observer.

Shopping for me

2012-04-20T06:50:00-04:00

I live in fear of those cable television shows where they videotape some unsuspecting woman, stage a fashion intervention where all her friends and family tell her how awful she dresses, then throw away her entire wardrobe, give her lots of money to go buy new clothes and cut off her hair. I sometimes hear the hosts’ voices when I’m at the grocery store,

“Okay, so there she is getting out of her car, wait is that a car? It’s gigantic, it’s like a parking lot Titanic. How many kids does this woman have!”

“And she is wearing jeans, of course, I mean what else would she wear to the grocery store?”

“How big is that purse?”

“I think it’s bigger than her car.”

“What is that in her purse?”

“OMG, it’s a diaper!”

“She’s putting her wallet and her keys in a diaper bag — this woman uses a diaper bag as a purse. Really? Tell me, who does that?”

“And please tell me those are not . . .”

“Yes, they are.”

“. . . gym shoes.”

I did not always carry diapers in my gigantic purse. After graduating with my MBA, I spent an entire summer living at home, waiting tables, being insulted and saving money just to buy my wardrobe to go off to work in the big city.

Eventually I invested in a corporate wardrobe of expensive clothes that I didn’t buy with my waitressing tips but with my salary. The look was easy. It was a corporate look that was based on what my firm, my clients and my peers expected me to wear. And then I quit.

At home with my daughter I had no idea what to wear or if it mattered what I looked like. It was much easier for me to be fashionable when I was getting a lot more sleep and someone or something else was projecting what I should look like.

While watching those shows on cable television with the ambush in the parking lot, I worried that I had become frumpy and unfashionable. I realized my husband’s Chicago Bears pullover probably wasn’t the best choice to accentuate anything, but should I be wearing designer boots to the park? Were turtlenecks a truly terrible choice for my neckline while I was doing unmentionable things to the toilets with a scrubby brush?

Since I tend to worry about everything, including turtlenecks, occasionally I would venture to the mall and try to decide if I really wanted to make more of an effort, try to improve my look and wear skinny jeans and those tall black boots the other moms were wearing to pick up their kids from school.

On one of those trips to the mall I walked into a store I used to shop in all the time. It had been one of my absolute favorites when I worked downtown. I was drawn to a stunning suede jacket. A saleswoman asked if I’d like to try it on.

“Oh yes, please,” I answered.

As I admired myself in the store’s mirrors, my obvious first question was not “How much does it cost?” but “How do you clean it?”

“You don’t.”

“What do you mean you don’t clean it?”

“Well, it’s suede, you just brush it.”

“You just brush it?”

“Yes, you brush it.”

“Aren’t there any special cleaners?”

“No, you brush it.”

“With what?”

“A suede brush.”

“That will never work. Can you use water?”

“No, it’s suede, you brush it.”

Losing her patience because I could not get it through my head that there were things in this world you didn’t scrub with a scrubby brush, she asked, “What could you possibly get on it anyway?”

“Slobber, spit up, milk, goldfish mush [which I explained was mushed-up Goldfish crackers and Gatorade], black banana, marker, crayon, Hello Kitty lip gloss, possibly urine and vomit.”

The saleswoman took the jacket out of my hands, hung it back on the hanger, and got pretentious and said, “I don’t think this is the right jacket for you.”

Then she said, “Maybe you should just go to Sears.”

Yeah, maybe I should. Truthfully, I feel comfortable shopping for my clothes in stores that sell power tools and lawn furniture, where I can buy a new summer dress and a basic black T-shirt. At my life stage I no longer need, or want, suede jackets that can’t get peed on.

Recently, dressed up to go out to dinner with my husband, I walked down the stairs to the playroom to say good-night to our children. Our younger daughter jumped up and shouted, “Mommy, you’re beautiful, you look just like a princess!”

I used to carry a diaper bag for a purse. Now that my kids are out of diapers, my purse is still gigantic enough to hold all the stuff I want to keep in it, sanitizing wipes and a gallon of Sani Slime hand sanitizer for the inevitable trips to the public toilets, a roll of hockey tape, four Band-Aids, a wallet full of grocery store receipts, Matchbox cars, a pack of crayons, homework pencils and Cinderella, all dressed up to go to the ball where she’ll meet her prince and live happily ever after, wearing her gym shoes.

Maraya Steadman, who lives in a Chicago suburb, is a stay-at-home mother of three children. See her biweekly “The Playroom” column at magazine.nd.edu and at her website marayasteadman.com/. Email her at maraya@steadmans.org.

Style Points

2012-04-13T07:30:00-04:00

Any given Saturday during football season, the Hammes Notre Dame Bookstore is brimming with students, alumni, parents and friends looking for that perfect piece of Irish apparel.

Whether it’s The Shirt or the jersey of the season’s MVP, the options for fan gear seem endless. And with one walk across campus — game day or not — even a non-Domer will see the importance of ND-specific clothing.

But what happens when fashion makes its way onto the football field?

The Notre Dame football program has been synonymous with tradition for generations. From the gleaming gold helmets to a stadium intentionally void of a JumboTron, ND has made being classic a trend. Though green jerseys or special green accents have been utilized occasionally since the early 1900s, this football season saw changes that were more uniform — pun intended.

Celebrated former Notre Dame linebacker Maurice Crum Jr. ’08 described the new uniforms as “a great twist on a classic and a way to uphold the Irish tradition while being modern.”

The Irish first entered the world of style when they donned the “Under the Lights” throwback-style uniform for the Sept. 10, 2011, match-up against storied rival University of Michigan. The standard blue-and-white jerseys received some friendly competition from this adidas-designed version consisting of a white jersey with kelly green stripes paired with classic gold pants and the first shamrock-emblazoned helmet worn since the 1960s. Though the game ended in a heartbreaking loss, the uniforms remain a standout moment of the game in more ways than one.

Besides providing water cooler fodder for the following Monday, the uniforms also presented the University with a marketing opportunity by playing off of fans’ purchasing power and offering the retro-style jerseys for purchase.

The Irish pushed the bounds a little more a few weeks later when they descended on the Washington, D.C., area for the November 12 showdown against the Maryland Terrapins. This time, the Notre Dame helmets, gilded enough to rival the famous Dome, featured a shamrock design similar to that utilized for the Michigan game, but one writ larger in both size and flair. The helmet also displayed another deviation from the standard with a green facemask, a far cry from the traditional gray.

The uniform changes for this match-up were especially significant because they were the first displayed in a Shamrock Series contest. The neutral-site games in which the Irish face big-name opponents at even bigger-named venues will take the Irish to Chicago’s Soldier Field this fall for a (near) home game against the Miami Hurricanes, with a trip to Cowboys Stadium to face Arizona State the following year. Fans will be watching to see just how big and bold the team will get with its uniform tweaks and eye on style.

But is one shamrock-splattered helmet more than enough?

“I’m the biggest fan of the famous gold helmets . . . spray painted by students and then worn the next day at the game. They are the purest form of gold you’ll find on any athletic uniform,” stated SectionB blogger Alex McNamee. “And with the awful helmets [worn for the Maryland game], Brian Kelly is getting rid of that. . . . Respect tradition. Stick to it.”

However, the players seemed to enjoy the more brazen looks for the field. Some even took to Twitter and Facebook to playfully brag. Former Irish running back James Aldridge ’10 also enjoyed seeing something different on the field. “I like the new look because it is simple but has a modern touch,” he said. “It definitely feels like we have caught up with the times as far as our uniforms go.”

Some players went an extra step to pep their uniforms on their own. Kyle Brindza, Notre Dame’s freshman kicker, caused quite a stir with his electric-green cleats, which he described as a random bit of fashionable fate when he received one pair of purple and one pair of lime green cleats from Adidas.

Brindza told ESPN he saw “no other choice” when selecting his fancy footwear. “I wasn’t wearing . . . purple shoes.”

It is unlikely that Notre Dame will go as far afield as some universities have with future on-field looks, but perhaps some continued flair will add a (kelly green?) line or two to college football’s most storied program.

Amelia Thompson blogs about style at highendrearend.wordpress.com/.

This Man’s Style Guide

2012-04-13T07:15:00-04:00

The tastemakers work in offices above one of the busiest parts of America, so close to Times Square that cold January winds litter the balconies with confetti from the New Year’s celebration.

At more than 40 stories in the middle of Manhattan, the Condé Nast Building is not only an integral part of the New York City skyline, it’s where trends in fashion, culture and thought take shape.

The monolith itself provides one of the best games in media, where one takes an elevator and guesses which magazine each person will depart for: The New Yorker, Vanity Fair, Glamour. While waiting in a lobby near the office of Teen Vogue, my own people-watching predictions become boringly accurate, particularly with the women who are 10 years younger, 5 inches taller and 50 pounds lighter than I am.

My appointment lies at the other end of the hall, in the office with the giant abbreviation logo that is used as a noun, verb and adjective. Gentlemen’s Quarterly, better known as GQ, has been a pillar of the male style zeitgeist for decades and is stewarded by two Notre Dame graduates: editor-in-chief Jim Nelson ’85 and deputy editor Michael Hainey ’86.

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Notice the previous use of the word “style,” and not “fashion” — at GQ, it is an important distinction. Outside Nelson’s office is a piece of artwork that says, “Fashion fades, Style remains.”

“To me, that conjures other qualities we hold dear and want to celebrate,” Nelson says. “We are a men’s magazine that is trying to reach all facets of the stylish life for men . . . and kind of open doors for guys.”

The goal is summarized in a four-word slogan on each issue: Look Sharp, Live Smart.

“It is sort of those two missions. I think a person who considers and cares about style then cares about his place in the world, cares about taste, and that branches out into taste in good food, wine and travel,” Nelson says.

Down the hall from Nelson’s office, the mission of GQ stays the same for Hainey.

“Anyone can have ‘fashion.’ Money buys you fashion. . . . The clothes are one part of [style], it’s sort of the man’s character, who he is,” Hainey says. “It’s where you choose to travel, where you choose to eat, the books you read, and the ideas that you want to speak about and know about. Style is a way of being.”

At a remove from this conversation, the Condé Nast Building, or New York City, these statements can come off as breezily esoteric. But when put in the context of the actual magazine and these two men behind it — and when put into actual practice — it starts to make more sense.

Nelson and Hainey, after all, are personifications of their own magazine’s values: friendly, witty, genial and urbane, noticeably at ease with living in their own skin; Nelson sitting at a clear tabletop set upon sawhorses, rows and rows of books behind him; Hainey in an office defining modern minimalism, with bare white walls and few accoutrements; Nelson wearing dark jeans, a navy sweater with a large red stripe, and black shoes with a white accent running along the edge of the soles; Hainey in a dark pinstripe suit and wingtips, the button-down collar above his tie purposefully unbuttoned; both with slim builds and hair trimmed close on the sides and left longer on top.

They started the path to their current jobs in worlds decidedly more journalistic than runway. Nelson, an American studies graduate from Maryland, came to Notre Dame primarily for the study abroad program in Angers, France, and was an editor at Harper’s before working on features at GQ. Hainey, a Chicago native, studied literature in South Bend and began his career at the widely admired Spy magazine.

Hainey notes that in the past decade GQ has won more National Magazine Awards than any other Condé Nast publication and is second only to The New Yorker in prizes for its journalism.

“Style is one part of what I do here,” he says. “It’s one part of what GQ is.”

“That’s my love: great ambitious writing, literary journalism, and writing that affects people and sticks with them,” Nelson says. “I had to learn a lot very fast [after becoming editor-in-chief] because I didn’t know that much about the fashion. I didn’t know about the fashion world, I didn’t understand how the fashion pages were made here. . . . I took it as an intellectual task.”

The ties that bind

Not too long ago, the thought of being a member — nay, wanting to be a member — of a “Tie of the Month” club would have struck me as ludicrous.

That inclination started to change when I began regularly reading GQ.

Since graduating from Notre Dame almost eight years ago, I have gone from someone whose clothing decisions were based around which band to promote on his back to someone who attempts to make sure his collar, lapels and tie are as proportional as possible (and, in the current style, slim — but not too slim). In my college years, my clothes were mostly a personal statement on the merits of the Clash, R.E.M., Leonard Cohen and Notre Dame’s football team. Now, they are more of a preppy dissertation on corduroy and chambray, boat shoes and chukka boots, knit ties and tie bars.

And thanks to a birthday gift from my indulgent wife, I recently was part of the Tie Bar’s “Tie of the Month” club, personally choosing 12 ties on not only color and pattern but also on the fabric of said ties — silk, wool and cotton — and correlating it with the season. The only reason I was interested in this, and the only reason I knew the company even existed, was GQ.

Like Nelson and Hainey, my relationship with the magazine initially sprang from my interest in writing. By 2005, I had traded in the Midwest for a cramped studio near Lincoln Center to study journalism at Columbia University. Picking up GQ was a utilitarian decision; I chose an academic concentration in magazine writing and, frankly, just needed to read more magazines.

Plenty that I read regularly or semi-regularly at the time, such as Harper’s, The Atlantic and Vanity Fair, have all but disappeared from my monthly media diet, with the occasional online article being an exception. GQ, however, has been a mainstay with me for the better part of a decade. It’s a guidebook, influencing what I wear, watch and read. It’s why I thought to buy chunky brown wingtips, to rent the first season of Mad Men, to listen to Fleet Foxes and to read a new wave of fiction about hard times in rural America.

Not too long ago, the magazine would not have had the same appeal. For much of its more than 50-year history, GQ functioned as an insider publication for the fashion industry. It only branched into more general interest territory in the 1980s and 1990s under the late Art Cooper, Nelson’s famed predecessor. That was when GQ expanded from its niche role into long-form journalism and pop-culture content. Featured authors included David Halberstam, Andrew Corsello, James Ellroy and Gore Vidal.

“He wanted to make it wider, bigger, smarter,” says Nelson, who took over for Cooper in March 2003. “He made it a real mainstream American magazine.”

When Nelson first helmed the magazine after six years as its senior editor, he found his biggest task was to better integrate GQ’s clothing mission with the rest of its content.

“I thought men were becoming more aware of fashion and style and more willing to embrace it. So I didn’t need to apologize for that or hide it,” he says. “It felt a little bit like it had been ghettoized, and I needed to figure out a way to integrate it all.”

Hainey, who has been at GQ for 13 years, said over the last decade there has been a dramatic change in how much men are interested in style. He attributes some of it to a generation of men comfortable with their sexuality, some of it to the Internet explosion and its attendant expansion of the ability to view fashion trends and buy clothing from trending labels. The style search is also less intimidating as it continues to move beyond magazine pages, he says, and into places like NBA player press conferences.

“There has been an enormous revolution. . . . It’s this edited view of the world, this curated view of the world,” he says. “The flood of imagery and fashion bloggers and style bloggers and guys who are obsessed about the perfect shoes; if you really want to learn it, it’s like anything now, you can get really deep into it.”

A single New York City subway ride shows how much inspiration is available outside the runways: bright red boat shoe boots; overcoats with crisp military accents like epaulettes; blue and green corduroys; and a woman who can only be described as a living audition for a walk-on role in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Even at a distant remove in places like South Bend, a Twitter feed can be turned into a running photo gallery of style gurus mingling outside the latest Florence fashion show.

“My eye is always on. It’s not on in a critical way; it’s on in looking for ‘new,’” Hainey says. “The conversation is happening both ways. The street is influencing the runway as much as the runway is influencing the street.”

If anything, GQ’s role can be enhanced, not replaced, through this information flood by playing, to use Hainey’s term, a curative role amidst the digital flotsam.

“The magazine can sort of be like a big brother,” Nelson says.

At your service

In the front of each issue, a GQ reader will find a section, originated by Nelson, called “Manual.” With short, punchy text accompanying glossy pictures, it is a core part of what Nelson and Hainey term their “service” pieces.

“The magazine is aspirational and it’s instructional, and it’s also important to me that it’s never exclusionary,” Hainey says.

In December’s issue, Manual noted the utility of wearing fingerless wool gloves to stay stylish when temperatures drop low but texting stays high; how to take sartorial inspiration from action film costumes like Kurt Russell’s bomber jacket in The Thing; and three ways to “elevate your grilled cheese sandwich” with new ingredients. In January’s issue, the Manual endorsed a specific pair of boots for winter and discussed the merits of getaways to all-inclusive resorts.

“Men’s minds work that way. They want to scan, digest and act upon things,” Nelson says. “I wanted the magazine to be more clearly helpful and to do clever, modern service on a variety of fronts. I just think that men crave advice and guidance, and they look to magazines to give it to them.”

A linchpin of this approach is a running feature called “Project Upgrade,” which shows a man in his own clothes and makes just enough changes — a better fit in the suit, a shoe with a rounded rather than squared toe — to transform his appearance.

“What you really want is, ‘How do I do that?’” Hainey says. “We tweak it just a little bit, and often not for a lot of money. . . . It’s not night and day. It’s night and a better night.”

Over time, I have found the Manual to be indispensable. Given my chosen profession, learning to be discerning without bringing on bankruptcy is important, and the rules of good style apply no matter a price tag.

Example: more than anything, it’s necessary to know how clothes should fit. Over years as a political journalist, I received a daily visual dose of bad suits, bad pants, bad shoes, etc. We don’t all have to be waifs, but not all clothes have to fit like pajamas, either. There’s a good compromise, and I have found that a well-cut, $100 synthetic fiber suit from H&M that lies closer to the body both looks and feels superior to a baggy, $400 wool suit from Macy’s.

In the spirit of Nelson’s own fashion immersion, the style world also appeals to my journalistic and observational instincts. It is all about the details, whether it’s bright socks or a piped pocket square. Sometimes GQ’s suggested products will carry prices in the thousands, but you don’t have to buy that precise shirt or suit; instead, study the color or cut and search for a more affordable alternative. I confess to have smirked a little in a Paul Smith store in Soho when I saw a blazer listed for $950 in the “new season” section that was virtually identical to one I purchased from Land’s End Canvas last summer for about $50.

And as an ongoing student of American life and history, I find the recent trend away from European to American heritage styling particularly fascinating. New York City in January looked like it was full of people expecting to chop wood or tap a tree for syrup on the way to the Met. One morning the lobby of my hotel featured a man chattering on a cell phone in Italian while wearing an enormous buffalo plaid flap hat.

“It’s funny,” Hainey says, “the democratization of a trend.”

Regrets, they’ve had a few

I acknowledge that the more I have become interested in style, the more I have pondered the question of authenticity. Does simply buying a piece of clothing make it yours? Or is it nothing but a costume you choose to wear any day but Halloween?

Granted, these questions eventually devolve into an existential crisis over the meaninglessness of much, much more than whether a lapel should be 3 inches or 2-1/2 inches wide. It would also seem an illegitimate standard for style to have to be inherited, like a great wardrobe of family heirlooms, for acceptability. No less a man than George Washington spent a lifetime wrapped up in sartorial fastidiousness, special ordering his clothes from England, picking the uniforms for his personal guard, and, in the words of historian Ron Chernow, “regarding a person’s apparel as the outward sign of order.”

But as someone whose senior thesis was titled “Elvis Presley and the American Dream” and whose favorite book is The Great Gatsby, I do spend time considering the difficulties of fashioning the American male and defining one’s own identity. The trick seems to lie in making sure you don’t end up — metaphorically, of course — dead in your own pool.

We all have to be as discerning as possible and be willing to let go of clothes that don’t work. I jettisoned an ill-advised hat phase and have been relatively happy with the result. I am fully signed up for cardigans and loafers but dozens of photo spreads of double-breasted suits and turtlenecks still have me unconvinced.

Thankfully, GQ does have the guts to admit when it was wrong. There is an archive on the magazine’s website called “GQ Regrets,” and the collection of images is accompanied by a thanks to readers “for still looking to us for guidance, even after we told you it was cool to leave the house dressed like a sex-dungeon proprietor, or a Renaissance Faire pimp, or the distinguished ambassador from the Sovereign Nation of Polyestra.”

“No one is perfect. We all have pictures of ourselves, like, ‘Really? I was wearing that?’” Hainey says. “That’s why guys trust GQ.”

It’s a challenge that runs through the whole magazine, as it does any publication trying to negotiate its mission as a guide to style and culture while not becoming a slave to the moment. Making the magazine relevant to younger generations is important to Nelson, whose first cover had Johnny Knoxville of MTV’s Jackass fame. Nelson believed when he took over that the magazine needed to upgrade its icons and cultural references from the Rat Pack days of Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra.

“I was trying to do something different, and I knew some people would not like it,” he says. “That is something we talk about all the time, even so far as debating what is ‘nostalgia.’”

It’s a balancing act that can court controversy on occasion. GQ found itself in the crosshairs in late 2010 when it had a racy pictorial of some cast members of the hit show Glee, even though the actor and actresses pictured were well into their 20s. Nelson says he still finds the reaction mystifying, considering the age of the people involved and the wry sexual content of the Fox show itself. The photo spread is still available on GQ’s website.

“That kind of controversy can be good for a magazine,” he says. “I would never do something that I thought was purely outrageous or controversial, but it’s okay to provoke, and it’s okay to push boundaries sometimes.”

Hanging over it all, perhaps, is a question of permanence. “Fashion” and “style,” no matter the preferred term, can be used pejoratively, and the clothes within a magazine can be as fleeting as the movie promoted by the celebrity cover subject.

Hainey, however, is untroubled by the hourglass.

“The guy who professes more than anything that he doesn’t care about clothes, cares about clothes. You are making a choice,” he says. “How come all you wear are track suits and white shoes? You decided that’s your style.

“I don’t find it ephemeral,” he continues. “That style is at the root of it all — stylish writing, stylish thinking.”

That reaction makes sense at GQ. The magazine’s very mission is tied to the idea that what you wear is as much a part of who you are as the music you listen to, the books you read and the food you eat. It’s not a transitory lifestyle, it’s a lifestyle dedicated to the search for what is appealing. As journalists, it’s not surprising Nelson and Hainey — or, if I may be excused a moment of ego, myself — are willing to try and live their lives as a sweeping flashlight.

“Journalists love to observe . . . and grab that thing and start to describe it and what it means,” Hainey says. “You are signing up for the idea of being a carnivore. You are automatically saying you are going to keep expanding your mind.”

Living the life

I mulled these thoughts in the waning afternoon as I wandered around Soho and Tribeca. By taking along GQ’s own travel guide to New York City, I hoped to get a better sense of the magazine’s aspirations, and I idly wandered through stores that looked like a basement from a Maine summer home, with $28 socks sitting next to carved trinkets and books about bird watching. I also spent some time in Uniqlo, a store by an up-and-coming label that felt like a dystopian fever dream, complete with enough pastel clothing to coordinate an entire wardrobe with sherbet flavors.

At first it was a dislocating experience, akin to a confirmation of the authenticity problem. I wasn’t living a lifestyle, I was passing through it. And it didn’t feel that enjoyable, amid the ransacking of Uniqlo’s discount racks or the “I don’t think he’s buying anything” stares of downtown clerk cognoscenti.

I felt a click around nightfall, though, when I settled into Spitzer’s Corner, a gastropub recommended by the magazine and located at Rivington and Ludlow streets on the Lower East Side. If there was ever a bar designed for a cold January day, this was it, with a warm, wood interior and a plate-glass window revealing people going home or out to shop.

While eating dinner, I started to understand what Nelson, Hainey and GQ want for their readers. Not just my dark leather boots, charcoal herringbone pants, light gray jacket, red Fair Isle sweater, white spread-collar shirt and navy tie; not just a braised pork belly sandwich and a Maine microbrew on draft; not just a perfect view of a winter sunset over the tenements that is accompanied by the sounds of George Harrison’s “My Sweet Lord.”

They want readers to have it all.

And in that moment, I definitely didn’t feel “fashionable.”

I felt stylish.

Liam Farrell is this magazine’s alumni editor. Email him at lfarrell@nd.edu.

Cafe Choice: creative work by Notre Dame people

2012-04-03T08:20:00-04:00

The Kings of Tharsis: Medieval and Renaissance Music for Epiphany, Schola Antiqua of Chicago, Michael Alan Anderson ’97, director. (Discantus Recordings). The ensemble performs songs ranging from plainchants to six-voice motets, chiefly by 16th century composers, all celebrating the feast of Epiphany. The album features music that previously had not received a modern recording. Full texts, translations and previews of the songs on this 10-track CD can be found at chicagochant.org.

Pray for Rain, Mutts (Mutts Music). This first full-length album by the rock ’n’ roll band with attitude, with lyrics by Mike Maimone ’04, is dedicated to “the protesters on Wall St. who have inspired people of all races, faiths & political affiliations to unite.” The trio of Maimone, keyboard/vocals; Bob Buckstaff, bass; and Chris Faller, drums, is described by Time Out Chicago as “Like Tom Waits fronting a garage band.” Songs from the 11-track album can be downloaded at muttsmusic.com.

God Bless America, University of Notre Dame Band, directed by Dr. Kenneth Dye. This celebration of the band’s 166th year and 124th football season is available both as a CD and a DVD. Among the highlights from its 2011 season are the band’s halftime show with the music group Chicago and its performance on the front lawn of the U.S. Capitol Building. Along with popular hits performed by the group, traditional school songs are also included. The CD and the DVD can be ordered at web.band.nd.edu/catalog/.

Discover Christ: Developing a Personal Relationship with Jesus, Bert Ghezzi ’69Ph.D. and Dave Nodar (Our Sunday Visitor). “What is the meaning of life?” “Why does Jesus matter?” “Why is the Resurrection important to us?” Through personal stories, scripture and testimonies, the authors guide readers through a series of pivotal questions that invite them to embrace the answer found in the New Testament. They conclude with a look at “Community and Sacraments: Why We Need the Church.”

Windfall Nights, William Claypool ’72 (iUniverse). A novel of redemption, the story follows Julian, a fifth-year college senior, and Thomas, a handyman Julian meets at his part-time job as a night bellman at a second-rate hotel. The two men later go their separate ways, but each arrives in Saigon at the height of the Vietnam War, where Julian is pursuing his career as a journalist and Thomas is following his destiny.

Here Lies Hugh Glass: A Mountain Man, A Bear, and the Rise of the American Nation, Jon T. Coleman (Hill and Wang). In 1823, trapper Hugh Glass was nearly killed by a grizzly bear, and two members of his company eventually abandoned the dying man. Glass then crawled 200 miles to safety and sought revenge on those two men. Coleman, a ND associate professor of history, here looks at the myth that grew around this frontier man and discusses how such tales of Western survival contributed to building the idea of American exceptionalism.

The Harrisburg 7 and the New Catholic Left, William O’Rourke (University of Notre Dame Press). The religious antiwar protests of the Vietnam War era form the background of this reprint, which brings to life the 1972 trial of seven anti-war activists who were accused of conspiring to raid federal offices, bomb federal property and kidnap presidential adviser Henry Kissinger. The 40th anniversary edition features a new afterword by the author, a ND professor of English, that includes a history of the new Catholic Left for the past four decades.

Attack of the Theocrats: How the Religious Right Harms Us All — and What We Can Do About It, Sean Faircloth ’82 (Pitchstone Publishers). This country’s founding principle of the separation of church and state is at risk, the author writes, as “our present descent toward theocracy and the privileging of religion in law unjustly harms us in multiple ways.” He discusses how religious bias can, for example, hurt our children, since religious child-care centers in some states are exempt from safety regulations. He ends with “a patriotic plan to reclaim America.”

Contested Illnesses: Citizens, Science, and Health Social Movements, edited by Phil Brown, Rachel Morello-Frosch, Stephen Zavestoski ’94, and the Contested Illnesses Research Group (University of California Press). Health social movements are at the forefront of promoting social and policy changes to address such factors as environment and ecological health. Here essayists examine such issues as “Air toxics exposures and health risks among schoolchildren in Los Angeles”; “Women’s experience of household chemical exposure”; and “The public paradigm of the environmental breast cancer movement.”

Undisputed: Notre Dame, National Champions 1966, Mark O. Hubbard ’72 (Vantage Press). Avid football fans still debate Coach Ara Parseghian’s decision to kick a field goal rather than go for a winning touchdown in the Nov. 19, 1966, 10-10 tie game between ND and Michigan State — which played to a TV audience of 33 million, at the time the largest TV sports audience ever. The author here covers the players, coaches and the details of that famous game and the winning 1966 season, which resulted in a national championship for the Notre Dame football team.

Café choice web extra

God’s Icebreaker: The Life and Adventures of Father Ted Hesburgh of Notre Dame, Jill A. Boughton and Julie Walters (Corby Books). Written especially for young readers, this biography of Father Ted, who served as president of Notre Dame from 1952 to ’87, tells stories of the priest who dedicated his life to the Catholic Church, higher education, civil rights and world peace. A timeline and a series of black-and-white pictures round out the text.

Beat Yesterday: A Business Novel, Dan Coughlin ’85 (BookBaby). How does a business sustain success over the long term? The author, an executive coach, focuses on how an individual’s behavior impacts short-term and long-term results. Its practical insights are part of a fictional story of two men struggling to stay true to their purpose at work. The business novel is available in two e-book formats — one for Kindle and the other for iPad, Nook, Sony Reader and other devices.

Blind Spot: War and Christian Identity, Dorothy Garrity Ranaghan ’66M.A. (New City Press). A founding member of People of Praise, a charismatic, ecumenical Christian covenant community, the author here discusses the complex subject of war and violence. Stanley Hauerwas, professor of theological ethics at the Divinity School of Duke University, writes, “Dorothy Ranaghan helps us see the difference the Holy Spirit can make for how we as a Church can be an alternative to war.”

Litigation and Prevention of Insurer Bad Faith, 3d, Dennis J. Wall ’73 (West Publishing). This two-volume resource explains the rules of insurance bad faith law and offers examples of state and federal complaints and answers as well as bad faith law developments from every U.S. jurisdiction. It also includes sample correspondence between the insured, insurer and counsel and a look at future expectations about bad faith law.

Cicero’s Practical Philosophy, edited by Walter Nicgorski (University of Notre Dame Press). The nine contributors’ essays here focus on a discussion of the key moral virtues that shaped Cicero’s ethics, as well as on many of his primary writings. It features Nicgorski’s seminal essay, “Cicero and the Rebirth of Political Philosophy.” The editor is a professor in Notre Dame’s program of liberal studies and a concurrent professor of political science.

Law, Person and Community: Philosophical, Theological, and Comparative Perspectives on Canon Law, John J. Coughlin, OFM (Oxford University Press). Father Coughlin, a Notre Dame law professor, probes the relationship between canon law, theology and natural law. He addresses how canon law relates to current issues in legal theory, including the right of religious freedom for individuals and communities.

European Transformations: The Long Twelfth Century, edited by Thomas F.X. Noble and John Van Engen (University of Notre Dame Press). Part of the Notre Dame Conferences in Medieval Studies series, this collection showcases essays by 19 medievalists. The contributors address such topics as feudalism, women’s roles in medieval society, and Jewish and Muslim communities, with a look at England and France, Scandinavia, Iberia and Eastern Europe. The editors are both history professors at Notre Dame.

My Life in Clothes

2012-04-03T07:30:00-04:00

I should confess straightaway that I don’t know much about fashion, but I know a whole lot about clothes. I have been wearing them almost daily for as long as I can remember.

At the beginning, of course, my mother dressed me. I was dressed like most boys are, and I came to appreciate the practical functionality of clothing — how it keeps your body warm in winter and that long pants (even in summer) protect the skin against stickers and bug bites and sliding into second. I learned, too, that certain body parts are to remain covered at all times — at least when walking around in public — and about the difference between play clothes and school clothes and Sunday clothes and that clothing without holes is essential in certain social situations.

Clothes are important, I ascertained, and we dress in different outfits for the roles we play, the places we go, the company we keep. As a boy growing up in Louisiana with a bias for bare feet, I was taught you can judge the character of a man by the shoes he wears.

I learned other things as well from my mother, who believed in the importance of good grooming and physical appearances and making the proper impression on people who would judge my character by the clothes I wore. Some teachings I shed like last year’s color palette and yet other lessons echo in my brain to this day — for example, when to put away the white pants, shoes and belt (after Labor Day) and how a gentleman always carries a handkerchief and always travels with a suit and tie (to be ready for any occasion).

The handkerchief rule I amended in adulthood, opting instead to carry a durable bandanna in my back pocket. The uses are surprisingly numerous (like the pocketknife my father carried), and this accessory is intended not as a fashion statement but as a personal reminder. Pulling a bandanna from my pocket connects me to my cowboyish childhood and to backpacking trips that keep me grounded in the earthy authenticity of enduring, elemental creation. Seriously. When I am faced with frightening prospects — boarding an airplane, speaking in public, my father’s funeral — I steady myself by wiping my leaking palms and brow with that talisman rag that evokes dusty trails, cold rock and star-filled skies.

My mother, who would squirm in her grave to hear that news, didn’t deserve the rumply son she got. She is innocent of any blame that I look and dress the way I do. She tried her darndest to refine my tastes and attire, giving me modish shirts, an argyle sweater vest and a seersucker suit for summers in the South. The stuff just wasn’t me, and what we wear usually fits best when it’s a reflection of who we are.

The good woman even dragged me along with my aunt and older sister when they pilgrimaged to Dallas for a day of shopping at Neiman Marcus, ignoring my pouty disdain for the marketplace of elegance and show. We would lunch at The Zodiac, the iconic store’s haute tea room, gorgeous, sinewy models going table to table showing off their chic drapings and adornments — a miserably withering scenario for a budding boy immersed in puissant femininity.

The mortification was only amplified by the fact I would be wearing the on-loan, periwinkle-blue blazer assigned any male who had failed the dress code by daring to dine without a sports jacket. Each trip I belligerently refused to dress up for this exhibition of good taste, and each trip I sulkily put on the scarlet-letter cape that announced “chump.” I suspect the discomfort I feel today at dinner tables requiring a coat and tie can be traced to these stifling luncheons of dainty food and high fashion. Thank God the nation has adopted a more casual stance toward restaurant wear.

The weird thing is this: Whenever I strap on a jacket and tie, I feel like that same little boy dragged before the grown-ups, dressed up for church or a wedding, totally and awkwardly out of my comfort zone. Still. Today. Old enough to know better. Flushed out of my element by the clothes I put on. All twitchy, bound and constricuted. What’s with that?

An invitation imposes itself on me and the immediate thought is whether or not it’s a coat-and-tie affair. It can be a real dilemma. You want to be comfortable, but if you’re not dressed properly, you feel even more uncomfortable — like an outcast at a private club, a galoot at the ball. But if you dress up and everyone else dresses less formally, you feel out of it, like a clueless, tweedy stuffed-shirt lost in time. Totally unhip.

One of the profound humiliations of my life was attending a New Year’s Eve party as a high school freshman at the cute girl’s house with all the popular kids, me wearing a wool three-piece suit because my mother — wrongly, very wrongly — insisted everyone would be dressed up, after all, everyone dresses up for a New Year’s Eve party. I never recovered from this embarrassment.

I don’t typically spend much time anymore weighing wardrobe options. My big decision each day is which shirt to wear with my khakis. I suppose my discomfort would be different if my day job required a coat and tie. I did that in high school. Through four years at an all-male, Catholic high school, I wore the standard-issue vestments: gray slacks, blue blazer, regimental-striped tie and an oxford-cloth shirt in white or blue.

So I’ve done my time in a coat and tie, and felt very grown up doing so. Mature at 16. Superior to my public-school friends shuffling to school in denim, flannel and leather, their shirttails hanging out. Maybe I got that out of my system. Or maybe I OD’ed at an impressionable stage. Maybe, given the Woodstockian era in which I came of age, the coat and tie came to symbolize the costume conformity of corporate sameness, The Man and Babbitt’s America. The necktie as individuality’s noose.

Adventuring off to college, I set out to create my own distinct look by dressing like most everyone else around me — blue jeans, plaid flannel shirts, desert boots and a blue jean jacket I wore throughout the South Bend winters, eschewing any sense of the practical functionality of clothing I had learned as a toddler. I shivered — ruggedly, stoically — from building to building, but am confident I looked pretty cool once inside — perhaps could be mistaken for a Creedence Clearwater Revival roadie or (on a blue workshirt day) a slouchy, soulful, enigmatic philosopher-poet.

That was the persona I sought to present to the world back then. And we all — even those who brush aside couture or rebel against conventional fashion — dress for a part, choose a style, a look, a get-up that makes a statement about us. Even when we dress to blend in, our clothing speaks of our identity, expresses the inner self. Dapper, grungy, preppy, countercultural? Stylin’, J. Crew, goth or walking billboard for a brand? Aeropostale. North Face. Gap. Old Navy. If we dress to make a personal statement public, to show who we are, what does it say about us when we put a corporate logo across our chest?

I am standing by the window, talking to a student from Alaska. She is artsy: spiky, hennaed hair, facial piercings, tattoos and lots of black — banded in thick leather, accented with silver studs. Out the window I spy a team of corporate interviewers exiting the University’s career center. They are dressed — both male and female — in assorted shades of gray. Uniformly monochromatic. Sharply tailored, snappily pressed, white shirts and ties. Seniors — similarly attired, hoping to make a favorable professional impression — accompany them. Some wear trenchcoats, still crisp with newness and belted smartly at the waist.

I see what we all see when a politician removes his jacket, rolls up his sleeves and loosens his tie when he courts voters in a Pennsylvania steel town or Iowa diner. “See, I am one of you.”

Other students hurry by. They are dressed like students — baggy, disheveled, wired, Ugg booted, Coach bagged, Abercrombie and Fitched. They belong to the team. They’ve joined the club. They wear the uniform.

There are many reasons we dress as we do, but none is more important than associating with a tribe. Call it Tribal Wear. From Amish elder to ghetto rapper, from football fan to fashionista, from bohemian nonconformist to Versace-toting social climber, we dress with our clan, wear the team colors, align with the tribe we want to be part of — association by the clothes we wear, the things we carry.

These loyalties can often outstrip comfort and common sense . . . or why else would one wear 6-inch heels, pantyhose, a denim jacket in winter or blue jeans with holes in them?

I am a college freshman home for Christmas. I have a favorite old pair of jeans riddled with holes. So I have gathered scraps from other jeans, a favorite shirt, a peace sign snared from a head shop like a merit badge or military patch. I am sewing these onto the jeans, proud of my dexterity with needle and thread, my anti-materialistic frugality and my intimacy with the character of fondly worn things. But my mother (probably still miffed that I seemed only politely lukewarm toward the pine-green corduroy slacks she gave me for Christmas) wants to know what I’m doing. I explain what must certainly be obvious: I’m patching the holes in my jeans.

“You’re doing what?” She rockets from puzzled to pissed in a heartbeat.

It’s not that big a deal, I say. I love these old jeans. Besides, everybody I know has old jeans they’ve patched. But my appeal to her Tribal Wear sensibilities, to dress like my friends up north, is holding no traction with her. The eruption is now full force.

She and my father sweated and sacrificed for a lifetime so their children wouldn’t have to wear clothes with holes in them. Why even in the Depression, when they didn’t know where their next meal was coming from, they didn’t go out in public looking like some ragamuffin, wearing clothes with holes in them. No child of mine, she went on, is going to walk around town with patches on their clothes like some old hobo or bum. What would your father say, having worked all his life to provide you and your sister good, nice clothes so you’d fit in with the right kind of people? And now you sewing patches on your clothes. . . .

Her tirade only got worse when she learned the jeans I was patching (I regrettably revealed this for its sentimental value, thinking — mistakenly — that establishing a bond with family friends would help bail me out of this verbal shelling) were actually hand-me-downs from Jimmy Walker — “MY GOD, Margaret Walker’s son!” — getting worse yet again, when I said, yes, Jimmy didn’t want them anymore because of the holes. “Margaret WALKER!”

We clearly stood on opposite sides of the chasm. She only cared about what other people thought, and I grasped the principle at stake here, a self-defining generational statement about mass consumption and materialism and conformity and a cultural ethos being transformed by my generation — a cohort to which I demonstrated allegiance by wearing my authentically patched jeans to validate my tribal standing.

As I say, she and I had many such disagreements until she mellowed, outgrowing her intolerant attitude toward wardrobe and lifestyle. It was she, after all, who gave me the blue-jean jacket I wore like a monk’s robe till it grew tattered and threadbare over time. It hurt to let it go.

That is something else important about clothing. A jacket, a shirt or sweater, a pair of jeans or boots acquires character over time, or is meaningful because of its history. I believe in the souls of inanimate objects, in spirits coming to inhabit the things we love. So it has been hard at times to part with an article of clothing, a pair of hiking boots, a sweater that’s been worn into shabbiness.

I bond with the things I wear. We go through life together, loyal and constant companions; they are what I walk around in, work in, play in. I dress for comfort, I say — like everyone else — pulling on what feels right, the way it feels on my shoulders or skin when I move around in it. It’s an intuitive thing. And I am sad when the soles wear out, the collar frays, the jeans get ragged. I miss them like I miss an old friend who’s going away. If that sounds weird, so be it. By now I know what a romantic I am, how sentimental I can be. And I know which clothes in my closet help me feel like me, keep me true to myself, make me feel right. That’s worth something in the world today.

My father wore a white shirt to work every day. A fedora and a tie and one of several sports jackets. He had a closet full of suits. I would follow him to his bedroom when he came home from work each day. He would undress — a man of deliberate ritual, a keeper of details — folding and hanging, his shoes lined up neatly in his closet. He was an accountant. He worked for a large corporation and he wore a lapel pin announcing his years of service with the company.

When he retired, he continued to wear a jacket and tie most days, dressing that way even when visiting me on vacation in South Bend. It was who he was, how he identified himself, how he presented himself to the world. That’s what the men of his generation and profession did, what they wore. He felt secure in that, felt right.

As time went on and the years went by, he loosened up some (sports jacket, no tie), dressing more casually day to day — into his 70s then deep into his 80s, into frail and bedridden times and back out again, then eventually into the early stages of Alzheimer’s. And yet, when he was 89 and my mother was in the hospital for an extended stay, with me taking my sister’s place caring for him at home for a couple of weeks and taking him to the hospital to sit with his wife, he returned to old habits.

He was stepping out again, going to see my mom, wanting to look his best for her and the doctors and hospital staff who just might judge a man by his shoes, his style, by the clothes he wore. She was the woman, after all, who had sent the country boy home when he arrived for their first date because he showed up in cowboy boots.

Dressing for our hospital visits, I steered him toward more casual attire. He was now a man who needed help dressing himself, adjusting the undergarments, making sure he wore pants — and a shirt (not a pajama top). But sometimes, even when I’d gotten a sports shirt on him, I’d find him with a clean white dress shirt on top of it all, and him looping a tie around his neck.

He still remembered how to tie a tie. And fingers that fumbled over zippers, shoelaces and buttons worked with supple precision when working a tie into the crease of the collar, measuring out the balance between its wide and narrow end, then deftly tying the knot, cinching it to his throat, snugly tugging the bow on the package he had just wrapped for his bride of 50 years, the woman who never got over how handsome he looked in uniform on his wedding day, a GI just home from the war. “How’s it look?” he asked.

“You look great,” I said. And meant it.

That’s the other important thing about clothes. We wear them to look good. And often — but surely not always — we dress to be physically attractive, or at least appeal to those whose eye and heart we’d like to catch. We’d like to turn heads, come across as good-looking or handsome, interesting or fetching. We dress to make the right impression, to enhance the appearances nature provided.

The strategies may differ between male and female, but the desired effect — beneficial to the human race — is a drawing together, a mutual attraction, a kind of subliminal magnetism. Sex appeal, to be blunt, helps make the world go ’round.

There’s a great deal of truth, I think, in the theories of sociobiology and the writings of anthropologist Desmond Morris. It’s fun — and fascinating — to interpret the social behaviors of the human species through such a lens, watching how we dress as predator and prey, mimicking the ritual displays of plumage and prowess.

It was a woman who first told me that women dress mainly as a statement to other women but also to exert power over men. Though startled by the candor, I knew immediately what she meant . . . because I’m well aware of the mysterious power of female beauty and the surprising allure in the cut of a skirt, the fit of a dress, the flagrant yet basic charm of a T-shirt with jeans. If women dress to accentuate the lure of visual cues, I suppose men dress to exude strength and success, to declare their status among peers, perhaps to signal a sense of being in control. A man who looks like he knows what he’s doing has a nice head start when auditioning as a good catch to those seeking a mate. At least that’s what I surmise from the glaring models in men’s fashion magazines.

My life in clothes, though, is proof that I am much less aware of what looks good on a man than a woman. At this point in life I have given up wanting to be noticed; my fashion sense these days says just try to look nice. But I am grateful to all who help beautify the world, or make it more interesting, more fun, more tasteful or zesty — by the way they have come dressed for the party.

Kerry Temple is editor of this magazine, where coat and tie is optional.

Leading Man

2012-04-03T07:30:00-04:00

Following Thom Browne’s January fashion show in Paris, The Washington Post mused that it had divined his inspirations: “preppy style, S&M, and possibly, the TV show The Munsters.”

And Browne ’88, one of the pre-eminent names in men’s clothing, certainly did put the “show” into fashion show this year. Models paraded down the runway with exaggerated shoulders or spiked masks, donning pastel pink and green suits, and clothes dotted with ducks, dogs and safety pins.

Whereas some people might see his recent show only as the early costuming for “Nightmare on Martha’s Vineyard,” GQ saw “wearable looks beneath the grandeur: neat scarves and ties, a tipped navy blazer, nautical sweaters, and dependably smart shoes, in particular, proved that no matter the shape, it’s all about fit.”

Browne is most associated with a gray-suiting style reminiscent of the 1950s and ’60s, with shrunken jackets and trademark trousers that flash plenty of ankle.

“The core of my collection begins with the basic gray suit that I have become known for, but my intention is to create collections that provoke people’s minds and to make people think,” Browne said recently via email. “But every season I try to do something different.”

Browne won the 2010 Most Influential Designer in Menswear Award at the WGSN Global Fashion Awards. He has a high-profile collaboration with the iconic Brooks Brothers label, and Michael Hainey ’86, deputy editor of GQ, believes Browne was a key part of America’s recent resurgence on the international style scene.

“It was so new to the eye: ‘Yeah, that’s what a man should look like right now,’” Hainey said. “For a long time, American style, American fashion, was following the Europeans.”

Despite the volume and rapidity injected into the clothing world by the Internet, Browne maintains a distance from magazines, blogs and the work of other designers.

“I just concentrate on my own collections,” he said. “I don’t follow trends. My intention is to make people realize that one does not have to feel confined to trends.”

Browne has said before that in our current dressed-down culture, suits are anti-Establishment. Not surprisingly, then, his own definition of style is “someone who has confidence.”

“But I do believe that one is what one wears. It should reflect that person’s individuality,” he said. “They need to figure out what works for them, and have the confidence to stick to it.”

Liam Farrell is this magazine’s alumni editor. Email him at lfarrell@nd.edu.

Live! From New York! It’s Fashion Week!

2012-04-03T07:15:00-04:00

Twice a year the world’s most stylish people descend on New York for seven days of runway shows, people-watching and elbow-rubbing with many of Hollywood’s fashion icons. But what really happens during Fashion Week? Arienne Thompson ‘04, a Washington, D.C.-based fashion and celebrity reporter at USA Today, provides an insider’s look at what it’s like to be a journalist covering one of the most hectic and thrilling fashion events of the year. This is her diary from the Spring/Summer 2012 collections (shown in September 2011), live from New York.

Saturday, September 10

Rise and shine! I’m up at the crack of dawn to catch the 6:30 a.m. Bolt Bus from Union Station in D.C. to midtown Manhattan. I hope I can catch some beauty sleep during my four-hour trip, since I’ll have to hit the ground running — and likely in stilettos.

I arrive in the city around 10:30 and don’t have much time to spare before the 11 a.m. Jill Stuart show. Fortunately, NONE of these shows ever starts on time, so at least I have that working for me. Luckily, I breeze through early check-in at the hotel, change quickly, slap on some makeup and am out the door by 11 on the dot. The weather is gorgeous, and if I weren’t in such a hurry, I’d walk the dozen blocks from my hotel at 54th and 7th to Lincoln Center.

Instead I catch the first of many cabs of the week, dash inside the Tent — stopping briefly to take a photo with stylist/reality star Brad Goreski — and make it to my seat just in time to see Stuart’s quilted, Palm Springs-inspired collection. Sitting front row? Kim Kardashian’s now-ex hubby Kris Humphries. He looks as bored — and as huge — as one would think.

Stuart’s macaroon-inspired color palette has made me hungry, but first I push my way backstage to do a quick interview with the designer, who despite being dressed in the all-black uniform of NYC tastemakers says she avoided using the dark hue on the runway for the first time ever.

Lunch is a gigantic hamburger with fries (models might not eat, but journalists do) and after a quick check of the hotel mail for a few hard copy invitations and another wardrobe change, I head downtown for the Christian Siriano show.

Non-fashionistas may remember Siriano’s fierce creations from Season 4 of Project Runway. I’m obsessed with the citrine maxi skirt he opens with and am pleased to spot his former mentor and Runway host Heidi Klum front row, looking mind-bogglingly perfect. Also in the house? Kanye West’s ex-fiancée Alexis Phifer, who cuts a tough figure in a black jumpsuit.

There’s not much time to spare, as I’m expected at Pier 94 for Alexander Wang’s hot-ticket show in about 30 minutes, but I do find an extra minute for a few air kisses with a friend and fellow fashion writer, who excitedly tells me about her new gig at Glamour magazine.

Fast-forward a half-hour and I’m marveling at the cavernous space that is Pier 94. Unfortunately, I’m also marveling at the lack of air conditioning. Bleh. Alexander Wang’s futuristic sporty collection makes the sweat worth it though. Overarching theme: Biker girls from the year 2035.

I finally have time for a breather at my hotel, where I build and write the day’s Fashion Week photo gallery for usatoday.com and gear up for a busy night that includes swinging by Midtown to catch part of the Notre Dame-Michigan game. I draw several blank stares from my friend John McQuade ’04 when I complain loudly and repeatedly about having to leave the game watch at Public House to head waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay downtown for a date with Heidi Klum. “Boo-hoo,” he says sarcastically as I bounce out around halftime to catch a cab.

Twenty minutes later, I’m ushered upstairs to a green room inside the Suspenders Building where QVC is throwing a party to celebrate Klum’s new jewelry line. For the interview, I sit on the couch with Her Klumness and gab about jewelry, her children and her rocking nail polish. She tries on my neon-yellow purse, cementing our status as instant best friends.

It’s midnight by the time I get back to my hotel, where I write and publish my Klum interview and gather my invites for tomorrow’s shows: Victoria Beckham, Tracy Reese and Gwen Stefani’s L.A.M.B. Nighty night!

Sunday, September 11

It feels strange to be wrapped up in the fashion world on a day like this. Just miles from my hotel, the families of victims of the 9/11 tragedies from a decade ago are remembering their loved ones at an emotional ceremony being televised throughout the nation. The specter of terrorism — both past and future — has been looming over the city for weeks. Fortunately, my editor has ensured that I have a short day that won’t send me all over the city and into possible danger.

By 8:45 a.m. I’m standing on the steps of the New York Public Library in a faux leather T-shirt and a white eyelet skirt waiting to gain entry into the Victoria Beckham show. The former Spice Girl is a true lady, serving pre-brunch drinks in the lobby of the awe-inspiring library before we’re all directed to our seats. She shows a surprisingly sporty collection, complete with patent leather baseball caps.

When it’s all over, I attempt to fight the post-show crush in an effort to briefly interview Mrs. Beckham, but it’s hopeless. That is, until I squint through the atmospheric dark and finally realize that the slight Brit who’s been yammering away right next to me is V.B. herself. I only manage a question or two, including, “Where’s [newborn daughter] Harper?” (resting backstage, FYI) before her handlers insist that all spectators clear the hall. Oh well.

I have a deliciously long break until the 2 o’clock Tracy Reese show, but because of heightened security throughout the city, I head back to the hotel and use the time to catch up on email, write up the morning’s shows in the photo gallery, grab a bite to eat and organize my invitations for the rest of the day.

Next stop: Tracy Reese inside the Studio at the Tent at Lincoln Center. Reese, who’s one of my all-time faves, proves she’s ready for spring with candy-colored platform sandals and leather and lace shorts. Backstage I steal a few minutes with her, take a photo, and a few minutes later run into actress Angela Bassett, who tells me I’m “just the cutest thing ever.”

Okay, I can officially die and go to heaven now!

After my lovefest with Ms. Bassett — who’s starring with Samuel L. Jackson in my playwright friend Katori Hall’s Broadway debut, The Mountaintop — I swing over to the Box inside the Tent to catch Gwen Stefani’s consistently funky Rasta-meets-skater L.A.M.B. presentation. Unlike a traditional runway show, a presentation is like a fashion museum. Models stand throughout a room while displaying a designer’s clothes. They are photographed, pointed at and made to suffer in excruciatingly painful shoes (often for more than an hour), all in the name of style. In fact, I saw one of the L.A.M.B. models literally crying backstage as hair stylists installed her extensions. Beauty is pain, right?

After L.A.M.B. I’m done for the day, minus the writing I have to do, and feeling a bit somber and pensive because of the 9/11 anniversary. I call my parents, grab a salad for dinner and hole up in my hotel for the evening to count my blessings, among other things, on this emotional day.

Monday, September 12

One of my favorite designers, Tory Burch, ensures that today feels like a true Monday morning with her 8 a.m. welcome breakfast at her new flagship store on Madison Avenue. One jaw-dropping step after another introduces me to her latest gem, a converted townhouse decked out in her signature orange lacquer walls, endless vases of hydrangeas and one room wrapped practically floor-to-ceiling in purple ikat fabric. I’d live here if I could, but instead of bedding down in one of the changing rooms, I take my gift bag and head to Avery Fisher Hall for Rachel Roy’s presentation.

Roy, a rising style star and designer for Macy’s, has installed her models on the terrace of the hall, and after a few minutes of note-taking, I find myself standing next to world-renowned makeup artist Bobbi Brown. She introduces herself (as if I don’t know who she is) and asks if I’ve ever modeled. I tell her I’m too short, but she counters, saying I might be perfect for a beauty campaign she’s working on featuring real-life women. Inside, I’m frantically doing cartwheels, but my exterior is calm and cool as I give her my card and say it sounds like a great opportunity.

I’m still pinching myself when one of the ubiquitous street-style photographers asks to take a photo of me in my mustard yellow sweater, kelly green chinos and black wide-brimmed fedora before I leave the presentation. Best. Day. Ever.

I meet up with my editor down at the Lincoln Center fountain and relay my Bobbi Brown story, but she doesn’t believe me. I’m tempted to yell up to the terrace to get Bobbi’s attention as proof, but think better of it as I instead make my way to the roof of the Empire Hotel across the street for a manicure and lunch compliments of Victoria’s Secret.

After soaking up some sun atop the Empire as I wait for my nails to dry, I hop a cab down to my favorite restaurant, Cafeteria, in Chelsea. I’m feeling so good after my wedge salad and truffle fries that I foolishly decide to walk the eight blocks and four avenues to the Cedar Lake Contemporary Ballet studio for the Donna Karan show at 2 o’clock.

By the time I get in line for the show, I’m on the verge of being a sweaty mess, but somehow my already perfect day gets a little better when famed fashion photographer Bill Cunningham snaps a photo of me. (My editor didn’t believe that one either!) Karan’s show is a beautiful nod to Haiti, and after the show I chat briefly with singer Wyclef Jean, who helped serve as inspiration for the collection.

My next show — Marc by Marc Jacobs — isn’t until 8, so I take my time getting back uptown to the hotel, where I nap and take care of some of my regular workday tasks, including writing about the day’s shows and locking down an important interview happening tomorrow. As darkness settles on the city, I start to get ready for the evening, putting together an outfit of snake-printed skinny jeans, a silk, striped T-shirt and velvet sandals that I hope would make my idol Marc Jacobs proud.

I meet my editor outside the New York State Armory, where Jacobs holds his shows each season, and as we make our way inside it quickly becomes apparent that someone didn’t pay the utility bill because it is blazing hot. Sauna is an understatement, as we witness the rapid fall of fashionistas far and wide succumbing to the insufferable heat. But, in a flash, the show, a collection of youthful color-blocked separates and multicolored sneakers, is over, and we’re released hot and hungry onto Lexington Avenue.

I end the night at dinner with Notre Dame friends Brittny Flint ’08 and Brandon Hall ’06 and a few hours later hit my pillow to dream about my most excellent day.

Tuesday, September 13

Show-wise, this is an easy, breezy day since I only have two shows, the second at noon. But I’m on edge most of the day because of a BIG interview I have scheduled for later in the afternoon. More on that in a bit.

Tory Burch, once again, gets things started bright and early with a 9 a.m. show at Alice Tully Hall. I catch up with her backstage amidst drool-worthy tables of shoes, boxes of sunglasses and racks of raffia-flecked spring sportswear. While sitting on my front-row perch waiting for the show to start, I receive a call from my sister, Amelia Thompson ’08, who asks if I’m wearing a black-and-white striped suit and oversized glasses. When I confirm that I am, she squeals, “I can see you online!” I then realize that the cameras lining the runway are also trained on the crowd for a live stream on ToryBurch.com. Finally, my sister and I are attending a major fashion show “together”!

Afterward, I make my way to Chelsea for Rodarte, an eclectic, edgy line designed by sister act Kate and Laura Mulleavy. However, the only sisters anyone cares about today are Beyonce and Solange Knowles, who cause quite a stir as they make their way inside. Security makes it impossible to get close enough to chat, but like a true fangirl — I mean digital journalist — I manage to snap a few cell phone camera shots of the mom-to-be and her little sis. Completing the sister trifecta at the Van Gogh-inspired show are actresses Elle and Dakota Fanning, who tell me that unlike many sisters (including me and mine sometimes), they don’t tussle over clothes.

Post-Rodarte, I hit the hotel for a quick change before my MAJOR interview down at Chelsea Piers. My nerves have been so bad I’ve barely eaten all day, and my bright idea to choke down a bowl of soup before the interview quickly proves futile. Instead, I sip some tea, play Angry Birds on my iPad and eavesdrop when Extra host and actor Mario Lopez places his coffee order right next to me at craft services. I wait. And wait some more. And then wait a little more before I’m escorted into a room set up for a photoshoot, where a young blonde girl in literally foot-tall platform heels greets me in a throaty voice: “Hi, Arienne. I’m Lady Gaga.”

I spend 20 minutes laughing with and learning from a surprisingly thoughtful and articulate Gaga, who’s in town to promote her partnership with MAC Cosmetics and its Viva Glam AIDS research arm. We snap a photo together, and as I float out of the studio on Cloud 9, I call my mom to tell her every detail. That night, I meet a friend for dinner, another for drinks and call it a late night and another great day.

Wednesday, September 14

I have a full day of shows, starting with Michael Kors at 10 a.m. inside the Tent. As we mill around before the show begins, stylist Rachel Zoe’s husband Rodger Berman whips out his cell to show me photos of their adorable infant son, Skyler, who has a better wardrobe than most adults.

The veteran Kors draws a front row full of A-listers, including Michael Douglas and Avatar’s Zoe Saldana, but the real star of the show is the designer’s flowing sarong for men. The collection is obviously Africa-inspired, but I’m not so sure how the man-skirt will translate, even on safari.

Next stop is designer Michelle Smith’s Milly line, which I sneak a peek of backstage. I’m tempted to swipe some of the cheerfully mod pieces, but obviously think better of it before finding my seat, where I lust after the models’ matte pink lipstick and monochromatic ensembles. I head back to the hotel, and thus my laptop, to write about what I’ve seen so far.

A little later I am in Chelsea checking out the GAP presentation, which features a bevy of bored-looking models and a tasty charcuterie station. I gulp down a glass of champagne and jet back to Lincoln Center for my final show: Elie Tahari. I feel like a VIP when I get to my seat and see my name printed on the beautifully prepared run-of-show note. The luxuriousness of the note matches the show, which is a gold-infused, Egypt-inspired delight.

My work day is done, and when I step outside Lincoln Center, one of my best friends from high school is waiting curbside to sweep us off for a night of margaritas and Mexican food after a long, long day.

Thursday, September 15

I wake up ready to go in more ways than one. As much as I love fashion and runway shows, an entire week of running from pillar to post, being in endless pursuit of celebs and finding different ways to write about shoes gets taxing. Not that I’m complaining . . .

I head downtown for the Ralph Lauren show, where, fortunately, I’m seated right behind star-on-the-rise actress Olivia Wilde. My iced coffee has barely had time to kick in, so I’m thankful I don’t have to move a muscle to interview her before the show starts. She’s lovely and down-to-earth, and as a flurry of photographers come to snap her on the front row, I wonder if (and secretly hope) my face will end up on the photo wire services. Not that I care . . .

Lauren is obviously obsessed with The Great Gatsby, as I see more double-breasted suits and cloche hats than I can count in a sweetly posh collection punctuated by luxe beading and fur.

With a few hours to kill before my final show of Fashion Week, I head to the one place that can help get me through to the other side: the Marc Jacobs store on Bleecker. A pair of jeans, a scarf, a necklace and a few other MJ items later, I’m ready to tackle my final show of the week.

I haul my MJ loot back to the hotel, pack my things and then head out in the rain for the Calvin Klein show, where I sit behind former White House social secretary Desiree Rogers. Klein creative director Francisco Costa sticks to his usual array of sleek modern shapes and simple silhouettes in hues of peach, black and champagne.

I watch the last waiflike Klein model exit the runway and am flooded with a sense of relief as I hear the final round of applause, signaling the end of an exhilarating, eye-opening week. Not that I’ll miss it or anything . . .

Arienne Thompson, who lives in the Washington, D.C. area, has literally chased Jay-Z for an interview, violated the Emmys’ red carpet dress code and made Ricky Gervais laugh — hysterically. She’s slightly obsessed with Marc Jacobs and has three closets to prove it.

Domers by Design

2012-04-03T07:10:00-04:00

Sure, a Notre Dame sweatshirt or a leprechaun painted on the garage door displays your true colors. But not everyone wants to be such a show-off. To discreetly cheer the home team, you could grab some items your classmates helped create and quietly let your inner Domer shine.

Proudly dress in cutting-rooms scraps and plastic bottles with a shirt or hoodie from SustainU, a company founded by Chris Yura ’03. The former ND football player and model knows that clothing featuring “100 percent recycled apparel that’s made in the USA” is the essence of cool. Help clean up the world at sustainuclothing.com.

For the Skechers Blazed youth sneakers, Scott Kelley ’03 ran the extra mile. He designed a utility patent on the shoe closure system, which is “capable of rapid adjustment in multiple planes of movement.” Yeah, what he said. The new zig-zag closure is great, but the flames are more apt to get the kids fired up. Can be found wherever Skechers are sold.

You probably can’t golf as well as Luke Donald, shown here at the 2011 Masters tournament at Augusta National Golf Club, but you could dress like him. Maureen Whitaker ’02, a design director for golf and tennis at Ralph Lauren, and her team designed and styled this look inspired by the azaleas spread throughout the Augusta course. The RLX tech pique polo shirt and RLX Cypress pants are available at ralphlauren.com and select golf clubs’ pro shops.

Author, TV personality and jewelry designer Katharine Sise ’01 likes to do custom designs and is known for her multi-chain necklaces with charming little attachments, but her fine jewelry is truly a treasure. So go for the gold — or, if you prefer, the brass or the silver chains — at katharinesise.com.

Brian Murphy ’93 and his wife, Jessie Randall, put their best foot forward in 2004 when they formed Loeffler Randall. Murphy is the company’s CFO, while his wife, as president and creative director, continues to oversee the design of the brand’s high-fashion shoes, like this black/cream woven jacquard Dita platform pump.

Anne Slowey ’82 is a Fashion Know It All. No, that’s not being snarky — it’s the name of her column for Elle magazine, where she is the fashion news director. While the men can get their tips from GQ, headed by not one but two ND grads, the ladies can ogle Elle to find Slowey’s advice or do a search for her blogs and columns at elle.com.

The plea of no return

2012-04-03T07:00:00-04:00

Whenever I’m coming home from a trip, I always experience an internal tug of war between wanting to know the status of projects left untended and not wanting to know out of the fear that something bad happened while I was gone. This particular October I was even more anxious than usual. Maybe it was because I had been out of the country. Or maybe it was because it was Halloween.

Getting home required hopscotching across four cities: Rome, NYC, Dallas and finally Austin. With each leg of the journey, my mind increasingly turned to matters I had successfully ignored for the past seven days. There was one thing in particular I really wanted to know but was afraid to find out. Finally my curiosity got the best of me and I posted the following on Facebook:

“Boarding a plane from Rome to JFK. Almost afraid to ask, but what was the outcome of the Notre Dame game yesterday?”

When the plane touched down in New York, I turned my phone back on and scrolled through my messages. My friend Sheila had posted a comment, gently delivering the bad news.

“I think it was 28 to 27 Tulsa… :-( ”

I was grateful that the news came from Sheila. If you have to get bad news about how your favorite team fared, better to get it from a fellow fan. After all, Sheila and I were friends from our days at St. Ignatius the Martyr Catholic School. Naturally we both loved the Irish.

I wanted to thank her for letting me know, but it was time to get off the plane. I didn’t want to be Inconsiderate Girl, absorbed with her phone, oblivious to the fact that she’s holding up a whole planeload of people. I would send her a message later. But when I got off the plane, I needed to clear customs, grab something to eat and go to the restroom. Before I knew it, it was time to board the next plane and I hadn’t responded to Sheila.

But Sheila was on my mind. Not only did I want to thank her for giving me the score, I needed to get back with her about when we could grab lunch. We had Facebooked back and forth before I left for my trip, but things got really hectic and we never nailed down a date. The ball was definitely in my court.

Sheila and I had met in first grade and were friends all the way through eighth grade graduation. But after leaving St. Ignatius, Sheila’s family had moved way far away to North Austin, while my family remained in South Austin. In the 30-plus years that followed, I think I saw Sheila only once — and that was when I bumped into her at a ZZ Top concert. (Stop judging me. It was the ’90s and I had free tickets.)

In 2009 we reconnected. Her dad had seen a story I had written in our local paper and told Sheila about it. Shortly after that she tracked me down on Facebook. We talked on the phone one afternoon, filling each other in on the important ups and downs over the past few decades. She was the same old Sheila I had known and loved from my childhood. Funny, dry, a little sarcastic (my favorite flavor) and always upbeat. Before we hung up we vowed to get together for lunch so we could catch up in person.

In the meantime, Facebook enabled us to pick back up with our friendship. Over the next several months of 2010, Sheila always posted positive comments about my stories when they appeared around town in one form or another. One time I posted that I was looking for a teepee to photograph in connection with a story I was working on, and she was right there with a tip on where I could find one. We scheduled lunch once, but she came down with the flu and had to cancel. No matter. We would reschedule as soon as she was well. Until then, we still had Facebook. It made being friends so easy.

A couple of delayed flights later, I was finally back in Austin minutes before Halloween was officially over. By the time the airport shuttle dropped me off at home it was after 1 a.m. I fell into bed exhausted. The next day was Monday and I hit the ground running. Monday bled into Tuesday, which somehow became Wednesday. It was about 10:30 p.m. and I was sitting in bed with my laptop editing a story I had written on the trip when I got a Facebook message from Tracy, another friend of mine from my days at St. Ignatius. The subject line was “Sheila.”

“I’m afraid you haven’t seen or heard the news of Sheila’s passing since you just returned from Rome. Her service is tomorrow morning at St. Ignatius.”

I couldn’t believe it. How could that be? Sheila was fine just a few days ago. Had she been in a car accident? My mind was reeling. I messaged Tracy with my questions, and her answer came back almost instantly.

“She took her own life on Halloween. She gave you the Notre Dame score earlier that day.”

I could not wrap my mind around this news. I immediately searched all my messages for Sheila’s name. I was looking for the message she had sent me with the ND score just three days ago. Maybe it would contain some clues that would help me make some sense out of this. When my search results popped up, I was surprised at how many messages Sheila had sent.

The first thing I noticed was that the last message Sheila had sent me was at 4:02 a.m. I thought of my friend, not being able to sleep, bumping around on Facebook. I wished I had taken the time to post even a two-word response: “Thanks, Sheila.” I was so worried about being Inconsiderate Girl to a planeload of strangers that I became Inconsiderate Friend instead.

The next thing I noticed was how many times she had reached out to me in the last few weeks compared to how many times I responded. On October 12, she commented on several photos I posted of my recent trip to Notre Dame to visit my son, who is in law school there.

Sheila, in response to a photo of Notre Dame’s Golden Dome: “Wow. I’ve always wanted to visit Notre Dame. Sigh.”

Me: Nothing.

Sheila, commenting on a silly photo of me next to the ND mascot: “You’re the same height as the Leprechaun!”

My response? Silence.

Sheila’s comment on a photo of my son and daughter at the Grotto: “Beautiful children!”

Again, I didn’t reply.

It’s not that I never responded. It’s just that the ratio was about five of her messages to every one of mine. And here’s the thing: If someone would have asked, I would have told them Sheila and I were about even when it came to exchanging messages. But when I actually went back and checked, to the extent there was any genuine effort put forth, it all came from her.

I used to think Facebook made it easy to be friends. And I guess it can if you use it correctly. But Facebook makes it easier to be a superficial friend. After all, occasionally “liking” something your “friend” says is not the same as actually being there. And if you’re curious about what kind of friend you really are, Facebook makes it brutally easy for you to scroll back and get an honest answer.

“Let me know when you wanna meet for lunch. I know you’re busy, but it’s pretty slow around here most days . . .”

That was the message Sheila sent me on September 8.

On the morning of November 4, as I rearranged my day so I could go to Sheila’s funeral, I found myself wishing I had cleared a little time on my calendar to have lunch with her a month or two earlier. Then, rather than sitting in the pews of St. Ignatius Church saying goodbye, I could have sat across a table from her getting reacquainted.

I’m not suggesting that my having lunch with Sheila would have cured her depression or prevented her suicide. (Trust me, my days of self-delusion are, at least for the time being, over.) I just wish I would have made time to catch up with her when I had the chance. More to the point, I wish I would have realized that I actually had the time instead of letting mundane tasks that don’t really matter take priority over people who do. I always thought that I didn’t have time then, but I’d have some later. I was wrong on both counts.

- – - – -

Earlier this evening my sister, who lives in Houston, called. She was having a bad week. Someone had hacked into her bank account, her husband was going to be out of town on business and her weekend plans had fallen through. “I wish you could come to town this weekend,” she told me. I wish I could, too, I replied. Then I rattled off all the reasons I couldn’t. My weekend was shaping up to be very busy.

After I hung up it hit me. I didn’t need to search my Facebook messages to know that my sister had always been there for me. When I was moving to Notre Dame for law school and married student housing didn’t allow pets, she volunteered to babysit my cat . . . for three years. When, as a college student in New York, my son landed in the hospital with an acute case of the chicken pox, she dropped everything and drove to town to stay with my 4-year-old daughter so I could go take care of him. When my marriage imploded and I was scrambling to furnish a new house in a hurry, she spent her day hauling an extra mattress to Austin so my daughter would have a bed.

“Fluff the pillows! I’m coming to town tomorrow!” I messaged her.

“Oh my gosh!!!!! I’m overjoyed!!!!!!!” was her reply.

I suspect I will be haunted by the events of that Halloween for a long time. I feel terrible about Sheila and what kind of friend I was (or more accurately wasn’t) to her over her last year. But since I can’t get a do-over, the most I can hope for is to do better. I’ve gotten it wrong plenty of times in the past. At least this one time I got it right.

Christina Pesoli is a writer in Austin, Texas.

The Style Section

2012-04-03T07:00:00-04:00

“The finest clothing made is a person’s skin,” Mark Twain once said. “But, of course, society demands something more than this.”

Yes indeed. And what an extravagant human phenomenon that “something more” has become. The adornment of the body is a global, multibillion-dollar industry. Fashion as cultural artifact has become the subject of scholars, society watchers, students of design. It’s the art of looking good, and who doesn’t respond to beauty?

Who doesn’t think clothes are important when going through life day to day? That clothes make the man, that women should dress for success?

Or do you sometimes wonder if your fashion statement is “none of the above”? Are you bummed when you have to suit up for an important meeting on a casual Friday? Do you typically sputter for an answer when your spouse asks, “You’re not going dressed like that, are you?”

What does it mean when you wear what you do? What do your clothes say about you?

What do you want them to say?

Do your clothes ever make you feel good about yourself? Do you listen to those who advise you to look nice at all times, dress like a grown-up, be tasteful, tailored, trend-setting, well-groomed or at least in fashion — if not fashion-forward?

Do you appreciate those who go in style? Those who do it in style? Those who have style?

Do you sometimes find yourself all dressed up with no place to go? Would you give the shirt off your back, walk a mile in their shoes, judge a book by its cover?

If you answered “yes,” “maybe” or “don’t know” to any of the questions above, then this issue of Notre Dame Magazine is for you. So enjoy our spring collection of stories. And if you think the subject frivolous, remember Isaac Bashevis Singer’s warning: “What a strange power there is in clothing.” Indeed.