It Ads Up

A colleague lent me a 1988 edition of Vogue over the weekend and as I reclined at home with a cup of tea and Cindy Crawford’s youthful beauty emanating from the front cover, it occurred to me just how much has changed in the past twenty three years. There was even a 20p off coffee voucher somewhere in the middle, inserted within the restaurants section.

Okay so the wide-shouldered, angular silhouettes may cast little difference between an ‘80s edition and a current one, however rather than wading through the ads to find the content it was the other way around. With just a few advertorials on skin products, Horlicks and Debenhams, equally interspersed with articles on everything from health, fitness and beauty to travel, fashion and horoscopes; the real age of advertising seemed a long way off from Condé Nast’s flat-planning. With ads being thin on the proverbial ground it was a real joy to cut straight through and read the thoughtful and academic editorial: commentary on relevant designers such as Eileen Gray and Joe Tilson, notes from playwright David Mamet and debates of current political relevance (which at the time centred on the new education bill). Unlike the contemporary version which is stuffed to the gills with predominantly fashion and beauty and ads. Even the cover should tip us off as to the economically sleek content within, particularly when compared with its 2011 peer…


The Eighties marked the era of Margaret Thatcher, higher taxes and budget cuts. Vogue featured a spread on Thatcher entitled ‘Political Dressing’ and raised the point that advertising plays a significant role in the success of any political candidate, particularly a first lady: ‘Politicians and their dress have become a matter of considerable interest. All now wedded to the television camera and the advertising campaign, they must be sure that the way they look stands up to the scrutiny of a public that is skilled in the reading of images.’ So fashion is an ad campaign? But what are we endorsing, ourselves or the craftsmanship of designer and high-street seamstresses? How we look can dictate a number of things: whether we succeed or fail; whether we carry ourselves with poise and confidence; and whether we buy Vogue or not.

It’s all in the advertising really. How we look is a projection of how we would like others to see us. So while Thatcher would don modest mid-calf skirts, neck-high blouses and tailored jackets hoping to instil confidence and respect in her voters, Yves Saint Laurent would don peonies and a glam-looking Milla Jovovitch to instil consumers with an aspirational need to use its perfume. Good looking people, well-photographed products and catchy phrases all concocted to sell. But while Vogue circa 1988 did it subtly, Vogue circa now shoves it up our noses, in our faces and down our necks at every page-turning opportunity it gets.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I class myself a ‘Vogue Woman’ along with the rest of the trend-following lemmings alighting at Oxford Circus station every morning, however, having this ’88 point of reference really opened my eyes to how society views us. Yes 21st Century Vogue covers all the same reference points, culture, politics, fashion etc; but the sheer extent of advertising in modern-day magazines points to the fact that more than ever we are driven by money and materialism.

So here’s a thought for your Wednesday afternoon – particularly those of you who (like me) work on Oxford Street (or in one of the other fashion-heavy districts of London) – when you trawl the stores on your lunch-hour are you buying things because you really want them, or are you just buying into the glittery trap of all-consumering advertising?

What style means to me…

When I grow up I want to be… stylish? Most young girls’ aspirations revolve around popularity, potential superstardom and fairytale endings with their prince charming. Mine were a tad more tangible. I wanted to be a writer, so I made myself a writer. I wanted to have curly hair, so I teased, tamed and tormented my waves into pre-Raphaelite glory. I wanted a style all my own…

…so this is me. Today. Lamé purple leggings. A pink tutu. A cropped tee over a black body. A satin pink bow decorating auburn curls. And my prized pair of purple DMs.

Another idealistic ‘80s fanatic you might think. But my style is about more than what I wear.

Style pieces itself together gradually, garnering elements from one ensemble or another, fads, fashions and phases. And though it may not be discernable as one stumbles through puberty and teen angst, a style all your own is being woven into the fabric of your being.

I have been channelling Eighties chic for years, through a vestige of big hair, leggings, and brightly coloured ensembles constructed in a bid to emulate my ‘80s icons. Born in 1985, my style inspiration derives from the quirky individuality of Molly Ringwald, Madonna and Mary Stuart Masterson.

As children, my brother and I would play dress-up, raiding the “fancy dress” hamper stored in the bottom of my mother’s closet. The floral leggings and oversized sweatshirts we donned were remnants of a fashion age that would shape the woman I grew up to be. I must have intrinsically known that I was a born devotee to the era of excess, as many items found their way into my wardrobe and stayed there, resisting the many desperate ‘clear-out’ attempts by my mother.

I spent my early teen years trawling through markets for vintage finds and reworking garments to achieve my longed-for ‘80s look. So much so that one Christmas evening, I abandoned the traditional movie and mellowing to create my own adaptation of a Katherine Hamnett slogan tee.

The ‘80s was defined by a generation of young men and women attempting to discover who they were and express their individuality. More than that, though, the big, bold ‘80s silhouette was a nod to tough times gone by and a means of armour with which to face the world. Having always been naturally drawn to excessorising myself with ‘80s trends, I grew to understand that my clothes served to simultaneously convey who I was while shielding me from the painful and difficult events in my life.

From my parents’ divorce in the early nineties and my father’s subsequent exodus to New Zealand, to the passing of my beloved Grandfather last year, I have modelled my wardrobe around my feelings. I surround myself with clothes and accessories that evoke a time I recall mainly via family photos and home videos, but one that fills me with happiness.

From a young age I developed a self-reliance and control that enabled me to deal with the loss, the hurt and the utter chaos that other people create. I realised I was the only person I could rely on. I wanted to be sure of who I was and what I was going to do with my life. My fashion sense and personal style derived from wanting to look different from everyone else. I wanted a style of my own. I didn’t want my fashion choices to be dictated by the fluctuating and fickle trends barometer.

Coco Chanel once said, “Fashion is not something that exists in dresses only. Fashion is in the sky, in the street, fashion has to do with ideas, the way we live, what is happening.” Fashions evolve as we do, and so too our style punctuates each stage of our journey through life. Once we recognise this fact, we stop surrendering to passing trends and learn about who we are.

It is easy to mistake style as only belonging to the striking glamazons who stalk the runways at fashion shows and the girls we know, who seem to have everything. They appear to conjure this flair as though out of thin air, while we trip over countless fashion faux pas in an effort to achieve it.

At times, growing up, I felt I lacked this quintessential element of sophistication that was their key to success. I observed my peers’ effortless style, presumably thanks to wealthy parents, and I yearned for the insider knowledge that would instil me with that same “je ne sais quoi”.

Living vicariously through the fashions exhibited on cult shows including Sex and the City and Gossip Girl you can lose sight of your own style and look to adopt something else. I considered imitating the polished elegance of a Charlotte York or a Blair Waldorf, but ultimately I knew that wasn’t really me.

The high street continues to celebrate the 1980s revival and I have plundered my bank account to indulge my obsession, forgoing reason in a mad panic to buy before the retailers refresh their stock with the next fashion phase.

Yves Saint Laurent said: “Fashions fade, style is eternal.” My style equates to my history, the richness of it embedded in every memory, every event I have experienced and every moment yet to come. It is what makes me who I am. And to me, that is what style is supposed to be: a window through which the outside world can look in and see ‘the real me’.