Tag Archives: style

Girl Crushing on Shirley Kurata

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… I mean, not in a creepy way.  I’m not a closeted lesbian sex pest web stalker or anything, but man… Shirley Kurata (she says, dewy eyed).

Don’t get me wrong. I have some seriously stylish friends.  I’m lucky that way.  There’s always someone fabulous around to inspire me/make me look like a stumpy legged troll.  Some chums have fabulous shoes I wish I could walk in.  Some have slinky skinny jeans I wish I could cram my tree-trunk thighs in.  Some have super-cool, super-fuzzy knitwear I wish wouldn’t bring me out in hives. Some have pretty sleeveless dresses I will to be kinder to my bingo wings, etc., etc..  When I’m not eyeing up my pals’ clobber, I spend a ludicrous amount of time pinning stuff on Pinterest and cooing over cute ensembles in my favourite magazines.  Expensive outfits, crazy cool handbags, nail varnish (I know!  Flippin’ nail varnish! Who coos over nail varnish?), hairdos, candy coloured hosiery – all of these things excite me more than they should.  But never – NEVER have I been so utterly bowled over by one gal’s knack of pulling together brilliantly fun, stop-n-stare-in-awe clothing combos until I happened upon Shirley Kurata.  I can’t remember precisely how I stumbled upon Shirley online… She may even have popped up in my eyeballs during a Pinterest sesh?  Regardless, since first getting giddy over the contents of Shirley’s wardrobe, I have committed to making some changes to the way I shop, to the way I look and to the way I rationalise my own fashion choices. Clashy colours are good.  Rainbow hosiery is the key to a happy life (I knew it). Every girl oughta wear sequins to work once in a while. Blondes almost certainly do not have more fun – but I’m betting girls with enormous spectacles (blonde, brunette, whatever) have a rerr terr no matter what. 30-something girls can wear knee high socks if the bloody well like.

This is Shirley Kurata as photographed by Autumn de Wilde for The Daily Shirley. 

Shirley Kurata as photographed by Maia Harms for Refinery 29.

Shirley Kurata as photographed by Autumn de Wilde for The Daily Shirley.

Shirley Kurata as photographed by Autumn de Wilde for The Daily Shirley.

Shirley Kurata is a wardrobe stylist.  She lives in LA.  You can see her work here.

Autumn de Wilde is a photographer/director from.  You can see her work here.

The Daily Shirley a photo diary of Shirely Kurata’s outifts as photographed by Autumn de Wilde.

Her Indoors

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Yestheweatherislovely.  Yesitisveryhot.  Yesitmakesachangefromtheusualwindandrain. Ohyeshere’shopingitlasts. Blahblahblah.

The thing is though,  I can’t come to the park.  Or go to your BBQ.  I can’t hang out on the pavement drinking cider or stroll around the market.  Why?  I’ll tell you why. Firstly, I am from S-c-o-t-l-a-n-d. In temperatures above 14 degrees, my make up falls off, my hair sticks to my forehead, my ankles swell and I get migraines.  That’s just the way life is. There’s nothing I can do about that stuff.  Secondly, Scotland doesn’t really ‘do’ seasons properly.  Mother nature tries her best to keep us right by making leaves fall off stuff at certain times of the year and by cueing the arrival of crocuses, daffodils, primroses and so on at others.  But where the weather is concerned, aside from the rare heatwave, every day kind of feels like autumn and I’ve come to dress accordingly.

You know when you hear about people rotating the content of their wardrobes to suit spring/summer and autumn/winter? I’ve never had to do that.  I wear tights all year round.  And cardigans, vests and boots.  My woollies have never been sucked up in one of those weird vacuum storage bags and my winter coat is just, ‘my coat’.  Well, that was until I moved from the big city to the Even Bigger One.  Since then, whatever semblance of style I had has been  thrown into utter disarray and I find myself (particularly in nice weather) unable to leave the house for lack of suitable attire.

One day, I will grow my summer wardrobe.  One day, these will be in my accessories drawer/on my face…

[You can buy these now if you like.  They're by Tatty Devine and cost £126]

And one day, I will look like this…

And when I do?  I will gladly go with you to the park/come to your BBQ and/or hang out drinking cider on the pavement.

Just to be clear, I have borrowed these photos from http://www.tattydevine.com

High Kicks in Harem Pants

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Ok.  So this wasn’t really the look I was going for.

Now, you crazy kids might be as happy as lambs in spring bouncing around in your MC Hammer harem pants all hours of the day and night, but I did not care for ‘em in the 80s, I did not care for ‘em in the 90s and I do not particularly care for them now.  That’s not to imply I do not understand (and wholebummedly enjoy) the comfort of a baggy trouser.  I do.  I really, really do – and in actual fact, I enjoy schmooshing around in the comfort factor of these babies more than you’d ever believe but –  let’s be frank.  They’re not doing much for me, are they?

I bought my big trousers for £5 from a market stall near Broadway Market yesterday.  A case of mistaken identity. I was excited that they seemed roomy enough to house my enormous arse but also excited that they were nice and narrow at the ankle.   I thought they’d behave more like a pair of peg legs. They don’t.  They behave like a big pair of wind breakers.

So.  There was only one thing to do.  Two things actually.  The first?  Resign myself to the fact I will never be able to wear my new trousers outdoors.  The second? Do high kicks.

 

 

£5 well spent if you ask me.

 

Restoring Balance

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Having discovered some pounds and pence lurking in my Paypal account, I’ve already made some attempt to restore my inner indie balance by purchasing one of these.  I chose the yellow one.  Aren’t they flippin’ amazing?  A long-time Made in the Shade pal, designer maker Lucie Ellen runs one of my favourite small UK accessories labels. I can’t wait to work with her again.  For now though, I’m happy sporting my ‘lil piece of yellow round my neck!

I Love Magic Cos Clothes

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I don’t know if it’s just being away from Glasgow,  the close proximity of the magnificent Westfield Centre over there or what it is, but these days, I feel weary of the well-trodden vintage shopping trail and weirdly, the pages of my Independent Shopping city guide are leaving me cold.  All very out of character.  I feel out of sync with my own self.

While I wait for some renewed indie inspiration and the resurfacing of my creative ‘mojo’ (for want of a better word – and trust me, I really, really wish I could have avoided the word ‘mojo’), I’m amusing myself by revisiting [dun, dun, duuuuuuuun...] The High Street.

I stumbled upon Cos in Glasgow around Christmas time.  I took Santa (my mother) there.  I asked Santa Clause if (s)he might gift me a dress I liked. Santa told me my dream frock made me look 6 months pregnant and subsequently talked me out of it.  In my tummy, I hoped Santa was playing a trick.  You know, one of those classic Santa tricks where (s)he pretends you’re not getting the present you really, really would like very much but then on Christmas Day you’re presented with a surprise parcel and are super pleased to realise Santa didn’t really mean it when (s)he said you looked 6 months pregnant and had only gone and bought your present when you weren’t there to make the whole affair all the more special.  Christmas Day came and went and no Cos frock emerged from any Christmas cubby holes.

I was lucky to receive quite a lot of ‘money-in-a-card’ style presents from aunties and in-laws and as they all totted up, I had more than enough cashola to buy the dress I wanted from Cos myself.  And I did.  I also bought yellow tights and cow print shoes. Convinced this outfit would be the outfit I’d wear in London when I met Mary Portas (who would then obviously go on to think I was quite fabulous, realise very quickly how painfully talented I am and insist I work with her on a Top Secret Project to reinvigorate the retail landscape), I felt the investment was well worth it.

Apart from trying it on once to show Beardy how well my cow print shoes and yellow tights complimented it, I vowed not to wear My Cos Dress outside until I reached London.  When I reached London I vowed not to wear it outside until I was definitely going to be in the same room as Mary Portas.  However, I did decide that it was ok to wear it to have my portrait taken for my Vintage Correspondent 2012 profile.

Since meeting Mary Portas seemed really rather unlikely, I broke the promise and wore my dress to a meeting (albeit a very exciting meeting).  I announced to everyone there, following loads of lovely compliments about my choice of frock, that I’d bought it specially from Cos and that I promised myself I wouldn’t wear it until I felt the occasion was special enough.  ”Today’s the day!”, I shared enthusiastically.  Maybe too enthusiastically.  I’m quite sure the former-fancy-magazine-editor-turned-fancy-Brand-Manager and glamalicious Chief Brand Ambassador thought I was nuts – though really they should think themselves lucky that I didn’t go on to explain that I’d teamed the frock with white tights instead of yellow as originally intended and that I’d ditched my cow print shoes for my mary janes – which, as it happens, I bought specially for the Nokia tour etc., etc.. It’s a shame really.  It’s not their fault I haven’t had any money to buy brand new clothes in over 3 years…

Anyway – the long and short of it?  I am now obsessed with Cos.  I pronounce it Cossss but other people I’ve mentioned it to have pronounced the name Coz.  Like ‘cos’/because.  That’s not right is it?  How could such a lovely fashion brand have such an unpleasant and jaggy name?  I’m sure it must be Cossss.  Do you know?

These are some of the beautiful things you could buy from Cos if you wanted to…

Leather Top 

Reversed Sleeve Top

A-Line Cotton Skirt

Green Elasticated Waist Dress

Flap Pocket Shirt Dress

Leather Pocket Dress

I think it’s quite, quite obvious that I did not take these photographs and I’d point and laugh at the person who thinks I did/thinks I have the brass neck or iffy morals to pass them off as my own.  I have borrowed all product shots from the Cos website.

Now.  Listen up.  The next time someone criticises you or laughs at you or pokes you with one of those novelty plastic walking stick things filled with Smarties when you try explaining that some clothes have special powers, don’t you listen to ‘em!  My Cos Dress?  It IS magic.  And I can prove it.

0 grams

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“There’s a fleekin’ vintage kilo sale on tomorrow!” I yell.  He doesn’t answer.  “Can you HEAR me?  I sai-d… Hello? There’s a KILO SALE on in York Hall tomorrow! You know – in Bethnal Green?” And he still doesn’t answer.  I don’t mind.  In fact, I’m not even sure he can hear me.  I’m shouting from the office and really, despite the plasterboard walls being fairly thin, they are still plasterboard walls and there are 3 or 4 layers between us.  I’m not worried about the silence.  I know that once I tell Beardy about the kilo sale properly (and when I explain to him what a kilo sale is), he’ll want to come.  Flying in the face of what most women’s (and men’s) magazines will tell you, Beardy enjoys shopping.  If I’m honest, when it comes to vintage clothes shopping, he’s much more the pro at it than I am.

We woke up on Friday morning – not early, not late.  Around 9.30am.  I guess that’s pretty late for most people with normal jobs but since we’re supposed to be on holiday this week it doesn’t count as lazy.  After some Island pottering, some kitchen table tea drinking, some unimportant computering and a whole load of chit chat (I made a typo there and chit chat read ‘shit chat’. I gurgled out loud a little.), we made our way to Bethnal Green.  Actually, that’s not quite true.  First we browsed the containers at pop-up mall, Boxpark, in Shoreditch and cooed at the beautiful headphones (I know!  Headphones?!  What has happened to me?) in Urbanears, drooled over the wedge sandals in Irregular Choice and wondered whether or not we were too old to wear Gola in the Gola shop.  I am pleased (and a little relieved) to report that Boxpark is pur-itty cool and probably warrants its own blog post – even if I am writing well after the launch hubbub has petered out.  We did well to behave like responsible grown-ups and not blow our pocket money on these (or these) and instead promptly headed to Brick Lane where we bought salt beef bagels and slices of cake for tuppence. On our walk to the Vintage Kilo Sale, I was delighted to stumble upon Le Grenier – a shop I’d heard about and read about but never had the chance to look about in person.  Days later and my heart continues to skip a beat when I think of the amazing aqua green plastic full-wall bathroom caddy for sale.  £85.  Worth every penny.  Worth every penny, when you have plenty cashola to buy food and travel passes, that is.  And we don’t.  So, having stroked the bathroom caddy and bid it farewell,  (Le Grenier Shopkeeper to pal later:  “Yeah, there was this weirdo plastic fetishist in the shop today rubbing our bathroom wall cabinet.  It was so creepy…”), we trotted along the road.

Now, I’m happy to admit that my trotting was fairly enthusiastic given that I was going to a Vintage Kilo Sale – but I do not feel it was extraordinarily enthusiastic and I’m quite certain it did not warrant my tights falling down right there in the street. No siree.  I tried to make light of my predicament to Beardy but detecting my inner panic, he ushered me into the nearest bar in order that I save my modesty, tend to my chaffing thighs in private and howk my Nora Batties back up where they belonged.  I am afraid this was not the end of Tight Trauma.  In retrospect, I should have taken a photograph. By the time I returned to The Island, my bottom was entirely un-tight-ified and the waistband of my hosiery was wedged round the tops of my thighs kind of like some weird chastity stockings contraption.  If there’s one thing you never want to utter to your husband in broad day light (or to anyone else, anyWHERE else, really) it’s, “Seriously – has my gusset reached the hem of my dress?  Has it?  Can you see it?”  And that, my friends, is why they call me ‘Carrie Not The Kind Of Girl You’d Marry’.  It’s a shame really…  As legend has it, Abba DID compose a verse about Carrie’s tights falling down in ‘That’s Me’ but it didn’t make the final mix.  Oh – and to anyone currently thinking, “But why, if you were wearing rubbish Primark tights, didn’t you put an extra pair of knickers over the TOP to keep ‘em in place?” – the simple answer is – “That’s gross”.  And besides, what if I got knocked down by a bus?  The paramedic might think I was some kind of self-healing super heroine and leave me to die.

THE VINTAGE KILO SALE

I honestly do not know why I continue to fool myself.  If I look deep, deep inside my soul and really tell the honest truth, I knew before I even got to York Hall that I wouldn’t find (m)any vintage gems at the kilo sale.  I just knew it.  Not only had my brain yet to reset itself back to factory settings post-moving ordeal, I feel at the moment like I’m in some sort of style limbo.  Can I pull off snow-wash denim?  Do I really want to?  Why am I finding it difficult to resist trying on a pair of shellsuit bottoms?  What kind of varsity sweatshirt defines ME?  Replace the Ikea catalogue with rails and rails of secondhand clothing and I find myself in the midst of my own personal Fight Club identity crisis meltdown. I’m wearing leggings more frequently – but because they suit me or because they’re the closest things to jammies I can wear outside?  I take to stalking fashionable people, hoping their stylishness might rub off on me.  I follow them around the venue peeping over their shoulders to see what they’re gripping on to and what they’re eyeing up.  Inspired by the choices of one particular lady (she seemed to be placing ‘comfort’ as highly on her her list of fashion priorities as I do), I snaffled up a pair of electric blue wool culottes.  I later tried them on (using Beardy as a changing screen) and although we both agreed that the colour was nice, I felt odd in them and Beardy said they made my arse look enormous so that was the end of that.  The armful of jumpers I’d gathered was returned to the rails too.  Not because I didn’t like them – just because I was in a huff, really.  While I was disappointed at the distinct lack of Carrie-friendly clobber on sale, Beardy completed his checked shirt collection, weighed out at just under a kilo and went home happy.  I left empty handed.

Make-Up Bag Boredom

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A while ago, I mentioned in passing that I haven’t updated my beauty regime since I was 13.  Beardy asks me, more regularly than you might expect, why I change my hairdo and my clothes now and again but yet  never change my face.  I’m never quite sure how to respond.  I usually just mutter something about not being very good with make-up.  This response is equally as unsatisfactory to me as it is to Beardy.

I used to be quite, quite obsessed with make-up when I was little.  In my folder of cut outs from Jackie magazine I treasured a particular spread about creating the perfect ‘vamp’ look.  Remember when magazines used to use the word ‘vamp’?  I miss those days…  The girl in the magazine who underwent the vamp makeover wound up with a perfect, porceline base, fabulous cat-eye eyeliner, bright red lips and sculpted cheek bones. Having followed those darned make-up tips for the past 16 years, I can’t say I’ve ever achieved the perfect vamp look.

Just for fun, I thought I might empty the contents of my make-up bag (well, make-up drawer, actually) and see what might happen were I to experiment a little bit.

I used to hoard make-up products.  People gave me hand-me-downs.  I kept ‘em.  I received free samples from cosmetic counters.  I kept ‘em.  I bought weird coloured eyeshadows on a whim.  I kept ‘em.  However, the one time I actually want to play dress up with the crap I’ve accumulated (“That foundation that’s 4 shades too dark for my skin? Hm…  Might come in handy”), I find that at some point I’ve been sensible – and ditched the bulk of my beauty ‘back-ups’.  I feel a mixture of rage, pride and disappointment.

Since I was all geared up for some make-up fun, I tried my best to give myself a make over.  I even put my vintage crimpers to work.  Here is the finished result.

Re-create the look…

1.  Having cleansed and moisturised your face (who actually uses toner? WHO?), cover all the weird bits of your skin with concealer.  I paid particular attention to the annoying reddish bits at either side of my nose and to the dark circles that have appeared beneath my peepers.

2.  Since I don’t have make-up sponges or one of those fancy big brushes, I use my fingers to apply foundation.  To create this look, you must apply three times as much foundation than* you would normally.

3.  Set your base by applying approximately three times more face powder than you would normally.

4.  Cover your entire eyelid with any eyeshadow you can find (I only had one to choose from).  Ideally, you will own more than one shade of eyeshadow.  Owning more than one shade of eyeshadow is almost sure to make this activity more fun.

5.  Decide which of your eyeliner colours is silliest.  Apply three times as much than you would normally.  Around both lids.  Then apply three times as much mascara than you would normally.  Again, mascara options will enhance the experience.  I only had one option.

6.  Use lip liner.  Just for a lark.  Slick on three times as much lipstick than you would normally.

7.  With your blusher brush, draw on fake cheekbones.

8.  Crimp your hair.  Having shared my crimping woes with crimping expert Josie Jo, I have learned that I ought to have sprayed my barnet with hairspray first to create a tighter crimp.

9.  Make a funny face then insist your photographer husband take a ring-flash portrait of you immediately. Et voila!

*As I re-read this post, something is bothering me.  Should one say, “three times as much than you would normally” ooooor “three times as much AS you would normally”?  I’ve written it and changed it so many times the words make no sense.  My apologies.  Sometimes the word brain just stops working.