JENNY SAIS QUOI

After years of Augusts spent crisscrossing Europe, the prospect of staying still for nearly an entire month at first felt strangely unfamiliar. Especially when every Italian seems to be jumping from one island or country to another. In Milan, beginning around March, everyone starts asking where you’ll be spending your obligatory month off. If you haven’t figured it out by May–you start sweating a bit every time someone inquires. Will you be island-hopping in Greece? Back to Ibiza?

This essay is excerpted from my book, Jenny Sais Quoi, a collection of essays and illustrations about personal style, creativity, and the art of paying attention. You can find the book here. AT A CERTAIN POINT, most likely in your 30s, you’ll look around and think, Where did all these clothes come from? If you’re not diligent, you’ll end up with a graveyard of things you never wear but hold on to for some reason or another.

I am so excited to be making this post. Although fashion illustration is a huge part of my career and something I genuinely enjoy in my free time, I've realized I rarely post about it! So today I’m here to spill most of my process and share a few secrets. MATERIALS - PAPER Lately I’ve been loving the New Soho Sketchbook (which I originally discovered through the great Boston general store-more on my general store hauls here).

Lauren Hutton, Vogue 1969 Most of life’s best solutions are simpler than you think. This is especially true when it comes to putting together outfits, which is why I always go back to my summer inspiration folder when I’m in a dressing rut. This mood usually hits in early August, when I either think I’ve worn every look I could possibly conjure up or am just too exhausted by the heat to care.

I seem to have buried the lede in last week’s post. Of the many dresses I linked, the two you all clicked on the most weren’t adorned or colorfully printed. No, they were the simplest white cotton shifts imaginable. No print. No embellishment. No fuss. One of them, in fact, was a 1930s maternity gown. Yes. A maternity gown.

When it’s hot, I don’t want to wear clothes. Period! It’s probably why I’ve always gravitated toward what my grandmother would have called a house dress—or, more affectionately, a muumuu. Over the past six months, I’ve become slightly obsessed with vintage 1960s floral house dresses.

First of all, thank you to everyone who came to the Milan book signing! You were all so chic and such a joy to meet. Thank you again to Cabana for hosting and to Marchesi for the gelato, which unintentionally ended up perfectly color-coordinating with my outfit. The past two weeks have been a whirlwind. After months of splitting my time between California and Italy, I’m finally settled enough in California to tackle the part I’ve been looking forward to most: bringing the dogs home.

Pile of Kittens from one of the village cats! (Believe it or not, there are four of them in this photo, although one of the heads seems to be missing). The mama cat delivered them in my neighbor’s courtyard and had the good sense to move them into the lower part of the house. As I sit here writing this in Tuscany, Aurora is gently snoring in her bed, legs splayed in the air like one of the small army of insects I’ve had to confront in the 48 hours since arriving from London.

Have you ever noticed how some outfits stay in your memory while others disappear the second they’re out of sight? The looks that linger do so for the same reason certain people do: they reveal a distinct point of view. The best-dressed people aren’t necessarily the people with the biggest wardrobes; they’re the people who know themselves well enough to leave their own unique fingerprints on what they wear. And the interesting thing is, those fingerprints are often tiny.

Moira Shearer in The Red Shoes (1948) After twenty years of studying and working in fashion, I’ve reluctantly come to the conclusion that clothes have very little to do with style. This realization became even harder to ignore while writing my book. Style, at its best, is the life inside the clothes shining through despite the thickness of the weave. Clothing may be the icing on the cake, but it can never be the cake.