In the last chapter, we talked about taste in the context of food and flavor. But aesthetics is an appreciation of all the senses, and aesthetic intelligence is an understanding of how and why the senses trigger certain emotions—especially pleasurable ones—through all forms of stimuli. In this chapter I want to get personal and talk about how you can (and, I believe, should) start the process by cultivating and expressing your own aesthetic through your appearance and style—more specifically, what you wear and how you wear it.
After all, good taste comes from within, and good style is exhibited by what I call the “four Cs”: clarity, consistency, creativity, and confidence. Does your appearance demonstrate a clear sense of who you are, what you value, and how your inner self connects to your outer persona? Do others associate you with a few consistent style or fashion markers or “codes,” per our earlier discussion on brands? Creativity is seen in the uniqueness of your codes. Are they identifiable markers? And are your strongest codes unique, original, and memorable? Working toward those Cs will not only help you strengthen your personal image but also create a valuable skill set for building your business interests.
Many people look at “fashion” as frivolous or indulgent. Figuring out what to wear is often seen as a “first-world problem”—one that seems to overlook those who cannot afford to invest much money in their wardrobes. In my experience, the most stylish people are never those with the most money. If anything, extreme wealth dilutes the ability to edit down choices, make thoughtful trade-offs, and remain disciplined—three fundamental elements of good style.
It’s a misconception that concern over one’s style is confined to a particular cluster of society—for example, twentysomething fashionistas living in cosmopolitan areas. I see people young and old, male and female, in every socioeconomic segment and every culture, who are concerned with their appearance and who present themselves in unique and interesting ways.
Humans have an intrinsic impulse to decorate themselves in one way or another—from tattoos and piercings to jewelry to swaths of colorful fabric. We do it to please ourselves as well as to attract the attention of others. All forms of adornment symbolize our need to differentiate ourselves, express our ideas of beauty through our person, and claim our status or what we aspire it to be. This has a long history. In 2004, shell beads were unearthed from four sites in Morocco that seem to confirm that early humans were wearing and even trading symbolic jewelry as early as 80,000 years ago. These beads add to similar archaeological finds dating back as far as 110,000 years ago in Algeria, Morocco, Israel, and South Africa, confirming these as the oldest form of personal ornaments, indicating that there was a shared tradition of personal ornamentation that was passed along through cultures over thousands of years.1
Each of us also has innate preferences for how we dress (and accessorize—or not). How our choices come together form what we think of as “style,” whether we are deliberately trying to make a style statement or not. I’m very intentional about how I put myself together, and I have cultivated, edited, and evolved my “look” over many years. I would describe it as “A Tale of Two Cities and Two Centuries.” On the one hand, I typically pay homage through my clothing and accessories to my two grandmothers, both of whom came of age in the early part of the twentieth century in Central Europe and whose tastes were heavily influenced by the ideals of the Habsburg Empire. Early on, I was unaware of my grandmothers’ effect on my style, but over time, I came to realize that my clear and consistent attraction to objects connoting glamour, formality, and nobility were references to their upbringings in Vienna and Frankfurt, infused with the oriental richness and resplendence of Istanbul. What’s more, I gravitate toward vintage and handmade items—things that are crafted by highly specialized artisans and that are difficult to make, hard to find, and last forever. Old World European goods embody these qualities.
As for that “second city,” I am a lifelong New Yorker. I have lived in a few other cities over the years but have never felt at home anywhere but in New York. So naturally I am drawn to pieces that feel like my hometown—ones that are cool, modern, bold, and sexy. I like silhouettes that are structured and sculptural but are still sumptuous, cozy, and relaxed. I’m not afraid to stand out; I rather like it. After all, in New York it takes effort to get attention! And, last, like the city itself, I like humor. I like surprises. I like to play. As a result, I often layer whimsical, unexpected pieces—clear Plexiglas bangles, a lip-shaped red belt, a champagne bucket clutch, or a pink fur collar—onto more classic underpinnings such as my black leather A-line dress from Dior.
Your personal style is not simply a reflection of what you happen to like, admire, or are drawn to; it is also, and maybe more important, a reflection of your surroundings, key influences, and cultural context. It is important to understand why you are drawn to those particular things and whether or not you want to actually don the items toward which you gravitate. Much like my cultural affiliations with contemporary New York and Old World Europe, your cultural connections may inform what you choose to wear. Moreover, you may appreciate a certain look on someone else but choose a very different look for yourself. Your style should be based on what feels right and comfortable on you. In the process of dissecting your style, I encourage you to think about your own circumstances. Who were the main influences in your life—the ones who set your ideals and standards? When and where did you come of age? What was happening at that time and in that place that might have shaped your values and comforted or energized you? What external factors might have turned you off? When I came of age in the United States in the 1990s, one of the big fashion trends was “grunge.” I hated that look. It struck me as dirty, sloppy, and indifferent. To this day, you will not find one item in my possession that is reminiscent of the grunge movement. If anything, most of my choices are in defiance of grunge. Same goes for 1980s punk rock.
As I mentioned before, I like attention, so I dress to stand out. That is what feels right for me. I have friends who are much more conservative. They dress to fit in and blend in. That is what feels right to them. I can appreciate their fine taste—their choices are not cheap or crude, but I would not want to replicate them. I also have friends and colleagues who are far more eclectic than I am. They mix colors and patterns that—to me—result in an over-the-top, clownish look. I admire their originality and spunk but would not want to replicate them, either.
There is no shortage of larger-than-life and zany personalities in the fashion business, but there is perhaps no one who is more consistently madcap than Iris Apfel. Born in Queens in 1921 (she turned ninety-seven in August 2018), Apfel has worked in many aspects of the design and fashion business, including an early stint at Women’s Wear Daily. In 1950, two years after she married her fiancé and traveled around the world with him, the couple launched a textile business called Old World Weavers. It started small, sourcing unusual and handmade fabrics from around the world, and eventually became one of the most respected textile firms in the industry because of its precise and detailed fabric restoration and replication. But Apfel is perhaps most famous for being one of fashion’s authentic eccentrics. Known for layering large jewels over feather stoles or intricate coats and shawls—and for her signature outsized round glasses—Apfel is a testament to the late designer Tony Duquette’s mantra that “More is more.” She’s also the oldest person to have a Barbie doll made in her image.2
I admire Apfel’s style—her bold and inventive choices—but it doesn’t suit me. On me, her pieces would be off-kilter. The glasses, earrings, and bangles would look oversize; the bright colors, overwhelming. What’s instructive, however, about Apfel’s look is that it draws heavily and clearly from her roots, her geographic and temporal context, and her personality—thanks in part to spending time at her Russian-born mother’s New York fashion boutique. Apfel credits her mother with her own love of accessories. An only child left to her own devices and imagination growing up in the Bronx in the 1920s and 1930s, she began her professional life as an interior decorator. As a result, I think, she treats her body like a room in a house, with layers and layers of objects, colors, and textures that serve a narrative function. Her outfits tell a story. She is also fearless and daring, admirable qualities in the development of aesthetic intelligence. And, like many scrappy immigrant New Yorkers who came from working-class families, she had limited resources when she was starting out but big ambitions.
There are a lot of decisions that go into what is right for you. There is no right or wrong—the only wrong is in not caring about what you’re wearing at all. But remember, there is really no such thing as unconscious fashion choices—they may be artless, but they are not without meaning. Differentiate yourself not necessarily by wearing expensive or iconic clothes but by choosing what you wear thoughtfully and cultivating a look that is unique to you and that sets you apart as someone with a highly refined aesthetic sense (whether onlookers approve or not). Individual style, not “followership,” which is simply wearing what shows up on runways or trend sites or on your best friend, has genuine currency in our culture and, yes, in your professional life, too.
Attunement with another person is when we can communicate without saying a word and are still understood—through an expression, a look, a wink of the eye, or a raised eyebrow. When we are fully engaged while posing in a yoga class, jogging in a park, or browsing in a bookstore, we are concentrating heavily on what we are doing at that moment; we are attuned to those experiences. In food, attunement is the ability to discern the layers of flavor in a dish, appreciating how the wine we are drinking affects the flavor of the food, and how the ambience of our surroundings—for example, the lighting, table setting, and music—impacts our overall dining experience. With personal style and fashion, attunement comes from paying attention to how different styles—colors, fabrics, and fits—make you feel.
Today we often talk about being “in the moment” or “fully conscious” to describe attunement. For example, lying on a beach on a hot summer day, you might feel the warmth of the sun on your skin and the rough sand against your feet. You also might pick up the distinctive smell of sea salt in the air. Most people experience these sensations with delight, though some of the associated experiences—such as the feel of a tight wet bathing suit or an inadvertent gulp of seawater—are not at all pleasant. The more attuned you are to your physical environment and its sensations, how they affect your body, and how you feel about their effects, the stronger your foundation for developing AI.
As with so much of AI, our bodies are better guides than our minds when it comes to ascertaining the effect of all these sensations. I remember the first time I tried a cigarette as a young teen. I wanted to enjoy the experience, because I wanted to be cool and it seemed to me that all the most sophisticated kids enjoyed smoking. A cigarette dripping off your lips or held between two fingers was, in fact, a fashion statement. However, I found the actual experience revolting: the burning sensation in my throat, the bitter smell of tobacco, the dizziness, the mild nausea. Not to mention the coughing and hacking after the first attempt to inhale. Most people do not enjoy their first experience with cigarettes. The difference between addicts and me is that they persevere and eventually develop an entirely new set of emotional responses to the same physical sensations—until ultimately, they crave them because of the ritual of smoking as well as the addictive nature of nicotine.
Applying attunement to personal style and “fashion” often begins with a keen understanding of your own body. How do you want your clothing to look on your body? That may dictate the shapes and silhouettes of your choices. It may also suggest specific colors and patterns (or lack thereof). How do you want your clothing to feel on your body? That may guide your choice of materials, textures, and fit. I’ve gone through many fashion stages in my quest for personal style, and they have all contributed something to where I ultimately have landed. When I was sixteen and thinking about college, I wanted to exhibit a cleaner, more academic look. Naturally, preppy came to mind with its crested sweaters, white Peter Pan–collared shirts, penny loafers, and khakis. I hated the look. But I didn’t know or understand why until I experimented with the style.
It took a few times of trying the preppy look before I thought, okay, yuck, this isn’t working. I felt confined, frumpy, and asexual—none of those were qualities I wanted to convey, especially not in college, which would be one of my first experiences with independence and freedom. I did learn that there is nothing in my style that is conventionally Americana or preppy, a look that often conveys the quintessential puritanical work ethic. I didn’t like that, and I certainly didn’t want to express it. I would never feel right in plaid flannel shirts, blue jeans, and Sperry boat shoes or pink-and-green shift dresses (think Lilly Pulitzer, whom I respect but whose style is not to my taste), Shetland wool sweaters, and penny loafers. I admit to not liking the style on other women, either, though somehow it seems less bothersome when I see men trying to pull of the New England prep school persona. (That difference is, I would argue, interesting in itself in terms of understanding my own AI.)
Interestingly, I think the designer Ralph Lauren succeeded in creating chic Americana and preppy looks, in part, by infusing a dose of sexiness, luxuriousness, and modernity into the traditional codes of these looks, such as red, white, and blue or pink and green color combinations; tailored lines; and crisp fabrics such as starched linen and cotton. Tommy Hilfiger took an urban approach to these styles. Both of these designers’ approaches are valid and made the looks relevant, desirable, aspirational—iconic. Both men are useful examples of entrepreneurs who achieved legendary status and prosperity by applying aesthetic intelligence to their businesses. In Lauren’s case, he attracted people who wanted to look WASP-y and genteel but not suburban and frumpy. Hilfiger appealed to urban guys who wanted to look cool but approachable and appropriate.
Once you are well attuned to the effect of stimuli on your body and the feelings they elicit, you are poised for the next step in AI development: articulation—that is, responding to your experiences with language, expressions, and behaviors that constitute your tastes and ideals. In this case, we’re talking about what we choose to put onto and around our bodies.
Codes of dress are dictated by our social and economic class as well as by professional codes that have been established well before us—not to mention practical concerns for comfort and safety. These are part of understanding AI, too, in the sense that they provide a gateway for developing empathy for ourselves and for the way others dress. Walmart is a success for many reasons, but an important one is that its founder, Sam Walton, understood his customers because he was one himself. He knew what sorts of clothes they would buy at his store—practical, inexpensive, sturdy, and acceptable for a variety of situations (Walmart sells dress shirts and pants for men along with work pants, sweats, and T-shirts). He shopped at Walmart and had respect for the men and women who depended on the store. Walton genuinely believed he shouldn’t have to pay an extra penny for a necessary item. Contrast this philosophy to that of Eddie Lampert, former CEO of the embattled Sears Holdings, which owns Kmart. He apparently does not seem to shop at Kmart (Vanity Fair described a typical outfit of his as including “brand-new ‘pure platinum’”3 Nike Air VaporMax Flyknit sneakers—which start at around $2004 and were not sold at Kmart stores. I would argue that a lack of empathy and perhaps even a lack of interest in what a Kmart or Sears shopper is looking for accounts in part for the demise of the stores under Lampert’s watch. He does not seem to know what accounts the stores’ products should fulfill for customers, to use Clay Christensen’s term again. As I see it, he shows no empathy.
Dress codes exist for almost every situation. Offices have dress codes (sometimes even institutionalized through employee handbooks), casual and formal (“black tie”) parties have dress codes, and weddings and funerals have dress codes. Many times, these codes are set according to cultural mores or situational empathy. For example, you wouldn’t wear a low-cut evening dress to a funeral or a white gown to a wedding (unless you were the bride).
Fashion codes work similarly to the way a brand’s codes work. Most of us wear a suit or the contemporary version of a suit (jacket, shirt, pants or skirt) in corporate offices, athleisure clothing (T-shirt or sweater, slacks) on weekends, and what I think of as costumes (amplified color, sparkle or shine, lots more accessories) when attending formal events. The different approaches to dressing can be divided into two clusters: uniforms and costumes. When you see a guy in a suit, you naturally assume that he has some sort of white-collar job. You might think “office worker” or “manager.” The uniform is what we wear day in and day out, and it has a consistency and predictability, even if the color of the tie or shoes varies. Uniforms work to reinforce the externally set dress code but generally undermine personal codes or individual style.
Weekend attire also tends to fall into the uniform category; it’s whatever you pull on to run errands on Saturday morning and is likely not something you’d feel comfortable wearing to a board meeting. But there are differences in weekend wear—recognizable codes of status (which I address in more depth shortly) and personality. A person wearing a Brooks Brothers polo shirt and khakis connotes something different from a person in thrift store–sourced rock-and-roll group T and torn jeans. The costume is something we might wear to a date on a Saturday night, and it may change quite radically from occasion to occasion because special events are our “peacock moments,” when we show off our personalities, desires, and flair.
That said, I find most dress codes to be oppressive, not least because they often send messages we actually don’t want to send (conformity, reluctance, fear). When I invite people to an event, they often ask me about the dress code. I refuse to answer them! Most of us want to fit in and be “appropriate”; we want to make others feel comfortable. This impulse is a positive one, of course—it demonstrates empathy with the host and other guests. But I say that most dress codes should be scrapped.
The problem with dress codes is that they have the pretense of being set by a higher authority, and in my opinion, it’s more beneficial to come up with other codes that express something about the individual and are not based on some nameless overseer’s arbitrary ruling about what’s right and what isn’t. Even in the 1990s, when I started working at Estée Lauder, female executives were discouraged from wearing pantsuits. I found that ironic, as the company had been founded by a modern woman for modern women. I defied the code for that reason. I believe companies and executives who subscribe to the concept of “casual Friday” should abandon that as well. Not only is it ill-defined, but it takes something away from people with creativity and style. It neutralizes one of their key advantages for expressing themselves and sending a message to others about who they are.
Breaking a dress code is one way to convey aspects of your talents and personality. The architect Peter Marino, who designs most of the Chanel, Louis Vuitton, and Dior boutiques around the world, describes his day job as “leather-clad architect.” If you were to look at him and didn’t know he was a highly regarded interior designer, you would assume he was a throwback to the 1980s leather bar scene on the west side of lower Manhattan, thanks to his leather attire and numerous tattoos.5 That’s exactly how he likes it, and in fact he has referred to his look at a “decoy.”6 He has broken the code of the architect’s look: simple, understated, and traditional. From Frank Lloyd Wright to Frank Gehry, that dress code has remained basically unchanged.
Many of my clothes and accessories look like costumes to other people, because they are unusual and unexpected. Though I have a consistent style (eclectic, modern, but internationally inspired), it’s not based on repetition. I also acknowledge that there can be power in uniform-based style statements made by people such as Marino (who consistently dresses in leather motorcycle gear), Steve Jobs (black mock turtleneck and jeans), and Tom Wolfe (bespoke white suits). I just don’t feel that this way of dressing applies to me personally. Antifashion is still fashion. By dismissing it, you are reaffirming its existence. Interestingly many fashion designers, from Jil Sander to Karl Lagerfeld, subscribe to this uniform way of dressing. But make no mistake: basic uniforms still make a strong statement. Marino’s look is singular and recognizable, and Jobs’s and even Wolfe’s uniforms have been emulated by others. Consider that the ill-fated blood-testing company Theranos’s CEO, Elizabeth Holmes, came to copy Jobs’s look, and although it wasn’t the primary factor that worked against her (the company’s blood-testing machines actually didn’t work), it didn’t help.7 Such a uniform can also be a code for a certain kind of superiority: I’m too busy and important to think about my outfits, but I want everyone else to recognize it, too.
Of course, there are real uniforms that are worn in certain industries—and developing your own style is one way of thinking about how a uniform can convey ideas about your brand.
For instance, as discussed in chapter 1, Del Frisco’s Restaurant Group saw the redesign of its waitstaff uniforms as a fundamental component of its overall aesthetic mandate. It hired the iconoclastic design and style expert Edda Gudmundsdottir to orchestrate the uniform redesign. The uniforms have to be practical for the physical nature of the job, and they have to stand up to frequent washings—but they still need to look modern and reinforce the idea of the forward-thinking steak house that maintains the traditional codes of such an establishment while pushing on others. So the necessity for a common outfit in certain jobs is not an excuse to forget aesthetics. Even the US Army thinks about it and, in late 2017, made the decision to bring back the much-loved and stylish World War II–era dress uniform.8
In Japan, schoolgirls spend much of their lives in prescribed uniforms, and an entire fashion movement has arisen around reimaging these uniforms in different ways. The fashion writer Virginia Postrel wrote about “the single most provocative outfit that I have seen on an American university campus,” worn by a Japanese coed. Her hair was in juvenile ponytails. The classic white cotton uniform shirt was tied at the waist to expose her midriff, and so it exposed her red bra. Her pleated schoolgirl skirt was low slung and hiked up so it was basically a ribbon around her thighs, revealing her red thong underwear. Knee-high white socks worn with platform shoes added the final detail to the schoolgirl fantasy look, which in Japan might be considered acceptable (yet provocative) but in the United States, as Postrel notes, might cause the student to be mistaken for a prostitute.9
Then there are other people—we see them every day at the market, on the bus, and on the street—who express a style message by not being mindful and intentional about their clothing: the overweight woman who dresses in black and navy shift dresses because she believes they make her appear thinner; the tired mom who dons novelty sweatshirts or Ts and yoga pants because it gets her out the door in comfort in five minutes flat. As I said earlier, not paying attention to what you are going to wear or opting for the easy way out is still a decision that speaks volumes about who you are and where your aesthetics are going.
Personal taste is not developed in a vacuum. Some of it (and I mean your dislikes as well as likes) comes from the environment in which you grew up, what you observed as you grew and evolved, and what sorts of challenges you face and problems you have to solve. Some aspects of style come from the times in which we live—including the influences of technology and media—and some of them come from the particulars of a geography. We can—and should—reject cultural influences of time and place if they do not suit our personal style. The best personal style does not follow trends and is not concerned with being “fashionable.”
We also know that clothing has long been used to differentiate between the status and power of various groups of people and reinforce class distinctions in many cultures around the world. In fact, before the democratization of fashion of the last few decades and the move toward a more homogeneous casual look, clothing choice could be a means of jumping social class. If you were from the lower classes but bought a nice suit, you could feign your way into professional society. The infamous (and now rehabilitated) scammer Frank Abagnale, Jr. (who was portrayed by Leonardo DiCaprio in the 2002 movie Catch Me If You Can), says, “A nice set of clothes is one of three things that allowed me to convince people I was a doctor and a lawyer when I was still just a teenager. A neatly pressed pilot’s uniform helped assure other pilots that I could fly a plane. The other two things I had going for me was height—I was tall—and I had nice manners.”10
The display of wealth through clothing became customary in Europe during the late thirteenth century, and a person’s station in life could be identified easily by what he or she wore. Dress could signify background, culture, morality, wealth, and power. Into the ninetenth and early twentieth century, cotton pants, dungarees, and T-shirts were reserved for working-class people,11 but today the well-to-do often present themselves in intentionally torn (and very expensive) blue jeans and costly, whisper-thin cotton Ts. An outsider unfamiliar with contemporary fashion codes, looking at such an outfit, might think poorly about one of society’s movers and shakers. Tattoos, once the province of longshoremen and motorcycle gangs, are de rigueur among A-list actresses and soccer moms alike—and an architect, as we’ve seen. No longer forbidden and hidden, tattoos often take center stage on the red carpet as an “accessory” to a glamorous evening dress.
In ancient China, the color yellow signified the center and the earth, and only the emperor was allowed to wear it. Large turbans and layers of gowns made of expensive, important fabric were reserved for the ruling aristocracy in the Hausa community in Africa. In Japan, the colors of a kimono, its weave, the way it was worn, and the size and stiffness of the obi (sash) told a story about the wearer’s social rank.
In traditional cultures, lip plates, neck rings, and even foot binding and corseting are still employed to designate social status and beauty. In the Western world, an Hermès Birkin bag, red-soled Christian Louboutin pumps, Moncler puffy parka, Cartier Tank watch, or Chanel tweed jacket is a marker of luxury and high status. Though knockoffs of these items exist at lower prices, the genuine products send a message to those who recognize authenticity and understand the language of luxury.
How to Look at Clothes
If you want to be serious about developing personal style (or enhancing or changing your current look) it requires you to look at clothes and try them on—experience them sensorially. As the fashion designer Kay Unger says, “Just because you bring it into the fitting room doesn’t mean you have to buy it.”12 The only requirement for trying on clothes is wearing the proper undergarments. Clothes look very different on a hanger than on the human body, and they look very different on a human body that does not have any foundational garments to help fit with its contours. Structured clothing requires some underpinnings to hang and fit properly. “My biggest suggestion would be to not be afraid to step outside the box,” says Unger, which means experimenting with items you might be attracted to but have never dared to wear. “Find a signature, a detail that articulates your style and that is recognizable,” she says. “For Madeleine Albright, it was a pin. Michelle Obama made sleeveless acceptable. That and belts were nice signatures of hers.” A signature is an accessible pathway to your personal style—even if you have to wear a suit every day to work because your profession demands it, you can have a signature. “Wear a colorful suit,” says Unger, “or if you feel you must wear a black or navy suit, wear a colorful blouse or shirt, something that means something to you or says something about you.”13
I also recommend enlisting the help of a friend. I was quite surprised by some of the things my friends said when I asked them how they would describe my personal style. They had ideas I had not thought of. Your friends may have ideas about what would look good on you that had not occurred to you. You’ll be turned off by some of their choices—and that’s okay. Try on things you think are ugly, too. The store won’t mind—that’s what it’s there for. Note the color and texture of things you like and dislike. Be mindful of shapes, silhouettes, lengths, and widths. You’ll start to see that there are myriad sleeve and pant styles, lengths, and cuts. Can you see a pattern in the “like” pile as opposed to the “dislike” pile? And do the clothes in the “like” pile really do you justice? Can you articulate why you like them? Answering these questions will bring you closer to defining your style.
Colors and patterns can serve as megaphones or as camouflage: they can be used to either stand out or blend in. Trust me, when you walk down a Manhattan street in a bright pink mink coat (as I do during the winter), people notice no matter what else might be going on around the wearer. Most people try to make color choices that, like their clothing, make them feel comfortable and flatter their skin, eye, and hair colors. Because I have a very fair complexion, I feel that cooler tones play off my coloring better than warm tones. I seldom wear red and yellow for the same reasons; I tend toward blue and green (with the occasional shock of pink thrown in).
If I dress in beige or gray, I feel glum. My default colors or personal “neutrals” are black and cream. Ultimately, my color choices are based on my quest for happiness. I want to feel happy. And I want to make others happy, too. People who want to be taken seriously typically shy away from bright colors. The important point is that color is a choice and sets a mood for both the wearer and the onlooker.
Many of the patterns and colors developed for specific uses outside fashion have nonetheless found their way into fashion and style. We use these signifiers similarly to their original intention. Military camouflage, for example, was designed based on the theory of “disruptive patterning”: multicolored patterns break up an outline of an animal or object and help conceal it from predators and enemies. Indeed, the military first used camouflage patterns to hide locations and equipment, not soldiers or army personnel. Technological developments in warfare led to machine guns and aerial photography, and militaries in France, England, Germany, and the United States moved away from traditionally bright uniforms to muted colors such as olive drab and then to camouflage patterns. In 1940, the US Army Corps of Engineers experimented with camouflage uniforms, and by 1943, marines started wearing reversible beach coveralls with a frog pattern of green and brown.14
Fluorescent colors convert nonvisible wavelengths into visible colors, making them appear to glow and drawing attention. Nike designer Ben Shaffer started a fashion trend by using fluorescent green in footwear designed for the 2012 Summer Olympics. Thanks to the fluorescence, the Nike sneakers stood out from the scores of other brands on display.
Color and shapes can serve as important organizers of information. For example, highway signs tend to use high color contrast and more open typeface designs for better legibility, especially for older drivers, whose eyes have lost some of their sensitivity to contrast.
Color certainly has an emotional impact on us. A great deal has been written about this phenomenon. There are four hues that are also the most common “focal” colors: red, green, yellow, and blue. The significance of these unique hues has been recognized since at least the fourteenth century and is universal, according to research.15 Color also impacts how we perceive not just people but brands. When you think about color choices for yourself, consider how they impact the consumer world. The burnt orange and brown of Hermès’s bags, boxes, and ribbons don’t often find their way into the brand’s clothing, but they are a distinctive reminder of the quality and luxury—and timelessness—of the Hermès mark.
Interpretation is understanding and dissecting your natural responses, both sensorial and emotional. How can we take what we intuit (our attunement) and make sense of it? How can we organize and codify our feelings around our sensations? How can we recognize patterns and apply them to decisions and actions? Interpretation of our own senses is the basis of elevating our personal style and taste. Interpretation of others’ taste is the basis of good product design, branding, merchandising, marketing, and creative communications. The following three miniexercises promote critical thinking about personal likes and dislikes and, more holistically, thinking about what one aspires to and why. This will help elevate your personal style—and the aesthetic sense you bring to your business:
A “beauty mark” is a possession—any possession that was originally store-bought, not custom-made or handed down, for which you feel a particularly strong affinity and affection. At Harvard, I asked students to bring an actual object (or a representation of that object, i.e., a photo) to class and, in advance, give some thought as to why that particular object has such auratic power over them. The value of this exercise is to uncover and explore our emotional connection to objects.
Interestingly, about three-quarters of my students’ “beauty marks” fall into the category of fashion—i.e., clothing, footwear, and jewelry. We as individuals seem to be more strongly attached to and identified with these possessions, as opposed to less personal ones such as cars, technological gadgets, and electronic equipment. Clothing and accessories are imbued with meaning and memories that are personal and special. Many of us remember what we were wearing during certain events. (For example, I will always associate my graduation ceremony from elementary school with the summery purple dress that I wore. Funny enough, one of my classmates wore the exact same dress to the ceremony, though each of us wore it differently.) Today my choice of beauty mark is a set of heavy metal bangles—one gold, one silver—that I bought at a Celine sample sale. I call them my “Wonder Woman cuffs.” They are indestructible, they look like armor, and they make me feel strong and powerful, especially as they sit on my otherwise delicate wrists. I also like the way they clash visually—gold and silver are not usually worn together—and the jangling noise they make as I walk through a room.
Like a beauty mark, an “eyesore” is an object that you once bought, still possess, and regularly use. However, in contrast to your feelings of affection for your beauty mark, your eyesore evokes negative feelings such as irritation, annoyance, and even disgust. Yet the object still serves a function. In this instance, in assessing the selections I saw much more diversification of categories than I did in the Beauty Mark assignment. Clothing and footwear made up only 40 percent of the top irritants. In contrast, about one-quarter of eyesores fell into the category of technological devices—things like cell phones and laptops—that the students depended on but were nonetheless bothered by.
I have a few eyesores. One of them is my stainless-steel Breville espresso maker, which I bought for a whopping $550. It churns out supremely good coffee. However, in the process, it makes a dreadful grating sound while grinding the coffee beans, followed by a piercing screech during the steaming of milk. The noise is all the more bothersome in the early hours of the morning, when I typically make my coffee.
Another one of my eyesores is my Lady Dior handbag (named after the late Princess Diana). I love its classic square shape, quilted calfskin leather in blush tone, and gold-tone accents. So what’s my beef? Lack of accessibility. The zipper atop the structured box does not run all the way from one end to the other, making it difficult to get in and out of the bag. Whenever I use the bag, my hand gets all scratched up. Moreover, my standard-size wallet does not fit through the narrow opening. (I suppose Lady Di didn’t have to worry about carrying a wallet.) The bottom line in both cases—the noisy Breville and the handbag—is that good design has to consider the impact of the item on all the senses.
A style icon is a person—living or dead—whom you most aspire to become or emulate stylistically. When assigning this miniexercise, I asked my students to bring in an image of their style icons and give thought to what elements of their particular selection most appealed to them and why. Interestingly, 100 percent of my students chose an “icon” that was of the same sex. In other words, men looked only to other men for fashion/style authority, and women looked only to other women. A whopping 90 percent of my students selected icons who are alive and influential in their own lifetime, while only 10 percent selected those from another era (e.g., Jackie Onassis, Cary Grant, Steve McQueen). Finally, 80 percent of my students picked someone famous (Hollywood celebrity, musician, athlete—in that order); only 20 percent chose someone from their immediate circle (grandmother/mother/friend) or lesser-known influencers (e.g., microbloggers).
When you go through this process, dig deep. Ask yourself why certain people come to mind as icons. What aspects of their image have most influenced your own style? How and why? In my case, a few iconic women come to mind. (Yes, I, too, choose to stick within my sex.) For her progressive, bold, feministic fashion, I most admire Coco Chanel. I love her propensity to break rules and her confidence to set new ones. For her intelligence, elegance, and restraint, I admire Cate Blanchett. For her queenly and mysterious air, Catherine Deneuve. And for her wit, charm, and eccentricity, Dorothy Parker. Of course, no one woman fully embodies all of my aspirations. But these women are at the top of my list, and their appeal to me remains timeless.
As we’ve seen, clothing is not just about how it looks, nor is food simply about how it tastes. Both are essentials for human survival. They provide sustenance and protection from the elements. They also are sources of enormous delight. The third area that covers an essential need while serving as a source of delight is shelter. This trifecta is so elemental that it is considered the obligation of parents to provide it to their children (along with love, of course) until they are old enough to fend for themselves. Yet thanks to the relative prosperity and abundance of our times, most of us have moved well beyond Abraham Maslow’s hierarchy of physiological needs and look to these three things (alongside many others) as a means of pursuing self-actualization and happiness. In the next chapter, we’ll focus on the third, shelter, as part of our quest to achieve aesthetic intelligence. A well-designed space is the ultimate example of good curation. Learning how to elicit delight and desire through interior design builds on the same principles and techniques used to create aesthetic value for your brand and your business.