This happens sometimes: during the winter, blurry from too many hot toddies and trying to fix my radiator, I start to think that this summer will be the one. Why do we place so much emphasis on this season? Every summer is the summer of love; every summer is the summer of the swans; I'm going to come of age in ways I didn't know existed. I envision a new era in the bleached tones of late 60s and early 1970s films. Visions of freedom as conveyed by the inscrutable and sexy Peter Fonda in Easy Rider. Note that this summer's Roman gladiator sandals, Native American inspirations, high-waisted jeans (which technically came back in the spring), and past seasons' peasant blouses and Victorian frippery are all rooted in this time frame.
It's true that there are only so many decades to draw upon, but summer fashion consistently refers to those years in one way or another. I'll find myself, see America, wear some aviators or Ray-Bans, whatever it takes. Though the clothing no longer has the rebellious edge that it did when it first appeared on the scene forty years ago, it's still played out in a bucolic, liberal fantasy. It's a pretty optimistic outlook, sitting at a desk in New York.
In the end, though, the clothes can only do so much. Eventually, the dog days set in, and I worry about the impending back to school vibe and Fashion Week. I'll realize that I didn't experience any sort of new magic, or maybe I won't realize it until the Fall. But I sometimes want to say, as Fonda does at the end of Easy Rider: "We Blew it."
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