My Blithering Obsessive Girl Crush On Lynn Yaeger

Style icon doesn't even begin to describe her!
Publish date:
September 28, 2011
fashion, love, crush, Lynn Yaeger

My squealing NYFW moment happened not in New York, but on Twitter. I was trolling twitter, as I am apt to do, in my leopard print pajamas and my hair a mess, and a fancy publication tweeted a photograph of Lynn Yaeger and Nicki Minaj sitting front row at the Betsey Johnson show!

Except this magazine spelled HER name wrong. So I promptly corrected them, as I am also apt to do. This is not some NYC socialite we are talking about! This is Thee Goddess Lynn Yaeger! When the Village Voice decided to END my Lynn's amazing wonderful and brilliant fashion column after THIRTY YEARS (First known as Elements of Style and later renamed Frock Star) Barney's creative director Simon Doonan sent her a note which read: "You are the only decent/bearable/lucid fashion writer on the planet. The VV was insane to let you slip away… Whatever!!!… Screw them! You’re fabulous! Love, SD."

And he summed up my feelings about Lynn perfectly. She does not think fashion is for the very rich or the very young or the very thin. The way she writes about clothing is like poetry:

On Karen Elson's line for Nine West taken from the New York Times:

Once there was this English showgirl and she used to take the stage right before Archie Rice came on, but now she is old and can barely get up from her rocking chair -- but there is a trunkful of her tattered dance shoes up in the attic. And maybe she was your grandma and you just discovered them. Or maybe your granny (great-granny?) was a weathered-but-gorgeous sharecropper, a Dust Bowl refugee in frayed frock and battered boots, only -- wait! -- what if those boots were splattered with glitter?

And fashion, when done properly, is poetry. Or at the very least, a wonderful, well-loved book you want to get lost in.

and Lynn is my favorite poet.

On her own personal style Lynn has said:

People have asked how I get the courage to walk the streets in, say, a shredded Comme des Garçons coat over a tutu, with metallic orange hair. I owe my confidence at least in part to my parents, who were convinced I was the cutest thing on Earth and told me so every single day. (Recently, seeing my reflection at a party, I could almost hear my mom saying, "Lynnie, you look so pretty!")

With her porcelain skin and cupid's bow mouth, not to mention her a tad-over-size-0 figure and bright hair, Lynn shows us that beauty and fashion are not exclusive to anyone. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to troll Twitter and ask if anyone knows where I can find a vintage fur collared sweater, as I am finally, definitely apt to do.