Musings on Elegance

Pre-election thoughts about style and the American Dream

As my high school AP U.S. History teacher used to say whenever trouble was brewing—usually something involving Henry Clay—“There’s tension in the air; you could cut it with a knife.” It’s been clear that tension has been simmering for what feels like a year, and now everything comes down to Tuesday. I must admit, it feels like déjà vu—the paralyzing, anxiety-laden, hand-wringing feeling that left me out of commission for days the last time we were in this situation. I almost let that anxiety get to me again this time. If you read my recent letter on dressing for fall, you might have noticed that even getting dressed hasn’t come easily to me lately. Perhaps you, too, have felt the same way.

The reset season

For most of October, I’ve been searching for something to say that might resonate, something worth sharing with you. Who would have thought I’d find it tucked in Ex-Wife, a 1929 novel by Ursula Parrott about a divorcee navigating the pulsing streets of New York, love affairs, endless cocktails, and the aftermath of a broken marriage? I was so captivated that last Friday, I treated myself to a splurgy breakfast at Lodi just to savor the final chapters. (An unexpected perk of breakfasting at Lodi was overhearing a group of suited men discussing their weight, with one man referencing The Devil Wears Prada to comment on a colleague’s recent weight loss: “You’re one stomach flu away from your goal weight.”) The novel has a disarming frankness that scandalized readers then—and, to be honest, would probably still raise some eyebrows today. It’s filled with sharp lines, like, “I may not be pure, but thank heaven I look immaculate.” I really wanted to use it for the title of today’s newsletter, but I’m not feeling that devilish enough to do it justice—so I’ll keep it in my back pocket.

One passage, though, kept tugging at me:

It was seven weeks since Peter left; five weeks since I began to live with Lucia. There was no time, or not very much, to think about Peter—waking, doing calisthenics, having orange juice and toast and coffee in a drug store, taking a cab to the office. No time to think of Peter, from nine to one, or from two-thirty to five-thirty. No time after, walking home fast, two miles in forty minutes, bathing, dressing, going places.

Men told Lucia I was lovely looking, but completely cold.

Why cold? I let them kiss me when they must, in cabs, dancing in hot nightclubs, at parties. They were not real. Neither was the office.

Clothes were real. I bought many clothes so that, when Peter called up, I could say “come over instantly,” and I would be marvelously dressed. I dressed carefully, always, because I might meet some friend of Peter’s, who would go back to him and say, “I saw Patricia; she was looking beautiful.” Then he would call up sooner.

The telephone was real. Someday, or perhaps some night late, it would ring significantly.

The word “real” lingered over me for days, following me around like a stray cat hoping for a warm meal—or, better yet, an invitation inside. I spent days unraveling what it meant, not only to Patricia but also to myself. For her, “real” was anything that kept her close to Peter—the clothes she bought for him to admire, the telephone that held the promise of rekindled love with every ring. Her reality was bound up in him, a feeling anyone who’s had a broken heart or bruised ego might recognize. It got me thinking: what do I consider “real”?

At first, lighthearted thoughts came to mind—“Diamonds always felt real.” Or I’d catch a glimpse of a particular shoe or piece of clothing that felt “real” in the moment. (For instance, these shearling-lined pumps.) But the more I reflected, the more I realized that reality is often best when it’s abstract, like the sounds of Frank Sinatra or Ella Fitzgerald, or that feeling you get on the brink of tears—then finally letting them fall and suddenly feeling lighter.

The other day, I saw a little house from the train on the way to Hudson. It felt so real it made my heart swell, and I thought of Nancy Wilson’s “The Folks Who Live on the Hill” and a memory of a silly fight I once had with Nick, likely over my endless piles of clothes. I sent him that song as a peace offering. Looking at that house, imagining life there, I realized that the thing that feels most real to me—perhaps now more than ever—is elegance.

What I am taking away from Paris

In Allure, Diana Vreeland wrote, “Elegance is innate. It has nothing to do with being well-dressed. It’s a quality possessed by certain thoughts and certain animals. Elegance is refusal.” I’ve touched on this idea before, and while I don’t want to overstate my point on quiet luxury, I believe its true harm was less in promoting “commercial” clothes than in making style feel formulaic, almost prescriptive. Reflecting on the SS25 collections, I noticed that while some lines leaned heavily on commercial narratives or forced stories to mask lackluster designs, many pushed against these notions in favor of something deeper—a genuine sophistication. Not the hollow kind trotted out by quiet luxury, but a rich, honest elegance.

Left: Alaia SS25. Right: Auralee SS25.

You saw it at Alaïa in the sheer peplum harem pants and cocoon coats, at Valentino in every ruffle, bow, and bead, and at Auralee, where a sleeveless sheath dress paired with a pistachio green scarf and flip-flops seemed to capture the moment. Collections like these—along with Khaite and Diotima—felt like proposals on how to dress for an uncertain future which I possess a certain level of elegance. Instead of endlessly recycling replicas from Carolyn Bessette Kennedy’s wardrobe—arguably one of the most influential style inspirations of recent seasons—some designers are betting on people craving their own slice of Camelot.

Left: Valentino Resort 2025. Right: Jacqueline Onasiss circa 1970.

I may be biased in thinking Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis is entering the minds of designers more these days, but you can’t deny seeing her in that Auralee look. She even appeared on the mood boards of Gucci and Jacquemus, and in Alessandro’s Resort and SS25 collections, where several pieces echoed her style as a Valentino client. I admire her not only for her taste but also for the way she upheld the mythic allure of the American Dream. Her deep appreciation for this myth inspired one of her most ambitious projects as First Lady: restoring the White House and founding The White House Historical Association. This same reverence shaped one of Jackie’s greatest contributions—the legend of Camelot. When the Kennedys arrived, Jackie was dismayed to find so few original furnishings; nearly nothing predated 1948. (Mamie Eisenhower’s approach had prioritized making the White House feel like a comfortable home rather than a historical treasure, resulting in decor reminiscent of a midcentury “I Love Lucy” home, complete with homey touches and plenty of pink.) Jackie’s passion for this restoration was also fueled by her love of France. A Francophile at heart, her preference for French designers became a campaign concern, with fears that it could cost Jack the election.

Of course, one could dismiss her efforts as minimal—and history often regards women’s work as such (If you look at American history, many of the most influential figures in shaping the country have been women—Harriet Tubman, Shirley Chisholm, Dolley Madison, the Rosie the Riveters, and countless others whose contributions transformed the fabric of our society.)—but to dismiss her work is to disregard the importance of myth and how it shapes identity. Her love of American history combined with French cultural reverence, showing us that elegance and myth-making, real or imagined, will always be part of the American Dream.

Initially, I would never have connected “elegance” with the American Dream that was spoon-fed to me as a child. Looking back, maybe young me did find some magic in the story of George Washington and his cherry tree or in the vision of a white picket fence, two kids, and a dog. I think those images held a special place for little Jalil, not because they were extraordinary, but because they offered glimpses into a life that felt distant and unfamiliar to me. We didn’t have a cherry tree (though we had a pear tree that supposedly stopped bearing fruit when my great-grandfather died). Nor did we have a white picket fence or a dog. And yet, even without those things, there was something delicious about the idea of having them one day.

Emory J. Stovall, Los Alamos, New Mexico, 1979 | 'In the American West' | Ph: Richard Avedon

There’s no doubt that the American Dream entered a sort of “flop era” as one by one, its pillars began to topple—hustle culture (the modern equivalent of bootstrapping), home ownership, the middle class, and so on. But strangely, this year, it felt as if the American Dream made an unexpected comeback. I realized I wasn’t imagining this shift when I read

Brendon Holder

’s “Is America Out of Its Flop Era?”

In it, Holder describes America—and by extension, the American Dream—as a brand: “I have always been fascinated by the brand of America. The way a nation, more acutely than others, can become a commodity, rich with symbols and artifacts that archive a persona, a history, a collective dream.” He adds:

But America has always been the most effective marketer of its exports, storytelling a mix of fact and fiction to construct its lore. It’s a celebrity that calls the paparazzi on itself. To me, this self-mythologization has always been something to be proud of, something to envy in tandem with the country’s glaring shortcomings, like systemic racism and using Fahrenheit like a widdle bitch.

He credits part of the “injection of American pride in the culture” to Kamala Harris’s nomination, though he notes it appeared even earlier, in music releases like Beyoncé’s Cowboy Carter. “This album, with its bipartisan anthem “TEXAS HOLD ‘EM,” sparked conversations about who owns country music and, by extension, who owns America, deepening connections between Americans and America.”

Since its release, Beyoncé has continued to embrace her big-hair, Texan oil-tycoon wife aesthetic, even collaborating with Levi’s—what’s more American than blue jeans? Whether it’s her vision, Chappell Roan’s Midwestern sensibility, Lana Del Rey’s “National Anthem” Americana, or her current Louisiana bayou persona, each interpretation of America—and the American Dream—carries its own distinct look. It all adds to the idea that only in America can you be whoever you want to be.

In the American lexicon, the freedom to be oneself is inevitably packaged and sold, a phenomenon Diana Vreeland might have deemed a vulgar attempt to price an idea, mood, or notion. Yet there’s a certain elegance in the fact that part of the American Dream involves something consumable. Whether it’s the way you tie a scarf, the way you walk down the street, or the brands you favor, each element becomes a signifier of who you are and what you stand for. In a sense, to consciously pursue an ideal means embracing Vreeland’s idea that “elegance is refusal”—for to strive toward one vision, you inevitably let other possibilities fall to the wayside.

Focusing on life’s smallest details is, after all, a way of exploring the subtleties of identity. Committing to the pursuit of those markers requires a kind of devotion to a dream—an idea thoughtfully captured in

tariro makoni

“Sweet American Pie.” (Notably, one of the work’s images is a collage of stills from Lana Del Rey’s National Anthem video.)

The new J.Crew.

Where Holder’s piece traces the American Dream’s trajectory mostly through music, Makoni is more interested in its manifestation through consumption. In her analysis—drawing primarily from an article by Jason Ma for Fortune—Makoni argues:

…most Americans have decided to stop saving and start spending. So instead of actually obtaining the 2.5 kids, golden retriever, and white picket fence, consumers have pivoted to the tried & true transitive property: spending their money on the clothes and accessories that give the appearance of the American Dream.. without.. well, actually having to achieve it.

She goes on to suggest that this is why we’re seeing a resurgence of brands like Sperry, J.Crew, and Gap—they embody a tangible version of the American Dream, albeit a distinctly preppy-coded one.But if you’ve listened to

Articles Of Interest

you’ll know that the construction of the preppy look itself draws from a mix of identities, with some roots even in the workwear of blue-collar workers. I’d also credit their comeback to the enduring appeal of nostalgia—a trend I had hoped might be fading, though it seems nostalgia is here to stay (and perhaps that’s for the best; I’m still undecided).

From Vogue, 1950: “Women in Wartime” featuring Dorian [L] and Evelyn Tripp, photographed by Irving Penn. This image was part of Penn’s feature on the evolution of style from the 1900s to the mid-20th century.

While people often talk about 90s nostalgia—and yes, we’re still inundated with images of that era—I think the nostalgia wave has recently moved beyond just that storied decade, reaching further back into the 70s and even the 20s. But today’s nostalgia isn’t simply about recreating a particular look; it’s about capturing a certain feeling, a particular idea: “Don’t let it be forgot, that for one brief and shining moment there was a Camelot.”

The "Wrong Jacket" Theory

It’s hard to think about life beyond Tuesday—with so much uncertainty hanging thick in the air, enough to make you feel queasy. Yet the sobering truth is that there will, in fact, be a day after Tuesday, and another after that, and so on. This isn’t to downplay the weight of the moment; I’ve been in a state of constant tension since mid-October, and I suspect my nerves about the election are largely to blame. But no matter the outcome, Americans will have to wake up, look in the mirror, and face the same question we ask ourselves every day: “What am I going to wear today?” Which, in essence, is really asking: Who am I going to be today?

Some might see my suggestion that we choose elegance as a balm—not only for the present moment or as a way out of this fashion rut—as whimsical, perhaps even foolish. And maybe they’re right. After all, is a touch of whimsy truly the best response to a harsh reality? Still, I hold to my belief that what the world needs now isn’t just beauty for beauty’s sake; we need things that inspire us to reach for something greater than we were yesterday. And so, I choose elegance.