New York and Parisian women



Camille Rowe is wearing the Madewell et Sézane® Paris Mon Amour Tee.

New York and Paris Style: What’s the Difference? Camille Rowe Shares Her Take

Posted on July 15, 2015 by Madewell

No one understands the style nuances of a city quite like a native, so who better to bring our Madewell et Sézane collaboration—inspired by New York and Paris—to life than Camille Rowe, a French-born model and something of a dual citizen of both places?

Camille’s been splitting time between the two cities for seven years now and, impressively, can distinguish a New Yorker from a Parisian with just a quick glance. In between wardrobe changes on set, Camille answered a few fill-in-the-blank questions to explain the differences between the two cities. Or, put another way, here’s how to look like a local whichever side of the pond you’re on.

You can always recognize a New York woman by…The green juice in her hand. And her big sunglasses.

You can always recognize a Parisian woman by…Her bedhead.

New York girls learn about style from…Magazines, like Teen Vogue.

Parisian girls learn about style from…People they admire. In my case, it was my dad. He taught me to appreciate vintage clothing, good classic denim and boots.

Every New York woman has…Sneakers for everyday life and a great big coat for parties.
Every Parisian woman has…Simple cotton underwear, and red lipstick for fancy nights out.
In New York, women dress for…Other women.
In Paris, women dress for…Men.
New York has taught me to…Wear Birkenstocks and take more style risks.
In Paris, I’d never wear…Sneakers. It’s such a New York thing, like working out. It’s almost taboo in Paris.

A song that captures the spirit of New York style is…“She Belongs to Me,” by Bob Dylan.
A song that captures the spirit of Parisian style is…“Il Est Cinq Heure Paris S’éveille,” by Jacques Dutronc.
One thing I love to wear in both Paris and New York are…My Madewell denim shorts—high rise, real denim, no stretch. 

Camille Rowe wearing the Madewell et Sézane® Pullover Sweater, The Perfect Summer Short
and a Straw Mesa Hat.

 

Revisit Image

black woman in Paris le Jardin des Tuileries by The Sartorialist

María Conchita Alonso visited the Playboy Legacy Collection in July of 2007, and had a fashion flub when her dress surprised her and show more of her breasts. How were you as a man supposed to act in such a situation? Do you look, turn your head, or mirror her response as your reaction? Is her reaction a defensive method, or a mask over her true feelings? However you answer the last question it goes back to the first question. - Gregory E. Woods, Keeper of Stories 1.20.14

VIEWED from Above

View from the Eiffel Tower in Paris, FRANCE
October 21, 2012

Self viewed from above, within & below the surface.

CONTRASTS

I've been to Paris, twice, and I don't remember this view. Perhaps its one reserved for lovers.
Playboy

There is a lifestyle that obscures base elements of a society.

The first time I went to Paris I was 18 years old. We went as a family, and stayed in a nice hotel I remember with fondness because, first of all, the ride by taxi from the airport to the hotel scared the shit out of us all. Daddy hired a few cabs because we had a lot of luggage between seven people, most pieces weighing 70 lbs. My cab driver was a gruff mannish looking woman with enviable size to her arms and girth to her midsection. She didn't say much. She grumbled in French jargon saying words like, 'merde'.  She intimidated us throwing 70 lbs. bags around like they were made of air and feathers, and then ordered us in the car, more by gesture and threat, and sped off at high rates of speed through insane traffic patterns.  My brothers and I, squeezed in the back, held on tight to the brown leather seats for dear life frantic a bit; scared she'd get lost, or we'd turn over, or run over some poor pedestrian playing roulette with their lives trying to cross a street!

When we got there at the speed of sound she repeated herself mumbling under breath, and throwing our bags around like they were spools of toilet paper. Finished she stood impatiently staring at us, but not really staring, just scaring the hell out of us until Daddy finally paid her and the other cabbies.

Our rooms were right out of a 1940's film: elegant, opulent, spacious. We pretended we were stars used to this life. The bathrooms were odd. There was a wash basin, a toilet, a tub and a tiny miniature tub in the bathroom. The tiled floors and high ceiling made us feel expansive, and silly with glee. We started making fun of the tiny toilet and gloating a bit for some reason that makes no sense in retrospect, until I pressed a knob on the tiny toilet and water shot straight up into the air. We jumped out of our skins, shouted and screamed in dismay. By the time we stopped laughing and figured how to shut the thing off we were wet and slipping on the floor. It was so funny, but we still didn't know what it was and couldn't stop making up things to laugh about.

One night, after everyone was asleep, I slipped out of the room and the hotel and wandered the streets of Paris. I knew enough about ants to know how to navigate. I wandered the streets like the child I was. So many things I am sure Parisians take for granted loomed larger than life for me. They were countless. I made myself invisible sometimes to observe people and events because I didn't speak the language, and I didn't know anyone. When I saw the false dawn the mood of the city changed. I could sense it. It was a movement, a taste of transition. Walking I was drawn forward until I peeped around a corner and saw, arising out of the sidewalks from behind whatever they'd slept under, whatever hid them, homeless men stretching the sleep out of their bodies!

I was aghast.

They started clawing for territory and food. They were fighting over trash cans and tearing at each other with guttural sounds and no language, no French curse words; just looks over their shoulders. Their bodies guarded food sources. Their eyes warned each other away. This was gutter warfare. This was the tear in the illusion of the city of love. It was the opening wound to an understanding of an underworld of existence and survival previously closed to me by the privilege afforded me by my parents.

My awakening was in Paris. - Gregory E. Woods, Keeper of Stories (1.11.13 a new moon)

Saeeda

Pakistan:

Saeeda 14, is a victim of an acid attack. A man named Waheed who owned a school where Saeeda’s mother worked asked for Saeeda’s mother’s consent to marry her daughter. Saeeda and her mother rejected the proposal; but after pressure from her brother Saeeda, she eventually agreed.

Shortly after nikkah (the matrimonial contract between bride and bride groom in Islamic marriage), Saeeda was accused of adultery and having a loose character. Waheed started abusing Saeeda, then she discovered that Waheed and her brother’s wife were having an affair. Saeeda who was pregnant at the time confronted Waheed and he pushed her down the stairs, resulting in a miscarriage. Waheed demanded dissolution of the marriage in order to avoid compensation: 100,000 rupees. Saeeda refused and was beaten, poisoned, and thrown in front of a car. Waheed then gave her sleeping pills claiming they were painkillers.

One day Saeeda allegedly took too many pills and fell unconscious. Waheed called Saeeda’s brother and told him that Saeeda attempted suicide. After Saeeda recovered, Waheed sent her back to her family. Saeeda’s mother begged Waheed to either divorce Saeeda, or take her back and live like a respectable couple.

Unfortunately, Waheed had other plans; he arrived one night to the house and threw acid on Saeeda. 

MODELS form study

Parisian woman on a Paris street
by the Sartorialist

Paris