MY STYLE ICON: IN APPRECIATION OF SOLANGE'S FEARLESSNESS

The term "style icon" is one ripe for examination: Why do we worship others based on their clothes? How deep do these fascinations really go? And what if icons aren't exactly flawless? On the heels of our other digital mini-issues dedicated to segments of our collective psyches—from weed culture to how modern women think and talk about sex to why we're all just a little full of it—all week long ELLE.com will be exploring the pastime of finding ourselves in another woman's style. This article appears in the March 2015 issue of ELLE magazine.
I consider myself something of a fashionista, if anyone still uses that term. Mostly because I have an aversion to trends. So I love it whenever I get to do a double take when watching a celebrity prance along the red carpet. It's rare. Solange is the exception. This young Texan always brings the cool, the funk, the playful, the wild, the sexy, and her very own cultural zeitgeist—sometimes all in one outfit. She breaks all the boring rules about what constitutes "good taste."
Not only is she not afraid of color, it's her friend. She's the queen of color-blocking. I don't know anybody who better marries colors that were never even meant to be engaged: orange slacks, orange turtleneck under a cobalt blue coat with pink pumps. Grape and lime green. A white blouse is a canvas. She takes the idea of "mix and match" to a whole new level: Dare me?
She's convinced prints to accept one another, and if the public doesn't get it, it doesn't seem to matter to her. Solange dresses for Solange, not for them, which requires pounds of bravery and chutzpah and confidence in an age when celebrities are scrutinized down to their last piece of jewelry. Every star in Hollywood has a stylist, an army of wardrobe warriors who choose the same boring outfits from the same designers, awards season after awards season, only to see three other women dressed identically and then the question posed: "Who Wore It Best?" Who wore it best? Who cares?
I know I'm not alone among people who can't wait to see what Solange is going to break out on the red carpet—or her own wedding. That white dress and white cape were fierce. But those gold cuffs on both wrists made her look like a goddess.
Perhaps I feel this way because I feel like I am looking at a kindred spirit. When I was in high school, we were, in politically correct terms, "financially challenged." Even then I never liked wearing what everybody else was wearing. I may not have had Solange's level of style (or her clothing allowance), but I like to think I had her level of bravery. I was a pretty good seamstress; I used Butterick patterns, among others. I remember making a pair of wide-legged burgundy and gray bell-bottoms, which I wore with an inexpensive (okay, cheap) pink shirt-blouse with a burgundy tie I stole from one of my mother's boyfriends. I turned heads when I walked into a basketball game at my high school—no one could figure out where I'd bought the outfit. That's what I love about Solange. On the red carpet, the question is ubiquitous: "Who are you wearing?" The difference with Solange is that you actually care about the answer.
As women we tend to look to the past for our fashion role models. I find myself looking to the future. I'm no Solange, but I share her love for making a personal statement whenever she's out in public. She can sing. She can write. She's a model, an actress, a mother. And man, can she dress. I think that, years from now, we'll look at some of her fashion-forward ensembles the way we now look at Jackie Kennedy's. Hopefully Solange's, too, will find their place in some museum. Because when it comes to fashion, she is a work of art.