On this trip, I’ve started developing, or rather, rediscovering a taste in fashion. It may have started at the Inaugural Ballgowns of First Ladies in the American History museum in D.C., or earlier, with the spectacularly fashionable and practical tourist in Yellowstone who had to be French. Either way, by the time I got back home, my practice of pulling a random shirt and pair of pants from the drawer had been all but abolished.
I was kind of surprised by which of the ball gowns in Washington I liked. I hadn’t thought of myself as someone who had strong opinions on fashion beyond, “That is totally impractical.” I thought Michele Obama’s was quite overdone, and much too sparkly where I liked the simple elegance of Nancy Reagan’s. I wonder if next  year, the President’s Inaugural outfit will be added to the collection.
At the Folk Art museum in Santa Fe, NM, I found myself strangely drawn to the flamenco dresses. The trains (trails, tails? I may be more interested in fashion, but not enough to learn the terminology) were beautiful, although they seem like a pain in the neck to to drag around. The best part of the exhibit was the dress-up area. Yet more proof that I am still a little kid at heart was how delighted I was to try on a big ruffly dress. 
By the time we reached California, I was beginning to acknowledge my newfound interest in fashion, so when the Oscar de la Renta Exhibit at the DeYoung in San Francisco was recommended to us, I was raring to go. It was especially praised for its exhibit design, which was truly exquisite. In the entry hall, wooden skyscrapers lent backdrops to what was considered everyday wear, though the plainest among the outfits would be sure to turn heads.
A screen showing footage of gardens played behind some of the most outlandish dresses I’ve ever seen. I don’t care how elegant you think you look, there is no purpose for a train that long. It will never naturally splay itself out like that, and no matter how clean your garden paths are, it will be full of grit by the end of a five minute walk. Cut off, another dress could be made of its fabric.
The room beyond that was perhaps even odder. Mannequins with Mohawks in ball gowns, and the sign explaining it seemed to be talking about Vietnamese women’s empowerment. I think I may be missing something, and if anyone has any idea what it’s saying, please tell me!
Mirrors and sequins made the next room glitter like a disco ball. These were the dresses worn by people like Taylor Swift and Rihanna, and they were every bit as glamorous as you’d expect, although some of them made me wonder how Oscar and the woman wearing them had ever come to be regarded as fashion experts. My tomboy tendencies as well as the modernist views transferred to me by architect parents led to a distinct feeling that less is more where bows and sparkles are concerned. A simple red dress by the exit was not one of these atrocities. The fabric layers were reminiscent of the scales on a butterfly’s wing, and part of me wondered whether I would rather have spent the hour in the science museum next door. Fashion may be a new passion, but it won’t outweigh my old interests.