Yes, It's Cerulean

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: Well, happily, there is no escaping the new The Devil Wears Prada–and who would want to escape? I pretty much adored every minute of the original–well, except for some parts, like why would Andy have THAT boyfriend? but whatever.  I especially applauded any moment that Meryl Steep was on screen ("No no. That's all...."and "Why is no one rea-dy...."), and yes, especially the “cerulean” scene. And--the best--when Andy came out in the Chanel boots. Oh, so perfect.

Remember? She was transformed. Clothes can do that, right? And the wonderful Lucy Ashe (look at her bio! Swooning!) reminds us how clothing can be just as powerful in novels.

Keep reading, because she has a terrific question for us all at the end. And one lucky commenter will win a copy of her new book!

Dressing characters: 

        fashion and the meaning behind our clothes
by Lucy Ashe


It fascinates me how some writers describe the clothes their characters wear in intricate depth while others offer broad strokes or nothing at all. For me, I’ve always been interested in the sometimes deliberate but often unconscious choices that we make when dressing ourselves.

 The couple who leave the house wearing near-identical outfits, the woman with a wardrobe packed with her ‘uniform’ of white t-shirts and jeans, the school-teacher who wears a comedy tie every day. Even when we don’t realise it, clothes are performative: they show the world something of who we want to be, or they hide us, defending us from the scrutiny of others.


When I was writing The Model Patient, I became obsessed with the choices my characters made in dressing themselves. The Model Patient is about a former fashion-model turned housewife in 1960s London, and the clothes she wears are a protective armour from the parts of her life that frighten her. A new shirt gives her confidence, torn tights and a miniskirt is a rebellion against the disapproval of her mother-in-law, a leather jacket makes her feel strong.






Carnaby Street, London, 1966

When Evelyn Westbrook develops a dangerous relationship with her psychotherapist, it is not only her own clothes that she obsesses over, but also those of her therapist. He takes a Freudian ‘blank-slate’ approach, giving her nothing of himself and withholding his care when she needs it most, a technique that intensifies the transference (the way the patient projects past relationships onto the therapist). All she knows about him is what she can see, and she analyses his clothes with fixated vigilance.

At first she likes the softness of his clothes, no ties, no stiffly ironed shirts, instead a casual wardrobe for a 1960s Mod man: she feels that his fashion choices seem to give her permission to relax, to feel she is with someone who will listen to her with care rather than assert his authority as the doctor. But soon this begins to shift and she becomes convinced that he is making deliberate clothing choices to manipulate her, using the secrets she shares with him to wear clothes that bring up intense emotions.






Fashion advertisements in women’s magazines from the 1960s.



And although the idea of choosing clothes as a means to control and manipulate others might seem far-fetched, there is a gentler truth. We do signal something about ourselves through the clothes we wear, the brands we choose, the styles we adopt. Are we a rule-follower or breaker? What group affiliations do we have? Are we in a position of power, setting the standard and expecting others to follow? Or do we want to hide our body, to fit in, to be invisible? Or do we simply want to be comfortable, to tell anyone who sees us that today is for reading a book on the sofa, our chunky knit cardigan and thick woollen socks a sign that we do not to be disturbed.





My summer ‘uniform’ in NYC - I have worn this dress and these sneakers hundreds of times.


And a writer, too, can show much about a character through their clothes. In Orlando, Virginia Woolf uses clothing to hide and signal gender identity; in Olive Kitteridge, the gauzy green muslin dress that Olive’s daughter-in-law mocks reveals much about Olive’s personality; and Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple hides her sharp mind behind her unassuming tweed coats, plain skirts and handbags.








Do you have an outfit that makes you feel different in some way? Or a favorite item of clothing that makes you feel most like yourself?

And what about in novels - is there a book in which the way a character dresses has stayed with you well after closing the book?

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: Oh, yes, of course! I just got some new jeans (yes!) that actually look great. And I certainly have a hierarchy of book event outfits--I can tell you exactly what I will wear for an A-list author. 

And I am very carful about what my characters wear. I hardly ever describe them point by point, but the psychological image comes through, and every time I do it, it has a purpose.

And of course we know Grace Kelly's dress in Rear Window, and Audrey Hepburn's gown in Sabrina, and in Breakfast at Tiffany's, and how about the Ascot scene in My Fair Lady? And the dress Eliza  Dolittle wears to the ball?

In books? I can completely envision Maisie Dobbs. And Rhys's Georgie. Oh, and even Kinsey Millhone, with her little black dress. 

How about you, Reds and Readers? 

Lucy Ashe trained at the Royal Ballet School before changing course to study English Literature at Oxford University, where she graduated in 2010. She later qualified as an English and Drama teacher. Her first two novels, The Dance of the Dolls and The Sleeping Beauties, were inspired by her years immersed in the world of classical dance. The Model Patient marks a powerful evolution in her work, drawing on her personal experience as a therapy patient to explore the psychology of power, trust, and self-erasure. A former resident of London, Ashe lives in Brooklyn, New York.
Learn more at lucyashe.com.

The Model Patient: A Therapy Relationship Spiraling Towards Disaster

It’s London in the early 1960s. As fashion, art and youth culture converge, the city is transforming from postwar conservatism to the cultural upheaval of the Swinging Sixties. Even as sexual politics begin to shift, women’s lives remain tightly constrained.

Evelyn Westbrook, a young model navigating a glamorous but precarious career, enters psychoanalysis seeking clarity and control over her increasingly fraught marriage and her husband’s insistence on starting a family. Newly available, the contraceptive pill offers the tantalizing promise of bodily autonomy, along with fear, stigma, and secrecy. 

As Evelyn’s sessions with her therapist deepen, the boundaries of their relationship begin to erode. Slowly, she loses trust in her own perceptions, unsure whether her growing 

unease is a symptom of her supposed pathology – or evidence that something is deeply wrong.