Eugénie Trochu is aBest Knockoff Luxury Clothing editor in residence known for her transformative work at Vogue France and her Substack newsletter, where she documents and shares new trends, her no-nonsense approach to fashion and style, plus other musings. She's also working on her upcoming first book that explores fashion as a space of memory, projection, and reinvention.
Getting dressed, when you're a woman, is never a neutral gesture.
It's an act of personal curation, a daily negotiation between aspiration and reality, between the archive and desire. Before the first espresso, we're already at war with the tyranny of choice: that infernal triad of visual overload, decision fatigue, and emotional weight.
Visual overload? My closet looks like the back room of an eccentric vintage dealer—organized chaos where a Harley-Davidson jacket bought at Clignancourt flea market hangs next to a Comme des Garçons dress that defies gravity (and common sense) and an Agnès B. sweater that's too small but too sentimentally charged to let go. Opening the door is like opening a catalog of parallel lives: the seductress in Saint Laurent satin by Hedi Slimane, the ingénue in vintage Chloé, the adventurer in a sun-yellow ACNE bomber. Each piece is a possible scenario, an identity on standby. The problem isn't a lack of options. It's their paradoxical surplus, like staring at a 10-page menu and ordering fries.
Decision fatigue creeps in insidiously. Before I've even pulled on a sock, 30% of my cognitive capital is gone. Too much? Not enough? Too fashion victim? Too burnout mom? The question is less aesthetic than strategic. How do you reconcile the desire to wear that Prada pencil skirt bought in a sale frenzy with the reality of sprinting between back-to-back meetings? I remember the day I wore a borrowed Dior white ensemble to a show (the leather jacket a little too snug) and ripped it inelegantly right down the back as I sat down. My greatest fear? Being out of sync and betraying my vibe, that mix of casual elegance and calculated audacity that feels like my signature. It's like the time I tried full '70s boho—fringe, psychedelic print, platforms—on a rainy Tuesday. Disaster. I looked like an alien who crash-landed in the Marais.
And then there's emotional weight. Our closets are sentimental crypts. They hold the Azzedine Alaïa dress bought for a date that never happened, the Ann Demeulemeester boots that witnessed both beginnings and endings, the vintage Chanel suit heavy with legacy. Each piece carries memories, hopes, disappointments. We keep them just in case—in case the occasion comes, in case we again become the person who once wore it, in case we have a daughter who might want to. But "just in case" is a lie, a ghost that clutters the mind as much as the space.
My revolution? A grand autumn purge. Less Marie Kondo, more Martin Margiela. A radical approach: keep only what truly speaks. Out with the pieces flattering a fantasy self that doesn't exist. In with personal icons, the ones that tell my story and anchor my present.
I kept the essentials. My Vivienne Westwood Pirate Boots, bought after watching a documentary on the punk aristocrat herself, are my anti-mediocrity manifesto. My Y/Project perfecto with multiple zippers is proof that fashion can be playful and conceptual. My collection of vintage Sonia Rykiel sweaters was inherited from my mother—wool as sentimental armor.
I've also made peace with my references. My style draws from the intelligent minimalism of Helmut Lang, the poetic deconstruction of Margiela, the subversive elegance of Phoebe Philo for Celine. It nods to fictional heroines who embrace singularity: Bella Baxter in Poor Things in her retro-futurist costumes and Annie Hall with her chic androgyny.
Decluttering, in the end, isn't about discarding. It's about clarifying. It's choosing who you are and owning it unapologetically. It's turning your wardrobe into a sanctuary, not a battlefield. Maybe that's the real luxury: wearing less but wearing better with absolute conviction.
The Practical Manifesto
4 Tangible Rules to Declutter Your Closet (and Your Head)
How do you actually transform your wardrobe into a sanctuary instead of a war zone? Here's the anti mental load manifesto born of my mistakes, excesses, and small victories. They're rules to apply ruthlessly but with style.
1. The "3 Real Occasions" Rule
Before keeping a piece, demand at least three concrete, likely occasions in your actual life where you'd wear it. The crinoline gown? Zero occasions (unless you've been invited to the Royal Academy Dinner, in which case I'm jealous). The oversize Vetements bomber? Maybe one. The perfect Joseph trench by Louise Trotter, timeless Jil Sander loafers, and the Loewe Squeeze bag? Ten at minimum. This pragmatic rule kills off the fantasy self and aligns your wardrobe with reality without erasing all fantasy.
2. Strategic Archiving AKA the Memory Box
We all have pieces too emotionally charged to part with but too incongruous to hang in plain sight. Instead of letting them haunt your rails, archive them in one big box, preferably transparent, labeled "memory." Inside: your grandmother's wedding dress, the T-shirt from that legendary concert, and the first designer piece you ever bought. Once a year, open it, reminisce, smile, and close it. These items keep their narrative power without polluting your daily choices. Free the rail for operational pieces.
3. The Imaginary Style Council
When indecision strikes, convene your personal-style council. Mine? Jane Birkin for insouciance, Charlotte Gainsbourg for noir absolu, Chloë Sevigny for nonconformism, and Isabelle Huppert for sharp intelligence. In front of the mirror, I ask, What would Charlotte think of this layering? Would Chloë dare this mix of textures? This trick shifts you away from the vague "Does it suit me?" and toward "Does it align with the style ideals I aspire to?" It cuts through doubt with elegance.
4. The "One In, One Out" Ritual
No new piece enters without another leaving. Bought a fantastic Kwaidan Editions jacket? Fine, but which piece makes room for it? This implacable rule, borrowed from museum collection management, enforces discipline. It turns each new purchase into a conscious, curatorial act. Impulse gives way to intention. You end up investing only in pieces truly worth it and preserving the balance of a wardrobe that breathes.
The result is a wardrobe that's no longer a source of anxiety but is instead a tool of empowerment, a collection of personal uniforms that represent you perfectly to face the world in, whether in loafers, Pirate Boots, or 12-centimeter heels—always on your own terms.
More Picks That Fit the Mood
