I've Worked in Fashion for 15 Years—Here's What I Actually Wear Every Day

Eugénie Trochu is a Who What Wear 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.

I’ve been in fashion for 15 years. I’ve watched trends rise and fall, silhouettes get reinvented, and countless “returns” arrive with their carefully packaged storylines: the “empowered” pencil skirt, the “perfectly cut” capri pants, the “next-generation” ballet flat, the “reinvented” trench coat. I’ve sat through shows that were choreographed down to the last detail. I’ve written reviews of collections—some sublime, others questionable. I’ve interviewed obsessive designers and exhausted stylists. I’ve learned how to read what clothes are saying, especially when no one is really looking anymore.

And yet, every morning when I open my closet, I come back to a wardrobe that barely shifts. Not a rigid uniform but a loose framework. Not a costume but a vocabulary. These are pieces that have stayed with me, year after year.

There’s the black Levi’s 501s, the Prada blazer, the Ralph Lauren men’s shirt I never returned, the oversize denim overshirt that rescues me from hesitation. There are white socks that peek out, gold family jewelry, vintage rock tees I bought more for what they evoke than what they display.

Some things I’ve worn to newsrooms, shoots, weekends à la mer, or meetings where I felt slightly out of focus. Others I wear to write, to walk, to think, to keep quiet. What I wear every day was never meant for photos. But it holds me. Grounds me. Knows me. So maybe it’s time to talk about it.

In the end, my wardrobe isn’t a strategy. It’s a selection. A discipline. A form of intimacy. I don’t dress to hold an image. I dress to hold a day, an idea, an intention. And everything I wear—my black jeans, scuffed ballet flats, sturdy blazer, rock T-shirts, inherited gold jewelry—serves exactly that: to carry me through without disguising me. There’s nothing spectacular about what I wear. But everything is precise. Everything is chosen. And maybe that’s what real luxury is, after all: knowing exactly what you love to wear, and why.

The Black Levi's 501s (or Low-Rise Jeans on Sarcastic Days)

The black 501 is my foundation—worn through at the right knee, a little tight at the waist but still sharp. I’ve worn it with a white shirt to a Dior dinner and with a shapeless sweatshirt during the close of a September issue. The low-rise version is from the early 2000s (thank you, Vinted) but without today’s Y2K hysteria. I mean actual low-rise jeans: slightly loose, just enough hip to remind you the body exists, not enough to make it a statement. I pair them with a more intricate top and a leather jacket—Helmut Lang fall 1999 energy.

Re/Done x Levi's

Black 90s Jean

The Frankie Shop

Susanna Jeans in Light Wash

Arket

Shore Low Waist Relaxed Boyfriend Fit Denim in Dark Wash Blue

Levi's

501 Original Fit Women's Jeans

The Not-Too-Perfect White Tee and the Striped Men's Shirt

I have dozens: Uniqlo, Petit Bateau, Hanes, a couple of unraveling Margielas, and one “vintage” shirt that’s just my dad’s. It has to be soft, washed-out, almost pale. Too new, and it looks suspicious. I tuck it into jeans, and roll the sleeves. That’s it. The striped men’s shirt is different. Thin stripes, slightly worn collar—mine’s Ralph Lauren. I stole it from an ex who wore it too well. Now I wear it better. Half-buttoned, half-untucked, paired with patent kitten heels so it says “I’m working” when I’m really just out buying Parmesan.

POLO RALPH LAUREN

Slim-Fit Striped Cotton Oxford Shirt

Petit Bateau USA

Women SS Crew Neck Tee

The Frankie Shop

Drimna Shirt

KHAITE

Samson Cotton-Jersey T-Shirt

TOTEME

Garderob Tencel Lyocell and Organic Cotton-Blend Jersey T-Shirt

The Denim Jacket (or Overshirt on Sleepless Days)

A classic Levi’s jacket, found at a flea market in Los Angeles in 2011, softened by time. I wear it like a structured comfort blanket. On tired mornings, I reach for the oversize denim overshirt: longer, looser, more enveloping. I throw it over anything—a dress, a tee, an existential crisis. It’s my “I’m here, but don’t ask too much of me” piece. It does what a The Row trench does, without the offshore account.