Grace vs. Grace: The Sartorial Ideologies of Christian Dior and Thierry Mugler (and Why I’m Both)

Warning: What you’re about to read contains high levels of self-adoration, unapologetic romanticism, and a wardrobe that could start philosophical debates. Proceed only if you’re ready to meet this intellectual/iconic diva. If you’re allergic to women who love themselves loudly, this might not be for you.

I strongly believe that, as someone who considers herself to be both, life experiences shape your ideologies—and so does your wardrobe, especially when it comes to decision-making. You see, I'm the type of girl who—until recently—realized she loves romance in a Jane Austen sense: romantic gestures, handwritten letters, flowers, and small details. Very Dior. However, in a very Mugler way, I’m the one who provides that for myself. l quite iterally have my very own florist. And if I love someone or something in any way, I would quite literally take a bullet for them—even if the feeling isn’t mutual. Why is that? Not just because I’m wonderful (because let’s be honest, I am), but because I have a strong belief in standing by what I love and what I believe in. I’m also extremely empathetic, and I believe that’s the key to romance—and to standing up for what you stand for.

As Nietzsche and I would say, “I have never understood the art of arousing enmity towards myself.” If anything, my think lab is mainly about my deepest desire to conquer the world of knowledge while getting to know myself even more than I do now. What’s the point of loving if you hate yourself? I personally find it disturbing when people are not accountable for their actions. I loathe cowards in every sense of the word. In order to be the best version of yourself, you must learn to live with your ups and your downs, with your flaws as well. Not that I have any, really—to be honest, I’m pretty great altogether.

Through academia and my narcissism, I honor myself. People don’t tell you who you are—you tell them. And that includes every facet of your being, without judgment. And like Samantha Jones from Sex and the City would say, judging is not my style. At least not now. I’m not a judge—yet.

Self-love isn’t just a feeling—it’s a practice. It’s the daily decision to reaffirm your beliefs, even when the world tries to dilute them. It’s showing up for yourself with intention, with style, and sometimes with spectacle. And yes, it’s okay to make big gestures. To send the text. To make the romantic move. To wear the dress. To launch the project. To walk into the room like you own it—even if the outcome is uncertain. Because self-love isn’t about guarantees; it’s about alignment. When you act from a place of truth, you’re not just expressing yourself—you’re expanding yourself. And that, in itself, is a win.

I—accidentally, due to the fact that these were just test shots—took these pictures because I think that being both sides of the coin—a romantic princess straight out of a Dior ad or a Jane Austen novel, and the hot, independent gal who has her shit together—is what pretty much every woman is. I never identified with the girls from Sex and the City, yet I’m a mixture of all of them in terms of style, personality, and even beliefs. Perhaps a love interest shaped your view on romance, a friendship sparked your creative side, or even your own work did that. The point is: this duality makes me unapologetically myself. Without further ado, here’s my style analysis on the sartorial ideologies of Christian Dior and Thierry Mugler (and why I’m both) from the perspective of my favorite Graces.

In fashion, as in football (and law, clearly), strategy is everything. You don’t just show up—you position. You don’t just wear clothes—you declare allegiance. And whether you’re lining up in a 4-3-3 or slipping into a Mugler corset, the question remains: What game are you playing, and who are you becoming while you play it?

I believe in reciprocity. I am a hopeless romantic with hyper-independence and a god complex. Naturally, I provide for myself—and for others. Whether you are my friend, colleague, or lover, I give generously. You either play in the starting lineup or remain on the sidelines. As we say in Argentina, yo juego de titular o no juego, mi amor. You must be able to offer what you expect from others, however, you should only care about what you think of yourself, screw the rest, self love ALWAYS comes first.

Few designers have shaped the field of femininity more distinctly than Christian Dior and Thierry Mugler. Their aesthetics are not just visual, they’re ideological. They dressed women not for the moment, but for the myth. And if fashion is a formation, then Dior and Mugler are coaching two radically different teams.

But here’s the twist: I play for both.

Christian Dior’s 1947 New Look was a tactical reset—a return to pre-war grace, like a team regrouping after a bruising first half. With its cinched waists and voluminous skirts, Dior reintroduced femininity as a kind of possession play: controlled, elegant, and deeply strategic.

His woman is Grace Kelly in motion: a classic No. 10, orchestrating beauty with poise and precision. She doesn’t rush—she glides. Her power is in her restraint. Dior’s vocabulary is one of refinement, delicacy, and timelessness. His garments are not about domination—they’re about diplomacy.

To wear Dior is to embrace the art of subtlety. It’s the fashion equivalent of a perfect assist: not flashy, but unforgettable, much like me.

Thierry Mugler, on the other hand, plays offense. His woman is Grace Jones in full sprint—fast, fierce, and impossible to ignore. Mugler’s designs are architectural provocations: sharp shoulders, cinched waists, and materials that shimmer like stadium lights under pressure.

She’s the striker who doesn’t wait for permission—she scores. Mugler’s vocabulary includes strength, spectacle, and transformation. His garments are not clothes; they are declarations. They do not adorn—they arm. To wear Mugler is to weaponize femininity, to turn the body into a site of power and provocation.

In Mugler’s world, the woman is not a muse—she is the MVP, and so am I.

To understand the ideological chasm between Dior and Mugler, one need only invoke two Graces:

These women are not merely dressed—they are constructed by the ideologies of their couturiers. Dior’s Grace is a dream of the past; Mugler’s Grace is a prophecy of the future.

But here’s the truth: I am both. And so are many women.

Fashion is not just aesthetic—it’s autobiographical. It communicates who we are, what we value, and how we move through the world. It reflects our passions, our contradictions, our moods, and our missions. It’s not just about how we look—it’s about how we think.

Some days I’m a Dior woman—romantic, diplomatic, soft-spoken in silk. Other days I’m Mugler—loud, opinionated, armored in chrome. And most days? I’m both. Because being a lover girl doesn’t cancel out being an independent gal. You can crave roses and still run the empire. You can be poetic and political. You can be Grace Kelly with a law degree and Grace Jones with a podcast mic/your own radio show (one you can tune in every sunday btw).

Fashion doesn’t ask us to choose—it invites us to compose. To curate our contradictions. To wear our complexity.Pretty much what I do in most areas of my life, including my magazine, as well as the article you are currently reading.

To get dress is to declare. To curate one’s contradictions is to engage in a daily act of philosophical authorship. I do not merely wear clothes—I construct ideologies. I do not simply show up—I arrive, styled in intention and layered in meaning.

I am a thesis. A living dialectic between softness and strength, romance and rigor, silk and steel. I am Grace Kelly annotated by Simone de Beauvoir. I am Grace Jones footnoted by Victoria Ocampo. I am the embodiment of fashion as epistemology—where every hemline is a hypothesis and every silhouette a stance.

In this world, where identity is often flattened for legibility, I choose complexity. I choose to be both the question and the answer. And if fashion is a language, then I speak fluently in paradox.

So let this be my closing argument: You are not required to simplify yourself for the comfort of others. You are allowed to be a walking contradiction, a manifesto in motion, a theory wrapped in tulle. And if the world asks you to choose—between intellect and allure, between diplomacy and desire—decline gracefully. Or better yet, decline dramatically. Because the most radical thing a woman (or a man, but most of my audience is female) can do is know herself—and dress accordingly.

So as I sat in my studio—surrounded by mood boards, football jerseys, and the occasional vintage corset—I couldn’t help but wonder: Are we still choosing between Grace Kelly and Grace Jones, or have we finally learned to be both?

Because fashion isn’t just about fabric—it’s about formation. It’s about strategy. It’s about identity. And whether you’re dressed for the runway or the pitch, the real question is: Who do you become when you get dressed?

And if you’re lucky, you’re not just the muse—you’re the manifesto.