Caftan Magazine

We want your hot takes on tea towels. Or more specifically, I want them.

Whenever there’s a new round of media layoffs, I fantasize about being a mogul with the wherewithal to start a magazine. (Note to the young, this is among the worst things you can do if you happen to have wherewithal.) All the greats could work there, freelance when they needed to, and pitch their ideas about under-appreciated topics adjacent to fiber arts, Marimekko, the contents of Joan Didion’s kitchen, houseplant cultivation, and fashionable desert oases. We would overpay for very fancy printing and paper stock. The title for this imaginary magazine comes from the great Helen Rosner who was famously misidentified (in total earnestness) by the dreaded Daily Caller as the editor-in-chief of Caftan Magazine, which—just to reiterate—does not exist.

An unmet need?

Caftan Magazine (hereinafter, “CM”) has subsequently taken on legendary status for me. Every time I see a writer preemptively mourn a story idea on twitter because they know it’s too twee, too domestic, too “dowdy,” (“too dowdy” is not a thing, but that’s a topic for another post) too retro, or too generally uncool to pitch successfully, I think to myself, “put those gigantic glasses on and breeze into my imaginary office.”

Think of it.

CM probably would not be a thriving concern financially speaking. Its premise is essentially that the trappings of middle age women most popular during the Carter Administration are timelessly appealing, and while that’s true for some (let’s take me, for instance) I concede that it’s probably a niche group. Its ethos also runs contrary to the premise that women invariably want to look and and seem younger. Media enriches itself by selling youthfulness to the gals. I’m often mistaken for being younger that I am, sometimes by more than a decade. It’s always meant as a compliment; I never take it as one.

Dowdy? No such thing.

The caftan itself is a garment that people of any age can enjoy, but it’s strongly implied in caftan discourse that they exist to skim the bodies of women whose figures have become un-smooth with wisdom and rich life experience. It’s also a near-perfect symbol of mature, feminine leisure. Though caftan people are people of means, the caftan itself is very much not an emblem of hustle culture. It implies at least part-time early (or timely) retirement. It implies Lady of the House status, but in a tongue-in-cheek way, and it doesn’t imply harried, striving, juggling, managing, smiling, apologizing, papering over, or scrambling. To wear a caftan and to be female, to be that unbothered and to enjoy so much serenity in America, is to live the dream. I welcome your pitches—who knows what the future holds.