I've Been Wearing the Same Leather Blazer for a Month—Here's How I Style It

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 had this jacket for a short while, but it looks like a million others I’ve owned before. And that’s exactly what struck me. The brown leather blazer isn’t new; it’s a constant for me. A piece that moves through my style, and all its variations, without ever really disappearing.

What’s interesting is everything it contains without appearing to. There’s something very ’70s about it, in a Ralph Lauren kind of way, ultra bohemian, somewhere between Woodstock and the plains of Texas. At the same time, there’s something more sensual, more sharply cut, very Alaïa in the ’80s, that idea of the body, even under a jacket. And then, of course, a more intellectual, slightly offbeat rigor—very Prada under Raf Simons and Miuccia Prada, that mix of seriousness and subtle disruption.

What’s reassuring is that it exists at every level. You can find great ones vintage, already softened, already lived-in—with a history you didn’t experience but adopt without thinking. There are more fashion-forward versions, very right, like at Ba&sh, that reinterpret that balance between structure and ease. And then there are the ones that mark a moment—and, let’s be honest, a bank account. I have a Prada one I bought to celebrate one of the most important moments of my life.

For the past month, it’s basically all I’ve been wearing. And what I’ve understood is that this jacket works with everything. In a very ’70s version, beige flare jeans laced at the waist, a white T-shirt, cowboy boots, you get a silhouette that feels almost obvious, somewhere between Betty Catroux in Yves Saint Laurent and backstage images of Led Zeppelin. A kind of controlled nonchalance, where the brown leather warms everything up without weighing it down. It’s simple, almost too simple, and that’s exactly why it works.

As soon as you shift into something more casual—light blue baggy jeans, white sneakers, a short-sleeved striped shirt—the tone changes completely. It becomes something very early 2000s, almost normcore before its time, but with fashion awareness. The striped shirt could easily lean very preppy, but the suede leather blazer immediately disrupts that reading, like a destabilizing element that keeps the silhouette from becoming too proper.

And then there’s the evening version, the one I find most interesting precisely because it avoids all the expected codes. You can go for the simplest black slip dress, with understated black kitten heels. Classic. Or a second option: a baggy jean, layered with a very simple knit, almost too simple. It’s all about balance. And then the shoes, zebra print, in my case. A slightly absurd detail that recalls certain Miu Miu or Saint Laurent silhouettes, where one element deliberately throws everything off. Without it, the look would feel too smooth. With it, it becomes cool.

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