Retracing Joni Mitchell’s Style Evolution From Lady Of The Canyon To Issey Miyake Connoisseur

Before the year was out, Joni had become a poster girl for the Woodstock aesthetic – bishop-sleeved peasant blouses and patchwork suede, macramé dresses and long, beaded necklaces. In truth, she never actually performed on Max Yasgur’s now-mythic dairy farm, but she did write the festival’s peace-love-and-paisley anthem: “By the time we got to Woodstock / We were half a million strong / And everywhere there was song and celebration / And I dreamed I saw the bombers / Riding shotgun in the sky / And they were turning into butterflies / Above our nation.”

The image of Mitchell wearing what she would later call the “uniform of rock ’n’ roll” ossified in our cultural consciousness, outlasting her own relationship with it by a good 50 years. In 1975, she wrote “The Boho Dance”, skewering the bohemian affectation she had long been associated with and distancing herself from it: “Even on the scuffle / The cleaner’s press was in my jeans / And any eye for detail / Caught a little lace along the seams.” As she told Cameron Crowe in a much-referenced Rolling Stone interview in 1979, to be a flower child had become a “flat-out style”, one she no longer related to, if, in fact, she ever did: “I remember showing up at a Carole King concert in Central Park in a pair of Yves Saint Laurent pants. And a good shirt. They were simple clothes, but they were of a good quality… I felt there were certain things that I liked, that were a part of me, that were outside the hippie guard.”

That fact was abundantly clear when Architectural Digest visited Mitchell at her Bel Air home for its July 1976 issue, where a red antique silk kimono was draped over the stool of a Steinway, a giant albino tortoise shell hung on the living room wall, and much of the furniture consisted of sleek, modern designs by The Pace Collection’s Perspex prophets Irving and Leon Rosen. The magazine described the exterior of the 1920s Spanish-style house as “wreathed by geraniums blooming in pots and Iceland poppies perched on stems that seem too fragile to hold their giant blossoms”, while the interiors had been masterminded by Sally Sirken Lewis, a decorator with a Margaret Thatcher-esque haircut and a showroom on Melrose. She had allowed Joni to keep what she referred to as “my [Navajo] baskets and my Eskimo art”, but painted the walls of her bedroom the colour of “a forest at dusk”, dragged 12-foot fishtail palms inside and crowded them around a fireplace, and installed Tiffany floor lamps to illuminate 18th-century cloisonné urns, all with her client’s wholehearted approval. “A house,” Mitchell concluded, “is important to me… I have good feelings here that go beyond the surface of things.”

She still lived in the Bel Air house when Vogue paid a visit in April 1995, although by that point she had parted ways with her second husband and acquired three cats, “one of whom is named after the German philosopher she stumbled across during a particularly dark time in her life, Nietzsche”, interviewer Charles Gandee reported. In the driveway stood a Mercedes roadster, while “a cobalt-blue mosaic pool” had been installed on the precipice of a ravine. By that time, any lingering traces of the Summer of Love had evaporated from her wardrobe, replaced by berets, Chanel 2.55s, and “predominantly Japanese clothes”: “‘I buy them for some occasion that never happens,’ she confesses. ‘I like some of Yohji Yamamoto’s things, and I like the Victorian influence on Matsuda’s work, but I’m addicted to Issey Miyake. Issey is an artist. When I travel I search out the Issey venues because Maxfield [the local purveyor of Miyake] doesn’t buy him well.’”

Style is character, as Didion once wrote in an essay on O’Keeffe – and Joni’s is somehow both eternal and ever-evolving.

Additional research provided by Deirdre McCabe Nolan