Diane Keaton Left the Blueprint for Dressing. Now Use It.
Writing this made me furious all over again.
→ Read the full essay on PROVOKED
Editor’s Note: Off-Script—the why, what, and oh sh*t moments behind this article.
When Diane Keaton died, I knew I had to write about her. But I also knew I couldn’t let it become another weepy tribute piece about a Hollywood legend we will all miss. Not as nostalgia porn.
Screw that.
I’ve been watching Diane Keaton my entire life—and what she taught me had nothing to do with being likable.
Back when she was filming Annie Hall in men’s trousers, a vest, a tie, and that hat, I was finding my own sense of style. Learning early that clothing wasn’t decoration. It was armor. It was intention.
It was saying, “I’m here without asking permission.”
I followed her for decades after. Not because she was chasing trends. Because she refused them entirely.
While the fashion industry kept pushing women to chase youth, stay f*ckable, stay small, stay relevant—Diane Keaton built a uniform that said:
I’m not here to please you.
Bowler hats. Layered menswear. Shoes built for walking away mid-conversation. Nothing soft. Nothing apologetic.
She didn’t “age into” great style. She claimed it at 30 and sharpened it for 50 years—as her agency grew louder and her need to explain herself evaporated.
Here’s what I couldn’t say in the main piece: Writing this made me furious all over again.
Furious that we still have to justify dressing with intent. That women are expected to fade gracefully into beige cardigans and “age-appropriate” bullshit. That visibility at midlife is treated like a privilege we have to earn back—not a right we never lost.
Diane Keaton spent half a century saying no to that. Not with words. With fabric, structure, and presence.
She left a blueprint. Not for being admired. For standing the hell up.
That’s why I own my style.
That’s why I wrote this.