But the site also promulgates an ethos: a blithe, sexy spirit that feels 100 percent Californian in its riffs on surf, skate, and music-festival cultures and its emphasis on the fearless and enthusiastic display of one's body. Nasty Gal sells streetwear that falls on the more risqué end of the H&M and Topshop spectrum-cutaway bodysuits, cropped moto jackets, '90s-style bustiers, and the best-selling Slasher shredded jean short (in the tradition of Rihanna or, depending on your frame of reference, Tawny Kitaen), all mostly priced under $100. Lisbon sisters had decided to express their love for a digital-age phenom using construction paper and Elmer's.
headquarters-seemed steeped in a sort of '70s nostalgia, as if The Virgin Suicides'
Scrawled in marker, sprinkled with stickers, this old-school fan mail-collected in a bin in the company's computer-crowded downtown L.A. Perhaps most surprising, a number of devotees eschewed Instagram in favor of the U.S. There was even, somewhat alarmingly, a photo of a Nasty Gal tattoo ("frighteningly real," one staffer recalled, though its authenticity was never entirely determined). The words were baked into the tops of pies and arranged in strands of spaghetti on a plate of Bolognese. Kitchens were raided for edible art supplies: Skittles and candy hearts and alphabet soup. It asked fans to declare their devotion by creatively interpreting the company's slogan, "Nasty Gals do it better." From all over the country, N-A-S-T-Ys poured in, spelled out in nail art, Scrabble letters, sidewalk chalk, and studs on the back of a jacket.
Earlier this year, Nasty Gal-the L.A.-based online emporium that is not quite as sordid as its name suggests-held an Instagram contest.
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