Currently on my hit list:
A party from all angles.
Because a finger will never swell to accommodate a nine pound fetus or take pizza too seriously.
|She started it. Got it here.|
|I'm sure the finger placement was arbitrary. Found in the bowels of Pinterest.|
|If a love strong enough for both Betty Boop and Jesus to make the pair a permanent fixture on your body doesn't indicate well-roundedness, I'm the Virgin. Found hurr.|
Body/Booby Bondage a la Jean Paul Gaultier
Boy, does he know how to make the female body look like... the female body.
|Was almost affordable and is sadly no longer available. #shopbop|
|Probably not affordable. Probably not available.|
|Runway images via tumblr|
To wear in tandem with the previous in order to convince innocent passerbys that I'm a complex fashionista unconcerned with the binary gender role system. Duh.
|Thank you, 6pm.|
|John Fluevog deserves his own post.|
|Bonus: Free crotch-grabbing rights included. OW! Via shopbop.|
Before you bare your plastic for such goodies, however, keep your wallet and your wits wrapped about dat cash and discuss the nature of this post with me.
So, I've made a shopping list. It's pretty. It includes a picture of Cara Delevingne, a haircut that could solidify my edginess for approximately four months before I decide to fix it, and a reference to male genitalia. Awesome. Somehow, though, the list itself is unsatisfying. It begs to be realized, concretized, purchased! Lest my attraction to them dissipates, I must go buy these things.
Or must I?
Cue the shoulder slump; I don't know. All I know is that I'm equal parts bothered and intrigued by the fact that fashion is, in large part, a monetary conquest, constituting another way in which it diverges from art. While a validating nod after prolonged examination of Michelangelo's David may indicate refined taste, similar aesthetic appreciation of a sartorial item--a bustier reminiscent of a cheese rind, say--doesn't necessarily translate to great style unless it's made a negative statement on your bank account balance and you're wearing it to buy your midday kombucha at the local health food store. Right? If you don't pay for it, your sense of style doesn't count.
One way to ingest this is to see it as necessary. I've been watching Project Runway with embarrassing zest and frequency lately, AND BEFORE YOU STOP READING HERE FOR FEAR OF ME DOLING OUT EARNEST SARTORIAL WISDOM HARVESTED FROM THE BASE OF HEIDI'S THRONE OF NARCISSISM, JUST LET ME EXTRACT SOME MERIT FROM A QUOTE BY GUEST JUDGE ZAC POSEN REAL QUICK.
Astride his own, smaller throne runway-side, Posen says in season 11 (repeatedly, actually, which makes me think he crafted this nifty little phrase himself and is quite proud of it and whips it out strategically in cocktail conversation to garner concurrent eyebrow raises) that fashion is a marriage of art and commerce--that the masterpiece of the designer exists to be both admired and purchased. So the question then becomes a progressive one--if fashion is the bastard of the starving artist and, well, his starvation, do we want to disown its heritage? Is it okay that designers don't produce beautiful garments for us to placidly ogle from afar, but for us to crave and pine after and eventually own? Can and/or should we reconsider what it means to be inspired by beautiful clothing, and if that in and of itself--no purchase necessary--can be enough?
At the end of the day, of course we have to buy, borrow, or steal something in the way of corporeal coverage, but why art? And why expensive art, at that?
Talk (skirt-y, shirt-y, controversially...?) to me.
|Note: comparable to Marc Jacobs in gorgeousness and therefore credible. Via seventeen.com.|
Also, you know what blows? Citing photos.