Monday, July 21, 2014

Perchance to Dream

If the Prince of Denmark gave us anything, it was a useful question to employ when facing an existential dichotomy. And I use it today: To buy, or not to buy? Before I advocate the latter, however, I present to you the alluring items in question.

Currently on my hit list:

A Woman Mullet

A party from all angles. 

Found here.

Via I don't get the URL either.


Finger Tattoos

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

Wiener Shoes!

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.



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

Also, you know what blows? Citing photos.

Monday, September 9, 2013

I can has inspiration? No. 2

Green on green on green? Don't mind if I do. 

By the way, these tidbits will henceforth be referred to as ICHI's (not to be confused with 'itchies'), and I will number them. The first one is here.

Tank by Hurley; shorts by Gap; shoes are Frye (and a favorite); bag is handmade (not by me, lolz); necklace by BCBG Maxazria.
No, I've never been an Egyptian goddess for Halloween, but evidently it's not too late.  
     In honor of Fashion Week?
Bye, guys.

Saturday, August 17, 2013

Would you?

Allow me to explain the painfully seafoam, totally satirical atrocities you see above.

Months ago, I beautified some thrifted go-go boots with fabric paint, cheetah rhinestones, and the signature double C's in an attack on the consumerist tendency to assign value to shoes and clothing based on brand name; I think we (I) often forget that our emotional reaction to the shoe itself--not to the lettering on the side of it--is supposed to inform our purchase or non-purchase of it.

My point is this: repulsive as these mofos are, would you give them a second glance if you knew they came from the creative loins of Lagerfeld? I might.

Not to be doomsday or anything, but how are we supposed to know what we genuinely even LIKE these days if the logo is doing the work for us? Consider that as you feast your eyes on the circus stripes below. Don't be fooled by the acrylic insignia--they really are that ugly.

Saturday, August 10, 2013

When Function Trumps Form

Photo cred: my mama. The toes belong to a friend. 

What to do when the very articles you bought to ensure comfortable walking cause toe blisters to manifest during a hike up the tallest mountain in town? Liberate your tootsies, that's what. Because sometimes fashion-forward does a shitty job of actually getting you, ya know, forward.

Thursday, August 8, 2013

He really does wear Prada though.

Or Chloe. Collage? Mine.

I've always been smitten with fashion. As a kid, I didn't need to justify it; I sported hot pink corduroy slacks because they channeled Lizzie McGuire, and that was that. As my frontal lobe developed, however, so did my sense that I couldn't entertain a lifelong love affair with couture unless I could attach it to something substantial. I thought, if, when I die, God asks me why I chose to invest so much time in the study of clothing, I want to have a better answer than "because it's purdy." So I resolved to find one.

As an artist, I initially turned to exterior. Fashion is, after all, immediately visual. I likened the composition of an outfit, which requires sensitivity to basic aesthetic principles, to that of a painting, and I found some validity in the idea of fashion as an art, as a self-justifying articulation of beauty. I continued combing The Sartorialist archives and various online retail sites, feeling safe in the notion that, like writing and drawing, I loved fashion simply as a medium of human expression.

Now, though, I think this explanation is inadequate. My fashion-as-art model fails to account for every aspect of fashion that allures me; it fails to account, in particular, for what often feels like the most influential force behind my fetish: the awareness of an audience. I mean, yes, in composing figure-flattering, color-conscious ensembles to wear on my daily excursions, I derive a creative release comparable to what I feel when sketching or crafting an essay; fashion puts me in my element. This is true. At the same time, though, I devise each outfit with the knowledge that other people will be observing me and making assumptions about me based on what I'm wearing, and I admittedly thrive off the opportunity to lie. So, where art typically uses aesthetic value to induce meaningful human introspection, fashion uses it to induce shallow judgements based on an exterior. This fundamental difference is the reason I can't let myself off the hook by declaring, "oh, well fashion is an art!" I can't ignore the fact that I dress to impress.

Sometimes I think personal style can't really be considered self-expression at all, since some part of it will always be about other people. Even the renegades who claim to not give a shit about style norms are still making an argument to the public at large when they don fugly chic; it's just that instead of showcasing their fashion savvy, they're showcasing their superiority to fashion savvy.

But back to my question--what to tell the good Lord when he asks about my Frye fetish? In truth, I'll have to 'fess up to my own vanity; I'm attracted to clothing partially because it allows me to make a very distinct, very attractive argument about myself without words. When I wear my favorite ballet flats, for example, I do so intentionally, wanting people to think, "wow, that girl can afford high-quality footwear but has the propriety not to flaunt it." I ADMIT IT OKAY.

If I thought my attraction to fashion was purely narcissistic, though, I'd delete this blog. Which I'm not going to do. The fact remains that the way people wear clothing excites me in a way that feels transcendent. While there may always be a part of me that exploits designer labels for social gain, I'll forever appreciate folds of chiffon, supple leather paneling, destructed denim, and the works for their intrinsic beauty, the beauty they lend to the human form, and the creativity they manifest in combination.

Because dialogue > monologue, I'll go out on a well-worn limb here: why do you love fashion? What do you see as its redeeming qualities, and how do you justify its ugly side? Share.

Tuesday, July 30, 2013

I can has inspiration?

I'm realizing that inspiration for my personal style doesn't have to hail from fashion-specific media like magazines and blogs, or even from other clothing-conscious humanoids that I encounter at Provo's most renegade coffee shop, which really isn't that renegade. Because I think I'm entitled to the occasional cliche as long as the majority of my content is somewhat original, I'm utilizing the following: INSPIRATION IS EVERYWHERE.

Writing that made me feel really uncomfortable.

No, but really. An example: this picture I took at Zion could translate into a bangin' outfit d'mixed genres. The silvery shmear glinting in the sunlight poses an interesting contrast to the more muted, rustic color scheme of the rocks; made me wanna pair some gunmetal bling with a granola sweater. Ergo, the composition you see below.

Sweater by Love Stitch; bag by George, Gina & Lucy; skirt from White House Black Market; spoon cuff and ring are vintage
Thumbs up to innovation. 

Disclaimer: Don't get too excited, I don't do the selfie thing. Often. 

Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Closet VIP: The Frye Carson Ballet

This shoe is so soft, it starts to look like your foot after a while. 

Whether that's fugly and gross or not, I'll leave to y'all's personal speculation. As for me, I fetishize this flat. Its obvious virtues like versatility, comfort, and craftsmanship aside, the Carson ballet deserves Marin-proclaimed VIP status because, after a few months of wear, it becomes irreversibly yours, as your one-in-seven-billion set of toe marks become imprinted in what Frye calls its "buttery" leather forever.

The pliability of the shoe bugged me at first. I was like, "what, so you think now that I threw the receipt away you can just go'n morph on me?!" I almost stopped wearing them. The severely stretched out heels and swollen toes, however, (not to mention the two other pairs that I subsequently bought) attest to the fact that they continued to function as a tri-weekly staple despite their misshapenness. 

I think we're often afraid to wear our clothes. Like, I've had a fit before over a stain on my T-shirt. But while it's true that many clothes and shoes look best in mint-condish, I've come to love the toe bulges in my flats, the scuffs on my wellies, the creases in my docs, provided they're not too pronounced or indicative of decay. To me, actually, they're signs of life, signs of human inhabitation. I think fashion is about where form and function meet, and what I love about this flat is that the wear from its functionality becomes an integral, unapologetic part of its form. This flat is a lovely testament to the very organic purpose of the shoe.

Lucky for you (me), they come in just about every color known to man, and in patent leather, too. Order down half a size to allow for warpage. 

I exacerbated my black pair's toe bulges by attempting to wear them with winter socks.

The comment I always get when wearing my coral pair: "Whoa! For a second, I thought you were barefoot!" And then me: "Ha, NOPE."

The sage Carson is surprisingly versatile, assuming you like sage. 

Black pair: Nordstrom, $148
Sage/Coral pairs: 6pm, $45-$70