I love when a play opens with silence. The lights dim and the actors enter, the stage lights come up and... silence. I always wonder, how long can the audience take this? And the more they do, the more the play wraps me up and immediately carries me along. The first moments of a play set the rest of the evening in concrete. For the actors, for the audience, for the stagehands. "Next Fall" opened with silence, a beautifully-staged moment between two people waiting in a hospital. The opening line, finally, was, "funny, isn't it?"
"Don't you just love good theater?" My mom said to her crying daughter on the phone hours later.
"Yeah," I whimpered.
I am someone who doesn't cry during, but (truly rarely) cries after. But there was one moment this evening, during the play, that got to me deep in my throat; it overcame me so quickly that it gave my heart a start. Again, it was this silence. Two actors on stage, and one of them implores the other to just try praying, just once. We don't know in the audience if praying is indeed what he is doing, but the silence was so powerful. Turned fully toward the audience, sitting on the back of a couch at a 90-degree angle, his eyes only closed and opened. The most beautiful thing about the exchange was how long the audience stayed with him. There was not a sound. And he held us with him for so long.
For the rest of the play I had a lump in my throat and that squinted-eye, knotted-forehead face of concentration that only a good play can bring.
I walked outside the theater when the play was over and immediately speed-dialed my mom, like I always do post-theater. She didn't pick up. But I needed to speak to her right then, while the evening was there in my mind and the colors of the play still in my eyes. I needed to just talk to someone about what I'd just experienced, while watching the audience I was so proud of pour out of the theater. I dialed again, and she picked up on the second ring.
"You've got perfect timing!" she said.
"Yeah? What are you doing?" I asked, my voice already shaking.
And that was all I had in me. I was suddenly a wreck, not just crying but sobbing on 44th Street. The audience members of "Phantom of the Opera" streamed by me; one mother-and-daughter team even stopped and asked me if I was okay.
"Yeah, I'm fine..." I managed to scrape out of my throat. I pointed at the theater across from us, with "Next Fall" emblazoned across its front, as though that would explain anything to two tourists leaving "Phantom." They carried on, as did I, huddled into a nook in a brick wall.
I pulled myself together after a few more minutes of crying to my mom's silence on the other end of the phone. Which was really all I needed, just silence to share a little of this experience with me. I walked through what seemed a melancholy, sepia-toned Times Square with a bright red face, mascara all down my cheeks, and probably the most furrowed eyebrows I've ever worn. I don't think my face has pulled itself to normalcy since this play began.
"Next Fall" closes on Saturday. I am so, so glad I went. This may be the best theater experience I've had in New York.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Day One
Summer rain. It sounds like a cliche, so many songs, the opening to a middle-school poem. But the intensity of the summer rain in New York is a force of weather unlike any I've experienced. The skies darken dramatically, flash with lightning, and rain absolutely pounds the pavement. New Yorkers always carry an umbrella. Coral hasn't learned this lesson yet. It's my first day alone in New York, and the merciless heat has lead me to Rite Aid to buy a fan. I am lugging it back to my apartment for a little longer than I expected when I realize I'm lost. This, coincidentally, is when the first boom of thunder alerts me that New York does nothing half-heartedly.
I've never truly been lost before. But I am in beautiful old Park Slope, wandering my way past brownstone after brownstone, each older than the last. New to Brooklyn, it entrances me, that I live amongst this history. The sudden rain is my reminder that my life in New York may indeed resemble a movie. Here I am, sweating in my strapless dress, lugging a fan larger than myself, lost in a thunderstorm on my first day in New York.
It's all too perfect that this is my first experience hailing a cab. Well, I thought I did a bang-up job and had cemented this day in movie-worthy history. As an experienced New Yorker I now look back on my first hailing and berate my lack of self-assertion. I've gotten better with experience, but I still have miles to go.
The cab did pull over, but only to let another passenger out, and when I ambled inside, fan-first, the cabbie was as surprised to see me as if a large Great Dane had decided to hitch a ride.
"I thought you were his friend," the cabbie said to me in the rear-view mirror, alluding to the man who had just exited.
I was so unsure of what I was doing I could have thrown up. "17th Street and 6th Avenue?" I said, basically asking him where I was going.
"That's not on my route, but I'll take you since it's so close."
And within minutes, I had a new best friend. Simply telling him that it was this California girl's first day in Brooklyn led to a history lesson on each of the buildings we passed by. He proudly told me of his experiences in Los Angeles, and I shared my few experiences in New York.
He pulled up to my apartment and I awkwardly maneuvered the fan out of the cab and back into the pouring rain. We each said thank you to the other and I climbed the stairs to my front door. I was visibly proud of myself, and bursting with excitement over being in New York and having hailed my first cab. The rain continued through the night and, combined with the humming of my new fan, provided a new soundtrack for sleep.
I've never truly been lost before. But I am in beautiful old Park Slope, wandering my way past brownstone after brownstone, each older than the last. New to Brooklyn, it entrances me, that I live amongst this history. The sudden rain is my reminder that my life in New York may indeed resemble a movie. Here I am, sweating in my strapless dress, lugging a fan larger than myself, lost in a thunderstorm on my first day in New York.
It's all too perfect that this is my first experience hailing a cab. Well, I thought I did a bang-up job and had cemented this day in movie-worthy history. As an experienced New Yorker I now look back on my first hailing and berate my lack of self-assertion. I've gotten better with experience, but I still have miles to go.
The cab did pull over, but only to let another passenger out, and when I ambled inside, fan-first, the cabbie was as surprised to see me as if a large Great Dane had decided to hitch a ride.
"I thought you were his friend," the cabbie said to me in the rear-view mirror, alluding to the man who had just exited.
I was so unsure of what I was doing I could have thrown up. "17th Street and 6th Avenue?" I said, basically asking him where I was going.
"That's not on my route, but I'll take you since it's so close."
And within minutes, I had a new best friend. Simply telling him that it was this California girl's first day in Brooklyn led to a history lesson on each of the buildings we passed by. He proudly told me of his experiences in Los Angeles, and I shared my few experiences in New York.
He pulled up to my apartment and I awkwardly maneuvered the fan out of the cab and back into the pouring rain. We each said thank you to the other and I climbed the stairs to my front door. I was visibly proud of myself, and bursting with excitement over being in New York and having hailed my first cab. The rain continued through the night and, combined with the humming of my new fan, provided a new soundtrack for sleep.
Summer in the City
Summer has a personality in New York City. I feel her wafting through my open window right now; this season is a force. Summer seemed to arrive overnight, as though everyone in the city knew the exact moment when Spring held its doors open and Summer slammed them shut. The heat is almost tropical, so too are the huge purple flowers in my backyard. The heat storms come with the warning of a single flash of lightning before baring down loud, oppressive rain and ear-shattering thunder. And without letting up, they're gone.
Everything in a New York Summer happens in an instant. A dog is let outside, he barks, and is shushed back inside. A mosquito lands and its business is done. Sunset is a quick affair, making room for an even hotter night. Sometimes I am so taken by the dappled light of an oak tree's shadow, and I remind myself that in no time at all, those leaves will be dropped, brittle and crunching, and then they will be gone.
Yes, fall is always just around the corner, as we receive shipment after shipment of wool sweaters at Anthropologie. I am excited, though, for wool sweaters are one of Anthro's highlights. I can't wait for it to be just crisp enough outside to wear layers of wool that match the leaves. I can't wait for my first pair of tights, my first donning of boots, the first twist of scarf around my neck.
But I am somewhat ashamed of myself, to be looking toward a new season when the glorious one we've got has hardly started. I'm not ready for summer to be over, just perpetually thinking about what comes next. For now there is outdoor dining to be done, Central Park's concerts to be heard, long walks through Prospect Park and rooftop exhibitions at The Met. I'm going to bathe myself in this New York City summer, so that I'll have no regrets when the air makes its turn toward fall.
Everything in a New York Summer happens in an instant. A dog is let outside, he barks, and is shushed back inside. A mosquito lands and its business is done. Sunset is a quick affair, making room for an even hotter night. Sometimes I am so taken by the dappled light of an oak tree's shadow, and I remind myself that in no time at all, those leaves will be dropped, brittle and crunching, and then they will be gone.
Yes, fall is always just around the corner, as we receive shipment after shipment of wool sweaters at Anthropologie. I am excited, though, for wool sweaters are one of Anthro's highlights. I can't wait for it to be just crisp enough outside to wear layers of wool that match the leaves. I can't wait for my first pair of tights, my first donning of boots, the first twist of scarf around my neck.
But I am somewhat ashamed of myself, to be looking toward a new season when the glorious one we've got has hardly started. I'm not ready for summer to be over, just perpetually thinking about what comes next. For now there is outdoor dining to be done, Central Park's concerts to be heard, long walks through Prospect Park and rooftop exhibitions at The Met. I'm going to bathe myself in this New York City summer, so that I'll have no regrets when the air makes its turn toward fall.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
"If it looks like it's made for a 20 year-old, we don't make it."
What's cheap, annoying, young, and polyester-y?
Yep, I'm sure you guessed it: American Eagle Outfitters.
Do you want to look boring and conventional? Do you want your look to be overwhelmed by over-saturated fuchsias and kelly greens? Do you want your clothes to fall apart? Then hey, it's your store. American Eagle represents the opposite of everything that I agree with. The stores play loud pop music, complete with music videos, the clothes are far too stretchy for anyone's good, and the design aesthetic is juvenile, often heart-covered, and easy.
But a thousand "oh, thank GOD"s for sister lines! American Eagle, through all their mundanity, realized that in order to succeed they'd have to appeal to a wider base than just "tell Brian that Katy said that Amber thought Josh liked Stacy".
Thus, American Eagle's developers created Martin+Osa, a clothing store that targets a 25-40 year-old customer.
And oh my GOD, they did it WELL.
The store is named for a "globetrotting husband and wife team" who apparently did all sorts of exciting things in Africa and the South Pacific, which is why the brand is so travel and outdoor-oriented. The store will recycle customers' old clothing, and screens in the stoor play videos of a couple (resembling the original Martin and Osa) being very organic, flowery, and calmly excited about the outdoors.
Martin+Osa is one of those lifestyle retailers, a store into which you walk and everything around you suddenly transports you elsewhere. The storefront has no windows, only wood and opaque blue glass. The stores themselves are cedar-scented (thanks to a continuous spray of two different woodsy scents) and wood-lined, with very minimalistic and organic decor. Well-designed lighting effects make it look as though clouds are passing overhead.
I think Martin+Osa is one of the smartest stores around. The minute you walk in you are welcomed by a scent of cedar (what other clothing store smells like cedar?), and at the counter, displayed for the purchase, are Martin+Osa candles that smell exactly the same. As you shop, a sales person will offer you a free bottle of Fiji water. The dressing rooms feature floor-to (very tall) ceiling doors and mirrors. Inside the dressing room is a well-designed button to press for assistance, underneath which is the phrase "We're at your beck+call", which repeats the plus sign used in the store logo. Even tags are not attached to the clothing with plastic, but with these crazy metal safety pins unlike any I'd ever seen before.
Needless to say, Martin+Osa is a very high-end retail experience for a moderate price. They've capitalized on the aesthetic of their store, and created a whole new trend. No detail or service was overlooked in the production of this brand, and I'm sure it will stay around for years.
And finally, people dressing above their age rather than below it!
Yep, I'm sure you guessed it: American Eagle Outfitters.
Do you want to look boring and conventional? Do you want your look to be overwhelmed by over-saturated fuchsias and kelly greens? Do you want your clothes to fall apart? Then hey, it's your store. American Eagle represents the opposite of everything that I agree with. The stores play loud pop music, complete with music videos, the clothes are far too stretchy for anyone's good, and the design aesthetic is juvenile, often heart-covered, and easy.
But a thousand "oh, thank GOD"s for sister lines! American Eagle, through all their mundanity, realized that in order to succeed they'd have to appeal to a wider base than just "tell Brian that Katy said that Amber thought Josh liked Stacy".
Thus, American Eagle's developers created Martin+Osa, a clothing store that targets a 25-40 year-old customer.
And oh my GOD, they did it WELL.
The store is named for a "globetrotting husband and wife team" who apparently did all sorts of exciting things in Africa and the South Pacific, which is why the brand is so travel and outdoor-oriented. The store will recycle customers' old clothing, and screens in the stoor play videos of a couple (resembling the original Martin and Osa) being very organic, flowery, and calmly excited about the outdoors.
Martin+Osa is one of those lifestyle retailers, a store into which you walk and everything around you suddenly transports you elsewhere. The storefront has no windows, only wood and opaque blue glass. The stores themselves are cedar-scented (thanks to a continuous spray of two different woodsy scents) and wood-lined, with very minimalistic and organic decor. Well-designed lighting effects make it look as though clouds are passing overhead.
I think Martin+Osa is one of the smartest stores around. The minute you walk in you are welcomed by a scent of cedar (what other clothing store smells like cedar?), and at the counter, displayed for the purchase, are Martin+Osa candles that smell exactly the same. As you shop, a sales person will offer you a free bottle of Fiji water. The dressing rooms feature floor-to (very tall) ceiling doors and mirrors. Inside the dressing room is a well-designed button to press for assistance, underneath which is the phrase "We're at your beck+call", which repeats the plus sign used in the store logo. Even tags are not attached to the clothing with plastic, but with these crazy metal safety pins unlike any I'd ever seen before.
Needless to say, Martin+Osa is a very high-end retail experience for a moderate price. They've capitalized on the aesthetic of their store, and created a whole new trend. No detail or service was overlooked in the production of this brand, and I'm sure it will stay around for years.
And finally, people dressing above their age rather than below it!
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
See Me, Smell Me, Please Don't Eat Me
Let's focus for just a moment on Jessica Simpson. Not on her boobs, or meat-eating, or anything related to tunafish. Do you remember about five years ago, when her body-care line "Dessert" was popular? Well, I guess "popular" is a stretch. The line was all pink, plastic, and (worse) edible. The entire line was edible, and smelled edible, and looked edible. I always thought that was a little too weird- why, as Americans, do we need to eat the entire kitchen and then continue to lick our own calves?
Thus, my dismay upon learning about the upcoming collaboration between Sephora and Dylan's Candy Bar. I don't really understand what Dylan's is- it's an actual candy store, apparently three stories tall, that also sells clothing, shoes and pillows decorated with "DYLAN'S CANDY BAR".
I can't even begin to express my anger over shirts that have candy-related phrases or logos on them, so I'll let that one pass. But Sephora, Sephora is a shining heaven of new horizons (what did I just say?), it is an oasis of beautiful, life-changing products displayed beautifully and elegantly. When you walk into Sephora, you're a new woman with entirely new ideas.
These ideas do not include time-travel, or wanting to be 12 again and adorn yourself with lotions reminiscent of cupcakes. I don't know about anyone else, but the only time I allow myself to smell like food is during the holidays when Philosophy comes out with these babies:
But somehow, the use of Philosophy's food-inspired body washes still makes me feel mature and womanly, and doesn't leave me wanting to go hop on my Razor scooter and grab a Charleston Chew to munch while I watch "Boy Meets World".
I am disappointed that Sephora is teaming up with Dylan's, only because the idea will only make women look and act (and smell) younger, instead of looking and acting exactly the age that they are.
Thus, my dismay upon learning about the upcoming collaboration between Sephora and Dylan's Candy Bar. I don't really understand what Dylan's is- it's an actual candy store, apparently three stories tall, that also sells clothing, shoes and pillows decorated with "DYLAN'S CANDY BAR".
I can't even begin to express my anger over shirts that have candy-related phrases or logos on them, so I'll let that one pass. But Sephora, Sephora is a shining heaven of new horizons (what did I just say?), it is an oasis of beautiful, life-changing products displayed beautifully and elegantly. When you walk into Sephora, you're a new woman with entirely new ideas.
These ideas do not include time-travel, or wanting to be 12 again and adorn yourself with lotions reminiscent of cupcakes. I don't know about anyone else, but the only time I allow myself to smell like food is during the holidays when Philosophy comes out with these babies:
But somehow, the use of Philosophy's food-inspired body washes still makes me feel mature and womanly, and doesn't leave me wanting to go hop on my Razor scooter and grab a Charleston Chew to munch while I watch "Boy Meets World".
I am disappointed that Sephora is teaming up with Dylan's, only because the idea will only make women look and act (and smell) younger, instead of looking and acting exactly the age that they are.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Say WHAT!
Taylor Momsen has recently signed on with IMG Modeling Agency. That kind of came from left field, right? Like, she's pretty, but is she really that pretty?
There's a kind of alternative, all-too noticeable, kind-of-needs-to-be-stared-at quality that most high fashion models have. Taylor never really struck me as that girl.
Taylor Momsen plays Jenny Humphrey on CW's "Gossip Girl" (thebestshowevercreatedever).
I predict we'll be seeing her in some Converse ads or maybe a couple for Lip Smackers or Go!International, but definitely not gracing the pages of W.
There's a kind of alternative, all-too noticeable, kind-of-needs-to-be-stared-at quality that most high fashion models have. Taylor never really struck me as that girl.
Taylor Momsen plays Jenny Humphrey on CW's "Gossip Girl" (thebestshowevercreatedever).
I predict we'll be seeing her in some Converse ads or maybe a couple for Lip Smackers or Go!International, but definitely not gracing the pages of W.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Update! (Look I've been on here long enough to warrant an update)
New favorite modes!
I was just looking at my old post of favorite models. Oh man, has it changed. Jessica Stam, I have since learned, is a major cootie queen-slash-kleptomaniac. When she fell on her face on the runway, I felt a little sad, but also kind of happy, because she's mean.
Lily Donaldson, as I've mentioned, is not all together that attractive anymore. Which really doesn't matter, but it's why she's unattractive: sickly thin! Which means she doesn't value herself and her health, and doesn't love herself completely. Which are very unattractive things in a woman.
Lily Cole was kind of too naked in a past issue of W, and I lost taste for her... She kind of bores me?
Why do I keep saying "kind of"?
New additions:
Ali Michael. You may have seen her on "The Today Show", and probably other shows having to do with days of the week, speaking up about anorexia nervosa. She's 18, and was 16 when diagnosed. Since then, she has recovered, and is using her voice to make an impact on the fashion world. Everyone else has tried to add pounds to runway models, but I think a real difference can be made once the models themselves start making a scene.
Caroline Trentini might just be the cutest thing ever. You'll know her because she's always jumping.
Du Juan is Asian, so I immediately liked her. Her name means "cuckoo bird".
Carmen Kass is president of the Estonian National Chess League, and once ran for European Parliament. And she looks just like that girl from Top Model.
I was just looking at my old post of favorite models. Oh man, has it changed. Jessica Stam, I have since learned, is a major cootie queen-slash-kleptomaniac. When she fell on her face on the runway, I felt a little sad, but also kind of happy, because she's mean.
Lily Donaldson, as I've mentioned, is not all together that attractive anymore. Which really doesn't matter, but it's why she's unattractive: sickly thin! Which means she doesn't value herself and her health, and doesn't love herself completely. Which are very unattractive things in a woman.
Lily Cole was kind of too naked in a past issue of W, and I lost taste for her... She kind of bores me?
Why do I keep saying "kind of"?
New additions:
Ali Michael. You may have seen her on "The Today Show", and probably other shows having to do with days of the week, speaking up about anorexia nervosa. She's 18, and was 16 when diagnosed. Since then, she has recovered, and is using her voice to make an impact on the fashion world. Everyone else has tried to add pounds to runway models, but I think a real difference can be made once the models themselves start making a scene.
Caroline Trentini might just be the cutest thing ever. You'll know her because she's always jumping.
Du Juan is Asian, so I immediately liked her. Her name means "cuckoo bird".
Carmen Kass is president of the Estonian National Chess League, and once ran for European Parliament. And she looks just like that girl from Top Model.
Stanford Blatch in all his Plaid Glory
I've decided that there is no way to properly introduce a post about the Sex and the City movie. Every single woman is talking about this movie, and if I had a really good prize I would urge you to find a woman's blog that isn't talking about this movie. There is too much going through my head at this point for me to even form coherent thoughts- I am just too overcome by Charlotte's "I curse the day you were born!"; by Miranda's no-warning, terrifyingly sudden and far-too-long sex moment; and by the devastating lack of Aidan that I can't even speak about the movie yet. I have to let it all sink into my head first.
But this post is not about the movie. It doesn't matter what I think of the movie; what matters is the CLOTHES.
I hate to say it, and you all (I know there's more than one of you reading this!) probably hate me even more, but the clothes didn't thrill me; in fact they disappointed me. I went into the theater expecting to be floored by gorgeous Dries van Noten summer floral dresses, Carrie in one of those Balenciaga armor suits, Samantha in that satin-bow-equipped Louboutin of last spring. But instead, I got Charlotte in polka dots (Oscar de la Renta polka dots, but dots nonetheless), a lot of too-huge belts, and three of the only three Peter Som dresses I haven't liked. Ever.
What went wrong? I mean, Carrie will be Carrie, but Charlotte wouldn't wear black to a wedding. She just wouldn't.
And I understand that this is Vivienne Westwood, but does it have to look so '90s?
What I DID appreciate was Carrie's use of one of those insanely-huge clutches (I don't remember who it was by), and some components of her white Ralph Lauren suit in the opening.
And I understand Carrie's wedding dress. Most people just guffaw at it (look I said "guffaw") and call it ugly. But come ON, the thing is Vivienne Westwood. It's not going to be "pretty", it's not going to be normal or expected or wedding-y, or flattering. I even understood the bird on her head. If you noticed, everyone had plumes on their noggins this past Fashion Week, and Carrie would totally fall right into that trend. She's Carrie.
There was one dress that I loved! I don't know who it's by, which is totally lame. But this dress is a beautifu, toned-down, wearable version of her wedding dress. And Holy Manolo, Stanford, you're cuter than pie.
Just one little thing... Her "Something Blue" Manolos, you know, THE Manolos. In the movie they were said to have cost $545. In reality they cost $945.
Would you want to be proposed to with something you know you'd gotten a $400 deal on?
Well, I guess anything would work.
But this post is not about the movie. It doesn't matter what I think of the movie; what matters is the CLOTHES.
I hate to say it, and you all (I know there's more than one of you reading this!) probably hate me even more, but the clothes didn't thrill me; in fact they disappointed me. I went into the theater expecting to be floored by gorgeous Dries van Noten summer floral dresses, Carrie in one of those Balenciaga armor suits, Samantha in that satin-bow-equipped Louboutin of last spring. But instead, I got Charlotte in polka dots (Oscar de la Renta polka dots, but dots nonetheless), a lot of too-huge belts, and three of the only three Peter Som dresses I haven't liked. Ever.
What went wrong? I mean, Carrie will be Carrie, but Charlotte wouldn't wear black to a wedding. She just wouldn't.
And I understand that this is Vivienne Westwood, but does it have to look so '90s?
What I DID appreciate was Carrie's use of one of those insanely-huge clutches (I don't remember who it was by), and some components of her white Ralph Lauren suit in the opening.
And I understand Carrie's wedding dress. Most people just guffaw at it (look I said "guffaw") and call it ugly. But come ON, the thing is Vivienne Westwood. It's not going to be "pretty", it's not going to be normal or expected or wedding-y, or flattering. I even understood the bird on her head. If you noticed, everyone had plumes on their noggins this past Fashion Week, and Carrie would totally fall right into that trend. She's Carrie.
There was one dress that I loved! I don't know who it's by, which is totally lame. But this dress is a beautifu, toned-down, wearable version of her wedding dress. And Holy Manolo, Stanford, you're cuter than pie.
Just one little thing... Her "Something Blue" Manolos, you know, THE Manolos. In the movie they were said to have cost $545. In reality they cost $945.
Would you want to be proposed to with something you know you'd gotten a $400 deal on?
Well, I guess anything would work.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Time to Pay a Visit to Lululemon
"Overdressed travelers pay less attention to the surroundings and more to themselves." Thank GOD my best friend gave me this great quote because my blog-inspiration river was running dry as a milkless cow. (Also let's all be sure to thank God for Wicked, from whence this quote came.) I am about to venture on a couple trips that will involve airplanes, and because of that, I have been thinking a lot about travel wear. Mainly: airplane wear. Seems like most people think of the airport as that one place where it really is okay to wear their pajamas in public.
THEY ARE WRONG.
Not only because you can never wear your pajamas in public, but also because that is downright disrespectful. People are cramped into some pretty close quarters in airplanes, and inadvertently, a stranger's leg will brush against yours. If I were that stranger, I would go through every contortion possible to avoid brushing up against a pajama leg. That's just sick. Also, there are about... a thousand billion people in an airport at any given moment. So looking sloppy, where does that get you, exactly?
I know that it's all about comfort, and that an airplane seat does nothing to make comfortable your favorite jeans, and you may not want to wrinkle your button-up shirt, and that the metal detectors make jewelry kind of annoying, blah. I also realize that many people view airplanes as a one-way ticket to death, so they probably aren't putting a lot of emphasis on their outfit.
But, please, make the world a shinier place! Even if you are going to die, they're going to recover your body, and don't you want to be remembered well? But before your death, everyone else has too LOOK at you! Probably ten people will service you before you even board the plane. Pay them a tiny ounce of respect and please don't flash your thong, poking up through a pair of faded, stretched-out, ripped and past-season Target drawstring Xhilaration polka-dotted poly-blend pants.
Yikes, I just barfed in my mouth.
Anyway, ladies, let's commence a revolution: cute, neat-looking, clean loungewear to wear in public in place of whatever else may have been on your mind. Being confident will make your trip more fun and more exciting, and will make your de-planing a moment of pride.
And a cardigan never hurt anybody!
THEY ARE WRONG.
Not only because you can never wear your pajamas in public, but also because that is downright disrespectful. People are cramped into some pretty close quarters in airplanes, and inadvertently, a stranger's leg will brush against yours. If I were that stranger, I would go through every contortion possible to avoid brushing up against a pajama leg. That's just sick. Also, there are about... a thousand billion people in an airport at any given moment. So looking sloppy, where does that get you, exactly?
I know that it's all about comfort, and that an airplane seat does nothing to make comfortable your favorite jeans, and you may not want to wrinkle your button-up shirt, and that the metal detectors make jewelry kind of annoying, blah. I also realize that many people view airplanes as a one-way ticket to death, so they probably aren't putting a lot of emphasis on their outfit.
But, please, make the world a shinier place! Even if you are going to die, they're going to recover your body, and don't you want to be remembered well? But before your death, everyone else has too LOOK at you! Probably ten people will service you before you even board the plane. Pay them a tiny ounce of respect and please don't flash your thong, poking up through a pair of faded, stretched-out, ripped and past-season Target drawstring Xhilaration polka-dotted poly-blend pants.
Yikes, I just barfed in my mouth.
Anyway, ladies, let's commence a revolution: cute, neat-looking, clean loungewear to wear in public in place of whatever else may have been on your mind. Being confident will make your trip more fun and more exciting, and will make your de-planing a moment of pride.
And a cardigan never hurt anybody!
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Ballet Pink Nail Polish
I think that baby pink nail polish, that shade reminiscent of pointe shoes, is symbolic of a lot of things that women should be. Not in a stereotypical way, not like every woman should be doing ballet or figuratively floating around with graceful arm movements. But a woman should be polished and tasteful- pretty in the more intricate senses of the word. With the re-emergence of 90s fashion like some bat out of a plaid hell, these disturbing images of grungy young women are incessantly parading about in my head. I am reminded of my pet peeve (if you can still call it a pet after it has expanded to three times the size of my makeup collection), possibly an idea I hate more than that of being uncontrollably fat: the ill-kempt woman.
I don't know when certain women got it into their heads that they no longer needed to posess a sense of femininity, but could someone take a large stick to these women's viscera? Women through all (mentionable) centuries have been symbols of grace and refinement, so what exactly lead to the invention of fishnets? I grimace when I see a young woman who has seemingly let go of her sense of girliness. You lose a part of your feminine self when you dye your hair an ungodly chartreuse color and don a pair of carpenter jeans. You do nothing for the name of women when you put on a sweatshirt and track pants and go about your business as though no one else will view you all day (unless that truly is the case). Don't we want to inspire people? Don't we want people to be impressed by us, stunned and taken aback by us? That has been the (okay, a) role of women throughout history. Shouldn't a girl be proud of that?
So many college freshman take their new sense of independence too far (as in, they are independent all over your face). They rebel from "the establishment" because it is finally legal for them to do so in ways they never could. They choose to, then, use their bodies as canvases for their statements, and end up a mess of tattoos and dyed hair, zip-up hoodies with hand-sewn patches, puce cordury pants held up with drawstrings... It is a pile of college excreta. What happened to the feeling of freshly-shaved calves rubbing against each other under the clean sheets? Of moisturized hands running serum through your hair? What happened to the satisfying click of high heels and the soft feeling of a silk-lined skirt? Do these girls miss these things?
These rituals that define our femininity need to be upheld! This is what makes us women, and what is so alluring about us: the act of spraying perfume, the buffing of fingernails, hands clasping a pair of earrings at a jawline, the quick swoop in which we tie our hair into a bun before washing our faces. These things are part of what makes us girls, in every decade previously and hopefully in many decades to come. Perfume pulls people toward us and makes them want to stay. A woman's scent will stay with someone and make a very lasting impression. Soft, glowing skin is asking to be touched, and white teeth are more often exposed in a welcoming smile.
I hope that the sense of femininity does not dwindle as the world falls from natural beauty. I want women to inspire and create art and color in this world, to be walking paintings of detail and grace. A good start is a baby pink fingernail.
An addendum: Protest and speak out! Be sassy and strong and braver than the men. Bitch at people for treating you like scum, and do so with the idea of a large and possibly rabid bear in the back of your head. I am not advocating that women give up their voices, I am just saying... You'll run errands anyway, so why not look pretty doing so? And more people will notice your protest sign if it is being held up by a hand of red fingernails.
I don't know when certain women got it into their heads that they no longer needed to posess a sense of femininity, but could someone take a large stick to these women's viscera? Women through all (mentionable) centuries have been symbols of grace and refinement, so what exactly lead to the invention of fishnets? I grimace when I see a young woman who has seemingly let go of her sense of girliness. You lose a part of your feminine self when you dye your hair an ungodly chartreuse color and don a pair of carpenter jeans. You do nothing for the name of women when you put on a sweatshirt and track pants and go about your business as though no one else will view you all day (unless that truly is the case). Don't we want to inspire people? Don't we want people to be impressed by us, stunned and taken aback by us? That has been the (okay, a) role of women throughout history. Shouldn't a girl be proud of that?
So many college freshman take their new sense of independence too far (as in, they are independent all over your face). They rebel from "the establishment" because it is finally legal for them to do so in ways they never could. They choose to, then, use their bodies as canvases for their statements, and end up a mess of tattoos and dyed hair, zip-up hoodies with hand-sewn patches, puce cordury pants held up with drawstrings... It is a pile of college excreta. What happened to the feeling of freshly-shaved calves rubbing against each other under the clean sheets? Of moisturized hands running serum through your hair? What happened to the satisfying click of high heels and the soft feeling of a silk-lined skirt? Do these girls miss these things?
These rituals that define our femininity need to be upheld! This is what makes us women, and what is so alluring about us: the act of spraying perfume, the buffing of fingernails, hands clasping a pair of earrings at a jawline, the quick swoop in which we tie our hair into a bun before washing our faces. These things are part of what makes us girls, in every decade previously and hopefully in many decades to come. Perfume pulls people toward us and makes them want to stay. A woman's scent will stay with someone and make a very lasting impression. Soft, glowing skin is asking to be touched, and white teeth are more often exposed in a welcoming smile.
I hope that the sense of femininity does not dwindle as the world falls from natural beauty. I want women to inspire and create art and color in this world, to be walking paintings of detail and grace. A good start is a baby pink fingernail.
An addendum: Protest and speak out! Be sassy and strong and braver than the men. Bitch at people for treating you like scum, and do so with the idea of a large and possibly rabid bear in the back of your head. I am not advocating that women give up their voices, I am just saying... You'll run errands anyway, so why not look pretty doing so? And more people will notice your protest sign if it is being held up by a hand of red fingernails.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
The Creative Juices, they are a-Flowin'
People will wear the ugliest things, if only they are stamped with a well-known brand name. They will pull out of their closet some tank top from the 80s simply because it is emblazoned with "GAP". It helps that these people live in Kentucky, so we don't have to think about them.
But rich people (who don't live in Kentucky) will choose to wear some out-there outfit, knowing that it cost a couple thousand dollars, just so that we are all aware exactly how rich they are. If something is expensive enough, it can be as ugly as a lap dog (actually, probably accompanied by a lap dog) and still be deemed wearable, only so that people passing by go, "oh, I saw that on McQueen's runway, but I didn't think people would actually wear it." But the wearing would then not have been in vain: the passerby knew that it was Alexander McQueen, and therefore knows that the wearer has lots and lots of disposable income.
Some people may actually wear some potentially hideous stuff in an acceptable way (see Carrie Bradshaw, circa '97). These people are bold, cutting-edge and daringly fabulous, and they look at all us J. Crew devotees and probably chuckle at our cowardice.
Four posts ago I referenced the Lego-ish Balenciaga heels of s/s '08. They're probably the ugliest things you could find outside of the uncensored pics of Britney's vagina, but their design is not about wearability (the shoes, not the vagina). It is about statement-making art, symbolism, publicity, discussion, or maybe it was a drunken bet. They can only be pulled of by high-fashion, and in its world, they are unabashedly Balenciaga. No one has a problem with couture dresses shaped and styled like sleeping bags (Viktor and Rolf, a couple years ago) or with huge sunglass headdresses with cartoon eyes pasted on them (Marc Jacobs, s/s '08).
True, blatant, non-arguable ugliness can only be appreciated in high, high fashion. To infringe upon the copyrights of Missoni, Prada, or DVF is expected, because the clothes don't stand out in a crowd (well, they do, but only to people with brains). But to completely copy a look by an avant-garde designer is risky.
I give you... The Balenciaga version:
And the Steve Madden version:
First of all, you're bound to get caught, and sued. Secondly, anyone who knows fashion will look at the maybe 10 people who will wear these Steve Maddens, and laugh in their face.
Probably fewer than 1000 people will actually wear a pair of those authentic Balenciaga heels, and half of them will be celebrities who were paid to do so. So who will buy these knock-offs by Steve Madden? They are not expensive. They will not be confused for the Balenciagas, especially after one wearing when they will start to fray. And they're made out of plastic.
It seems like with all the natural inspiration in this world, a company could design its own shoe?
But rich people (who don't live in Kentucky) will choose to wear some out-there outfit, knowing that it cost a couple thousand dollars, just so that we are all aware exactly how rich they are. If something is expensive enough, it can be as ugly as a lap dog (actually, probably accompanied by a lap dog) and still be deemed wearable, only so that people passing by go, "oh, I saw that on McQueen's runway, but I didn't think people would actually wear it." But the wearing would then not have been in vain: the passerby knew that it was Alexander McQueen, and therefore knows that the wearer has lots and lots of disposable income.
Some people may actually wear some potentially hideous stuff in an acceptable way (see Carrie Bradshaw, circa '97). These people are bold, cutting-edge and daringly fabulous, and they look at all us J. Crew devotees and probably chuckle at our cowardice.
Four posts ago I referenced the Lego-ish Balenciaga heels of s/s '08. They're probably the ugliest things you could find outside of the uncensored pics of Britney's vagina, but their design is not about wearability (the shoes, not the vagina). It is about statement-making art, symbolism, publicity, discussion, or maybe it was a drunken bet. They can only be pulled of by high-fashion, and in its world, they are unabashedly Balenciaga. No one has a problem with couture dresses shaped and styled like sleeping bags (Viktor and Rolf, a couple years ago) or with huge sunglass headdresses with cartoon eyes pasted on them (Marc Jacobs, s/s '08).
True, blatant, non-arguable ugliness can only be appreciated in high, high fashion. To infringe upon the copyrights of Missoni, Prada, or DVF is expected, because the clothes don't stand out in a crowd (well, they do, but only to people with brains). But to completely copy a look by an avant-garde designer is risky.
I give you... The Balenciaga version:
And the Steve Madden version:
First of all, you're bound to get caught, and sued. Secondly, anyone who knows fashion will look at the maybe 10 people who will wear these Steve Maddens, and laugh in their face.
Probably fewer than 1000 people will actually wear a pair of those authentic Balenciaga heels, and half of them will be celebrities who were paid to do so. So who will buy these knock-offs by Steve Madden? They are not expensive. They will not be confused for the Balenciagas, especially after one wearing when they will start to fray. And they're made out of plastic.
It seems like with all the natural inspiration in this world, a company could design its own shoe?
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
I Wonder if Victoria's Secret's Stocks will Go Down?
Apparently bras are so passe at Urban Outfitters... And, oh yeah, boobs too.
I just don't see how these will sell, because NO one in America is that thin. And if they are, there is a good chance they lack the confidence (or immodesty?) to expose their chest with quite such... gusto.
There is just no way to wear a bra under these tops.
I own that pink dress, so I'm going to have to figure something out...
I just don't see how these will sell, because NO one in America is that thin. And if they are, there is a good chance they lack the confidence (or immodesty?) to expose their chest with quite such... gusto.
There is just no way to wear a bra under these tops.
I own that pink dress, so I'm going to have to figure something out...
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Just Another Week in Fashion
Project Runway gets moved to Lifetime; its sponsor, Bluefly.com, is possibly going under; and Nina Garcia, one of two judges of the show, has been let go from Elle magazine.
?
?
Thursday, April 10, 2008
See, if they Taught Economics in Sex and the City Terms...
I totally cracked up watching Sex and the City last night- and not for the usual reason of thinking Steve's "Miwanda!" will win some kind of award for most hilarious thing ever. I was watching the episode in which Charlotte goes on a run and a girl riding a horse passes her by. Charlotte has a moment, and the next thing we know, she's at the stables, Carrie by her side, about to mount a horse (since when do they have stables in NYC? I'm excited about that).
The funny part for me was when Carrie mentioned that her "three hundred dollar shoes are covered in horse manure". Three hundred dollars?! Can I get my hands on those, please? Inflation is fun.
Then I got to thinking... (yes, I totally just pulled a "Carrie introduces the theme of the episode" line, and I'm in front of a laptop, too) The show is a half-hour long... So if it were still running now, would they need to lengthen it to fit in her exclamations about "my two-thousand, six-hundred and ninety-two dollar shoes"? It certainly takes up more screen time than "three-hundred". Would they stop having Carrie mention the price, for fear of the time-slot cup runnething over?
This is all totally moot and pointless, but I'm so ready to see what kind of shoes she has on in the movie.
And will she sport... These? They're mildly Carrie-esque.
And cost $4,175.
(That's eleven syllables.)
The funny part for me was when Carrie mentioned that her "three hundred dollar shoes are covered in horse manure". Three hundred dollars?! Can I get my hands on those, please? Inflation is fun.
Then I got to thinking... (yes, I totally just pulled a "Carrie introduces the theme of the episode" line, and I'm in front of a laptop, too) The show is a half-hour long... So if it were still running now, would they need to lengthen it to fit in her exclamations about "my two-thousand, six-hundred and ninety-two dollar shoes"? It certainly takes up more screen time than "three-hundred". Would they stop having Carrie mention the price, for fear of the time-slot cup runnething over?
This is all totally moot and pointless, but I'm so ready to see what kind of shoes she has on in the movie.
And will she sport... These? They're mildly Carrie-esque.
And cost $4,175.
(That's eleven syllables.)
Zedus Lepidus- Coincidence Major, Nebula!
I just posted about Lily Donaldson's body mass index, receding like the hairlines of cancer patients everywhere (see, I can make jokes like that and you can't). And on that topic, recently I discovered that in Dolce and Gabbana's print ad campaign, Lily Donaldson is standing on the right side of the page in kind of an "oh my God, I'm so thin even this couture dress won't stay put" pose. Which we all have to deal with at some point in our lives, it's kind of annoying but what will you do.
Cute little Gemma Ward, however, has been receiving, shall we say... shit, for being too "thick", as the oh-so-polite New York fashion power women put it. Which is total bullcrap because she looks the best she's ever looked, but that's another post.
The sickening thing is that if you visit Dolce and Gabbana's website, you'll see the same exact body and dress of Lily Donaldson, only with Gemma's head pasted on instead. As if Gemma's body is too "thick" to sell the clothing, but Lily's face is too sickly to sell the clothing, so they just created this perfect model with Photoshop instead.
It makes me wonder:
Will they even need models in another couple years? They could just create them with computer animation, eliminating flaws altogether. Target already did a fashion show using only holograms.
And why do girls still look to magazines for their ideal body weight? You know, those emo girls with all the crazy hair colors, usually accompanied by barrettes shaped like teddy bears, and hundreds of variations of "sad" faces. The models aren't even real people anymore, they're just combinations of different likable parts.
Which top model will prevail on the runway? Lily looks like she'll faint if she walks under bright lights, but Gemma's weight is apparently too much for high fashion.
And... Which model can sue over this- Lily or Gemma?
Cute little Gemma Ward, however, has been receiving, shall we say... shit, for being too "thick", as the oh-so-polite New York fashion power women put it. Which is total bullcrap because she looks the best she's ever looked, but that's another post.
The sickening thing is that if you visit Dolce and Gabbana's website, you'll see the same exact body and dress of Lily Donaldson, only with Gemma's head pasted on instead. As if Gemma's body is too "thick" to sell the clothing, but Lily's face is too sickly to sell the clothing, so they just created this perfect model with Photoshop instead.
It makes me wonder:
Will they even need models in another couple years? They could just create them with computer animation, eliminating flaws altogether. Target already did a fashion show using only holograms.
And why do girls still look to magazines for their ideal body weight? You know, those emo girls with all the crazy hair colors, usually accompanied by barrettes shaped like teddy bears, and hundreds of variations of "sad" faces. The models aren't even real people anymore, they're just combinations of different likable parts.
Which top model will prevail on the runway? Lily looks like she'll faint if she walks under bright lights, but Gemma's weight is apparently too much for high fashion.
And... Which model can sue over this- Lily or Gemma?
Saturday, April 5, 2008
And the Target Audience is... ?
I just wanted everyone to know that Giorgio Armani is selling roller skates now... That retail at $425.
Also interesting... November's new Tokyo Armani store is a whopping 12 stories tall. It includes the world's first Armani Spa, and an Italian restaurant, and a bar. The man also hopes to expand his Japanese existence with a hotel and Armani-brand private residences.
Can I just say... Overkill? You can wear Armani, eat and drink Armani, moisturize and exfoliate Armani, and now you can LIVE Armani.
Also interesting... November's new Tokyo Armani store is a whopping 12 stories tall. It includes the world's first Armani Spa, and an Italian restaurant, and a bar. The man also hopes to expand his Japanese existence with a hotel and Armani-brand private residences.
Can I just say... Overkill? You can wear Armani, eat and drink Armani, moisturize and exfoliate Armani, and now you can LIVE Armani.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
MK & A
I think Mary-Kate and Ashley are insanely stylish.
Like, they absolutely stink to high heaven of personal style. People give them a lot of hoo-ha for looking like bag ladies, but they are some fine bag ladies.
I am totally in love with their first line, titled The Row. It is tres expensive, but so wearable and modern, slouchy and mannish but irrefutably womanly. The clothes look thrown on, but sexed out. You have to have 2 things to wear these clothes:
1. A body comprised of skin and bones.
2. Confidence.
Their newest, cheaper line- Elizabeth and James- is well-designed and relevant, too. Totally gorgeous.
Like, they absolutely stink to high heaven of personal style. People give them a lot of hoo-ha for looking like bag ladies, but they are some fine bag ladies.
I am totally in love with their first line, titled The Row. It is tres expensive, but so wearable and modern, slouchy and mannish but irrefutably womanly. The clothes look thrown on, but sexed out. You have to have 2 things to wear these clothes:
1. A body comprised of skin and bones.
2. Confidence.
Their newest, cheaper line- Elizabeth and James- is well-designed and relevant, too. Totally gorgeous.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Spindle-shanked
Lily Donaldson is such a gorgeous model. She is kind of weird looking, like any model-of-the-moment should be, but also normal enough to be totally acceptably pretty. Whereas Sasha P. or Lily Cole could elicit converstations of "was that... an alien?" while walking down the street, Lily would just look totally normally gorgeous. Sadly, though, I am (and the whole world, too, although no one else is talking about it) watching her get skinnier and skinnier, and, as follows, less normal-looking, and less beautiful. At this point, to me, she has turned into a kind of circus spectacle. I am all for a size 0 model; I'm not one of those people lobbying for more plus-sized girls walking the runways. But it is sad to see a model whom I admire so much fall into this life-threatening pattern. Poor Lily, she was so much prettier when she had more to her.
I tried to find photos of her looking healthy to contrast these... But, I couldn't find any. It's so sad.
I tried to find photos of her looking healthy to contrast these... But, I couldn't find any. It's so sad.
Friday, March 28, 2008
A Walk Around the 10th Floor
I spent a long time in a hospital recently. I can't remember if it was last week or the one before, and I can't remember how long I was there, but I haven't yet opened my May Elle so let's say I was there for a substantial amount of time. Hospitals are seafoam green, smell nice, energetic and lethargic at the same time. They are questionable, and rarely have the answers you're looking for. Hospitals are unpadded, they are ripe but they are stale. These are all the things that hospitals are... There is one thing they are definitely not: fashionable.
The closest you can come to contemporary in a hospital is a newborn baby. The butt-gowns and booties go without saying, but the ice cream cone-printed nurse blouses (where do they GET those? Ugly print surplus stores?) and ever-recurring ponytails are memorable to me. I counted more pairs of Crocs than I do during an average mid-summer four-day trip to Disneyland. Nurses dress to be thrown up on, surgeons dress to be splattered upon (sorry). And the sad fashion choices do not stop at the employees: people who visit hospitals do not dress to impress, for they are visiting someone who will probably not be able to see the outline of their body, let alone notice a madras headband. I don't blame them all for dressing like this, but it is a little draining to see all that insipid clothing for a week.
But alas! When I was able to walk down the hall, I walked further in my head than anybody knew- I had seen inspiration! At long last, a memorable trip around the 10th floor left me with a tiny candle flame of hope. There was another world out there, one in which people went to meetings in Prada pants and lunches in Earnest Sewn jeans, and here I had a window to it. I rounded a corner, leaning on my mom's arm and pushing my IV drip in front of me (my mom lugging my drainage bucket), and saw another mother-daughter duo, in a much more forgiving scene: sitting on the floor of the hallway, outside their own family member's room, the two women (we'll say 55 and 25) were engaged in quiet and serious conversation, which is basically the only type of conversation you come across in a hospital. My eyes lit up (okay, they returned to their proper place of openness) upon the sight of their styled hair, and further widened after I noticed their jackets. These women were put-together, they had actually dressed this morning. They were stylish and authoritative, and they reeked of self-assurance and stability. I wanted to crawl into their world, the world from which I come, and never crawl back into my squealing hospital bed.
The most happy moment came, however, when I caught a glimmer of what was in the daughter's open leather purse: a Superfood Odwalla juice and a banana peeked out and said hello to me, welcoming me back, when I was ready, into the healthy land from which they came. This daughter was me in ten years: in a hospital (ha), dressed for a San Francisco afternoon, wielding nutrients.
The closest you can come to contemporary in a hospital is a newborn baby. The butt-gowns and booties go without saying, but the ice cream cone-printed nurse blouses (where do they GET those? Ugly print surplus stores?) and ever-recurring ponytails are memorable to me. I counted more pairs of Crocs than I do during an average mid-summer four-day trip to Disneyland. Nurses dress to be thrown up on, surgeons dress to be splattered upon (sorry). And the sad fashion choices do not stop at the employees: people who visit hospitals do not dress to impress, for they are visiting someone who will probably not be able to see the outline of their body, let alone notice a madras headband. I don't blame them all for dressing like this, but it is a little draining to see all that insipid clothing for a week.
But alas! When I was able to walk down the hall, I walked further in my head than anybody knew- I had seen inspiration! At long last, a memorable trip around the 10th floor left me with a tiny candle flame of hope. There was another world out there, one in which people went to meetings in Prada pants and lunches in Earnest Sewn jeans, and here I had a window to it. I rounded a corner, leaning on my mom's arm and pushing my IV drip in front of me (my mom lugging my drainage bucket), and saw another mother-daughter duo, in a much more forgiving scene: sitting on the floor of the hallway, outside their own family member's room, the two women (we'll say 55 and 25) were engaged in quiet and serious conversation, which is basically the only type of conversation you come across in a hospital. My eyes lit up (okay, they returned to their proper place of openness) upon the sight of their styled hair, and further widened after I noticed their jackets. These women were put-together, they had actually dressed this morning. They were stylish and authoritative, and they reeked of self-assurance and stability. I wanted to crawl into their world, the world from which I come, and never crawl back into my squealing hospital bed.
The most happy moment came, however, when I caught a glimmer of what was in the daughter's open leather purse: a Superfood Odwalla juice and a banana peeked out and said hello to me, welcoming me back, when I was ready, into the healthy land from which they came. This daughter was me in ten years: in a hospital (ha), dressed for a San Francisco afternoon, wielding nutrients.
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