Fashion X K8

L.E.S. Artistes

2011-03-08T10:05:00.004-05:00

pleather shorts/boyfriend blazer, Forever 21. black tank, Express. watch, Target.

Photography by Benny Pinto

It was a cold cold night, way back in, I dunno January or something. I parked my ridiculously unnecessary SUV on one of the garbage bag infested side streets downtown. I think it was beside a Crazy Mocha, but who knows, those things are to Pittsburgh what Starbucks is to Manhattan anymore, could’ve been on any street. Dialed up Benny and proceeded to walk, wind blown, arm laden with a bag full of shoes, bits of black clothing and a bottle of hairspray, until I found the studio tucked away in Market Square and Benny standing outside shivering in nothing more than a hoodie.

Though we were all merely playing, so to speak, Tak and Benny with their respective lenses and lighting equipment, and me with the black clothing and tableau blanc of the studio backdrop, we were all also working. Tak asked me how much time I had; I responded as long as he needed, my longest shoot has gone on over 3 hours. “Oh, I won’t need 3 hours,” he says. Three hours later, we were still playing.

I really think that the fuel to these shoots that go on and on and no one notices the clock, or the sun setting, or their stomachs growling, is the music. Yeah, that sounds like some creative person cliché, I know, but it’s an absolute truism; if the music being pumped during a shoot makes me move, makes me dance, then I’m going to model better. If the music is something I can get lost in, then I’m definitely going to forget that I didn’t eat dinner yet, forget about being under 90 degree lights in a sterile white studio, forget that I have a hundred pages of reading to finish, forget about the pain of heels or the discomfort of holding a pose. For this photography duo it was all alt-metal and Santigold, indie-pop-dance-metal…changed up, made me dance, made me groove, and made me angsty. It’s like some sort of inverse Brechtian drama, instead of the songs interrupting, the songs made everything flow.

Each photographer I’ve worked with has introduced me to new music, their tastes, which translate into the kind of images that they want. The music played becomes an equalizer between photographer and subject, a universal language that says, “hey, this is what I’m feeling right now, go.”

Catechize

2011-02-21T23:47:00.005-05:00

moto jacket, H&M. rose jean leggings, Express. scarf/knit gloves, Old Navy. boots, Harley Davidson.

Photography by Jeremy Zerbe

This was probably one of the stupider outfits I could have been wearing in a twenty-something degree snowstorm; some sort of thin drapey sweater, noticeable holes indicative of its thrift store origins; a faux leather moto jacket, cheap-shit-hip thanks to H&M. I added a pair of knit gloves, which helped but are never practical if a cigarette is involved, Bic lighter functioning, operating an iPod, pretty much anything involving hands is out of the question. The scarf too, it has its drawbacks, snags on everything. As with anything that resembles the softer side of Velcro, it’s attracted to everything burr-like, or zippers, unkempt fingernails, and rings shaped like snakes. I’m really starting to wonder why I wear pain-in-the ass articles of clothing sometimes. Why would I wear a pair of jean leggings that are difficult to remove and are meant to be difficult to remove? Why wear a deep neckline bodysuit if I have to perpetually make sure that there’s no Janet style accidental exposure? Why wear anything not warm enough or anything not chill enough or anything without pockets? What exactly is the point of it all?

These are not questions that I always ask myself when I get dressed. Sometimes I succumb to a uniform of sorts that shifts slightly depending on the weather and what I’ve got that’s clean. Sometimes I literally do wear a uniform. Sometimes my goal is only to avoid one color that day, or to wear a piece of jewelry from my sister, the rest doesn’t matter much. All of these considerations, or lack thereof build some semblance of a style, a mish-mash of varying factors that rely heavily on mood. It's a series of questions that range from ‘what’s the weather going to do by the end of the day?’ to ‘will I be able to slip this dress back into my sister’s closet before she gets home from work?’ to ‘am I going to run into that one obnoxious guy who only hits on me when I’m wearing red?’ The answers lead to style.

Fashion, I’ve concluded is relative and in fact the clothes sometimes chose us. You know that dress that looks absolutely ridiculous on the hanger, might involve a weird pattern or weirdly cut hem or strangely shaped neckline. You put it on in some florescent-lit fitting room as a joke. You’ve got every intention of walking out into the store and showing your friend how absolutely garish and disgusting it is and low and behold, you look back at yourself in the full length mirror, and you look damn good. You buy the formerly ugly garment and it becomes your favorite for a few months. It gets looped into a cycle of favorites, takes a break when you’re not going out as much, or when the weather turns it inappropriate. Might get lost in the bottom of your closet during a period when you have no time to keep such things organized. One day when you find the time to dig through the hanger droppings in your closet, the piece resurfaces and you might question it again. The questioning leads to an instant desire to know what it looks like. You try it on again, and fall in love again. Fashion is relative to the questions you ask.

The Beautiful & the Damned

2011-02-10T09:06:00.003-05:00

The Beautiful & The Damned from stylestalker on Vimeo.

I'm a sucker for horror films. I'm a sucker for dark, weird, damsel heroine figures with dark dark costume make-up and a really good, blood curdling, horror movie scream. Stylestalker's The Beautiful & the Damned collection has a toned down gothic edge with film noir glamor that toes the line between Marylin Monroe and Morticia Adams without overreaching into the arena of costumeness. Compared to Desert Fox, the collection is overtly feminine, however compared to the mainstream (box store) field of design trends, the new collection from Stylestalker offers a version of femme that balances the elements of innocence, sexiness, and edginess. I was disappointed on the lack of their signature laced/grommet detailing that is highlighted on the snakebite pants from Desert Fox, but in the context of this collection, one that essentially lacks complexity in many ways, the detailing would most likely have felt forced had it made an appearance. Simplicity is not normally a term I can apply to Stylestalker's designs. With them it's either brightly colored and oddly textured fabrics, or utterly unique detailing that subtly plays with the eye. The collection is a step into effortless for them. The detailing is there but in a way that is hardly noticeable when looking at jpegs of the clothes, this is a collection that you need to touch to get shivers over.

Stylestalker

The Beautiful & the Damned

Cool vs. Camp

2011-02-07T09:32:00.006-05:00

bodysuit, AA. cargo leggings, Express. boots, Harley Davidson.

Photography by Ian Tak Momyer

www.govisualnow.com

www.flickr.com/imomyer

Back in the ‘aughts, American Apparel, or AA as bloggers have ironically shortened it, held a luster, a brightly colored, tight fitting, cotton jersey, gay friendly luster. The bravado of their Terry Richardson-esque marketing campaign, raccoon-eyed prepubescent looking models bearing skin like credit card wielding daddy’s girls had become some sort of visual definition of hipster cool. ‘Hipster’ itself is a slippery term, stigmatized by some and embraced by others. Who even knows what ‘hipster cool’ means anymore (I’m not going to attempt to define it here)? I don’t think AA had any idea; otherwise they would have bottled it, mixed it with new ideals and remained cool to this day. But they didn’t. They’ve gone from ironically fashionable with their over-priced organic tees, nylon fanny packs, and multi-functional dresses to a tragic display of soft-core porn. AA is crotch shots next to close-ups of cute girls with nerdy plastic frames, most likely housing fake lenses. It’s fashion retail’s version of the virgin/whore dichotomy; sometimes the AA girl is all tutus and innocence, then she puts on the metallic gold bodysuit, arches her back, lets her hair hang down, and puts her hands places unacceptable for the ten-year-old at the bus stop staring at an upturned copy of the City Paper, lewd whorish spread on the back cover.

There’s been a porno edge to AA since it’s inception, but it worked in the beginning, it was just shocking enough to make you say “hmmm,” and promptly enter the jersey knit and lamé wonderland to find yourself enthralled by the sheer quantity of t-shirt reversions and tops, dresses, and scarves that had a zillion different ways to be worn. They went for comfort, and economy; a $38 jersey knit dress could become a halter-top, a skirt, and five different dresses. I’m poor, sometimes sartorially inventive, and downright fickle when it comes to clothes…I was AA’s target consumer, and they won me over with not-so-basic basics. It all started with a navy blue jersey scarf, the gateway drug. That was followed by slinky U-back dresses that promptly became a mainstay in my daily dress code…next came leggings…thigh-high socks…bandeau bras…and bodysuits. Those were the days when everything was functional and had no message aside from “legalize gay.”

Flash-forward to the present day, AA has been through some shit, some badmouthing by the very slew of twenty-somethings who, just a few years earlier, were eating their stock up. Their hiring practices came under scrutiny when some sort of dictatorial by-laws surfaced that said ‘No’ to things like gauged ears, tattoos, and bangs (?!), all aesthetic elements present on my local AA staffers. I read a story on Racked NY about AA’s line of nail polishes exploding on the shelves; never good for the gauntlet that is the blogger/consumer rumor mill of free marketing. And now, they’ve taken the porno ad campaign thing to a whole new and weird level. The ads can best be described as watercolor porn, sketches of blonde, 80’s style women with exposed breasts wearing AA lingerie, mostly in the act of removing said lingerie. Poignantly described by illustrator and fellow blogger Claire Napier as being “like a Judy Blume Nightmare,” it’s hard to discern if AA was going for camp, or if they actually think that these comely women are tastefully portrayed. As a culture we’ve been so jaded by commercial sex via photographic impressions and video capture of the “real” that it takes a sketch artist who happens to be really good at drawing one thing, naked women, to make us say, “WTF…this shouldn’t be so commonplace!”

Props to Boris Lopez (the artist) for his mad skills with the pencil and watercolors, I mean, the guy’s got talent. And I really don’t have a problem with pictures of naked girls; we’re all so far beyond squeamishness as a result of an exposed nipple at this point. But is that the danger of oversaturation realized? It’s all familiar and clichéd, even for that ten-year-old at the bus stop.

Sontag's Impetus

2011-01-28T11:31:00.005-05:00

white button down, Gap. bracelets, vintage. celtic knot ink, Brian Holton

Photography by Dave McKelvey

“In the open fields of American experience, as catalogued with passion by Whitman and as sized up with a shrug by Warhol, everybody is a celebrity. No moment is more important than any other moment; no person is more interesting than any other person.” – Susan Sontag

Photoplay, modeling, the very concept of being placed in front of a camera lens and expected to look a certain way, move a certain way, be a certain version of yourself, leaves me searching for words that make it all commonplace, that make it less of an event. I like to think of the process as being similar to painting. In photography the paints are the shadows, the wrinkles in the clothes, wisps of out-of-place hair, doe eyes and angled body parts, the brush is the lens that refracts the light and captures the paint that’s lying on the three dimensional canvas in just the right way. It’s easy to understand how staring into a mirror, high on LSD, turned Jerry Hall’s tripping groupie mind onto the idea of modeling. It’s beyond vanity, it’s not just looking pretty, it’s looking interesting, and to echo Sontag’s invocation of Whitmanesque judgments, anyone, and in fact everyone, can look interesting.

The man’s body is sacred and the woman’s body is sacred, No matter who it is, it is sacred – is it the meanest one in the laborers’ gang? Is it one of the dull-faced immigrants just landed on the warf? Each belongs here or anywhere just as much as the well-off, just as much as you, Each has his or her place in the procession.

-Walt Whitman, “I Sing the Body Electric”

Inverse Femme Fatale

2011-01-03T23:13:00.008-05:00

faux leather pants and knit beanie, Express. combat boots, Forever 21. sweater, hand-me-down from Big Bro. denim jacket, Vintage Levi's.

Photography by Benny Pinto

The dark, smoky quality of this shoot sent me into a marathon of film noir consumption. My Netflix queue riddled with Humphrey Bogart and Orson Welles, Rita Hayworth and Lauren Becall in narrative gems of crime and innocent seduction scenes which, when placed in the context of the time, are steamy, sultry, breaths of sexiness. They are stories where the female protagonist acts as a representative for the death of the cult of domesticity. She bats her eyelashes, asks for a light, and when no one is looking, kills a man who in the throws of the jumbled morals of film noir, may or may not have deserved it. The femme fatale formula: gorgeousness mixed with danger and a penchant for manipulating a male protagonist, is classic. However, in the 21st Century, where women have an array of behavioral examples pointing toward strength, the classic image of a bombshell femme fatale, all eyelashes and pouty lips, is a little dated and weak.

In The Lady from Shanghai, Rita Hayworth’s character, Elsa Bannister, is everything femme and everything murderous. Blonde, bejeweled, fur cloaked, and unhappily married to a rich judge, she becomes intertwined in a plot of mostly her own making. She bats her eyelashes at the smart yet impressionable Irish sailor Michael O’Hara (Orson Welles) and plays the dumb blonde while manipulating every man within visual range of her overt sex appeal. Michael is instantly charmed and admits it saying, “[...] From that moment I did not use my head, except to think about her,” which he follows later on with a jilted questioning, “Do all rich woman play games like this?”

Elsa definitely has strength and a power to manipulate with her perfectly curled lashes, full red lips and slinky gowns. She harnesses the power of styling and über-femme posturing. But I have a beef with this image of womanpower. While she is sexy, exciting, and strong, all desirable traits, her strength is tainted by her execution thereof. Maybe it’s my 21st Century mindset, but applying the word ‘strong’ to a female character who sulkily requests her coat to be put on for her, says things like “Gimme a cigarette,” and impatiently waits for it to be lit, is not exactly strong. Elsa demands chivalry, but chivalry can’t be demanded, and when it’s not offered a woman should whip out her own pack of cigarettes and light one with her own Zippo, or matches, whatever. Elsa is not exactly the primmest and most proper of ladies. You’d think a woman who committed murder like it ain’t no thang, would have no problem locating a tobacco outlet and getting her own squares.

A prime cinematic example of a truly strong femme fatale, one who has her own pack of cigarettes and can even light them herself, is Anne Parillaud’s character in Luc Besson’s La Femme Nakita. Nakita begins as a drug addicted teen who isn’t afraid to shoot, and becomes a beguiling woman with a career in killing. One of her trainers, Amande, morphs her from the cop-killing hellion she began as, into the understated and beautiful Maria, a fearless assassin.

Amande teaches Nakita femininity as a mother would to her daughter. She guides her into the art of mild sexuality expounding the power of a smile:

“[…] You could smile more. You’ve always got that when you can’t respond. It won’t make you more intelligent…but it’s more enjoyable for those who have to watch. And if you have it…perhaps its fragility gives my girl an advantage. A smile. A smile…and soon you’ll have its power…as if from your very soul.”

In the beginning Nakita is all child-like messiness, short, dirty, bed-headed hair, sullied tank tops and torn jeans. She’s something to fear, snaps boisterously with French cursing and stabs cops with their own pens. She’ll trip up an agent and steal his gun to point it directly at his temple and attempt to escape. But in the hands of Amande, with her vanity full of the tools of femininity, by way of pink lipstick and mascara wands, Nakita learns how to harness her fearlessness. In the last scene of Amande as trainer and Nakita in transition, the two women look at Nakita’s reflection in the vanity mirror as Nakita puts a pale shade of pink to her lips. Amande says,

“Let go and you’ll find what pleases. The pleasure of the feminine and remember …there are only two things without limit. Femininity…and the means to exploit it.”

It was 20 Degrees Out, the Fur was Necessary...

2010-12-15T11:26:00.013-05:00

fur, vintage. grey dress, AA. open knit sweater/knee high socks, Express. fedora, UO. cowboy boots, Nine West (thrifted). leg warmers, handmade by me. faux-gauge earrings, Tribal Style. turquoise/glass pendants, W'Erin Art X Erin Magoc. snake ring, Alchemy. turquoise bracelet, Designer Days Boutique.

Photography by Brian Herman

About a year and a half ago, I gave up on my two-yearlong attempt at vegetarianism. It wasn’t like I just put down the tofu one day and instantly picked up a mid-rare cheeseburger and draped a fur coat over my shoulders like some carnivorous princess. No, it was far more gradual than that. Not dramatic in a way like I labored over the decision, bringing a potential first bite of meat to my mouth, staring at it, glistening with grease, or sauce, surrounded by a bun or cloaked in gravy, however you’d like to picture a returning omnivore’s first bite in over a year, just to put it back down, and then bring it back up, and down and up and down until I finally put it in my mouth. It certainly wasn’t ritualistic in a way like I gathered all my PETA literature and burned it in an open fire pit and subsequently used the flame of depressing words describing the horrific slaughter of cute piggies to roast a hot dog. My decision to reaccept meat as a part of my diet came in degrees of drunken munchies, late night pepperoni pizza acceptance, and the constant presence of a very Italian cook with a penchant for TexMex, whose meat chili far surpassed his veg version. I gave in to flavor, texture, and developed a great appreciation for food.

Fur is a little more complex I suppose. It’s crueler than eating an animal, it’s vanity at the utmost. The issues get lost in the fickleness of fashion. In the 90’s there was a fashion industry push for anti-fur trends, spokes models against included the leggy and powerfully gorgeous Naomi Campbell, Cindy Crawford, Christy Turlington, Claudia Schiffer and Elle Macpherson. Aside from Turlington, the rest of them gave into the glamour, the cruel trend, and are probably wearing fur right this minute. However, the models aren't always necessary, there is definitely no lack of celebrity support for PETA. They’ve got a lovely campaign of nearly naked celebrities from music, sports, and reality T.V., photos with a catchy slogan like “Ink not Mink,” slapped onto a photo of Chester Bennington and Dave Navarro. “I’d rather go Naked” on photos of women most people wouldn’t mind seeing naked. It’s a campaign of the cool and sexy.

The fur complex that fashion has stems from the fact that material is to a designer as paint is to a painter. Fur is like the oil paint of a designer’s collection. It takes days to dry, and when it dries, it does so in a way that just makes you want to touch it. It’s textural in the most dynamic of ways, adding dimensions that all other materials lack. It’s also referential to a time and place where Norwegians and indigenous Siberians wear fur for warmth. It's got anthropological underpinnings that echo a very caveman/cavewoman aesthetic, artistically preaching the sartorial origins of mankind. Fur is most certainly wrought with issues, and I find it hard to believe that Alexander McQueen was, or Nicolas Ghesquiere is totally ignorant of the images of cute seals and the PETA campaign of cool. High fashion designers aren't disregarding these issues they’re making art.

I’m not excusing them just because they are artists; I’m merely asking PETAers to look at it from the artists’ perspective. Personally, I will never buy Balenciaga fur, or any designer fur straight off the rack at Barney’s or some such store. I’ll never be able to afford it, and even if I can, I’m just not the type to indulge like that. I’ll even go as far as to say, I’ll never buy any fur, vintage or otherwise (and I never say never).

This coat was a gift from a distant friend who understood that I would appreciate it for its rock ‘n’ rollness. It was bought at an estate sale or something, was sold in a set of three for a hundred bucks. The friend just wanted some vintage fur to wear over her dress on her November wedding day. She didn’t go out and kill seals to wear it; she scrounged craigslist to recycle one that’s not being used. She saved the creature’s skin that would have otherwise been killed in vain so that the little old lady in possession of the coats could leave them hanging forlornly in her closet. I’ll just pose this question to the person who probably wants to throw paint on my coat…are you really against recycling?

Strip District Venture

2010-11-28T15:43:00.005-05:00

jeans, black lace top, Express. knee-high boots, Nine West. kimono thing, Goodwill.

Photography by Jeremy Zerbe

Towering streetlights and the headlights of downtown’s outbound traffic flow light it up. There is a perpetual bustle, the flavor of which shifts slightly depending on the day, the weather and the time. Vendors peddle ethnic foods, Steeler’s goods, and cheap fashions, and weather you’re from here, or you’re a tourist, The Strip District is some kind of epicurean wonderland with ever present echoes of the past. The scent is both putrid and enticing; the smell of Wholey’s fish market blends into Roland’s lobster rolls blends into dumpsters in back alleys blends into Mancini’s fresh baked Italian loaves blends into the caffeine candy of La Prima. There are dirty little alleyways that lead to mysterious back doors of dark, vacuous warehouses. Walls hidden behind the luster of local commerce on Penn Ave have bits of urban scrawl, simple graffiti tags with epic stories.

Penn Avenue slices through the bustle of sightseers, shoppers and club-going nightlife urchins. It’s punctured by ever-present potholes and awkward one-way side streets, and rendered narrow by parked cars and J-walkers. It oozes all of the frustrations of the Pittsburgh driving experience with its own ‘One Way’ sign and bumpy cries for some attention from Public Works. The Strip is one of Penn Ave’s many assholes but that just adds to its charm.

My fascination with the dark, metropolitan pockets of society can be a driving force behind my clothing choices. The influence is ultra sensory, but predominately visual. I’m unapologetically prone to some racy pieces, a black lace top over nothing more than a sports bra exudes that dark, nighttime rascal quality I’m so fond of. The silky top layer, a five-dollar Goodwill treasure, is comfortably garish with its shapelessness and weird green/pink floral print. It also boasts some deep pockets that have become entrapping nooks where mini Bics and little lip glosses hideaway until I feel like wearing such oddness again. I’ll slip my hands into said pockets to discover that perfect pink Lip Fusion and the decorative goldfish lighter that I thought I'd lost. So, it’s weird, comfortable, and utilitarian, all the elements I love.

In all honesty, I threw this outfit on in a hurry, as I pretty often do. It’s like Jackson Pollock styling, which is the general creative feeling of mine and Zerbe’s work.

“So, where we shooting?” is often the question, as we reach the hour we planned on shooting.

“I dunno, haven’t had time to think about it,” one, or both of us will respond.

We’re absent-minded creatives and I think the haphazardness of our images is often what makes them so damn cool. One of these days we’ll get our creative shit together, but until then we’ll proceed to apply the methods of cooking stew to fashion photography, just throwing in what we like and seeing how it tastes in the end. I really don’t think you can fuck-up stew.

Desert Fox by Stylestalker

2010-11-19T00:15:00.004-05:00

Desert Fox Collection by Stylestalker

Photography by Zanita

I feel like I’m repetitively preaching a desire for rock ‘n’ roll and badassness in my ever-changing sartorial climate. So, sometimes I feel like wearing a cute little chiffon-y tube dress, but only paired with motorcycle boots; sometimes I only want to be in an oversized comfy sweater, but paired with leather in some way shape or form. Such tough-girl elements leak into the general aesthetic of my daily outfits pretty much…all the time.

Australian design duo Sue-Ann San and Rachel Zeilic, aka Stylestalker, have been known to implement some magic recipe of toughness, sexiness and individuality using all the right details. Let’s recall the Vulture Dress…symmetrically placed back, corset-like webbing on a sultry, rock-goddess, long-sleeved body con dress, some sort of perfectness. They’ve invoked elements of the futuristic kind as seen on the shoulders of the Bluebottle dress; sportiness with either the Scuba or the Wipe Out dresses; and the oh-so perfectly offbeat placement of sexy skin exposure with Jaws, Tide, and Wakeboard dresses.

The winter ’10 collection (Northern Hemisphere dwellers, that’s our summer, and I only mention that because I was briefly confused myself) brought us new wave glamour with details of dripping chains, single sleeve asymmetry, 90’s style ripped jeans and strong shoulders. Bondage-esque necklines, and the aforementioned corset-like back details play a staring role in the collection, while model Mariana’s dark femme-fatale bombshell bob and smoky eyelids amp the glamour quotient.

The Wipe Out Collection showed that Stylestalker could breathe and change and create with a totally different paradigm of design while staying true to the elements that we love so much about their clothes. This collection oozed athleticism, dressing the same women of confident sex appeal, but with looser fitting fabrics and a brighter color palette. Interestingly cutout back designs and that quintessential lace-up detail remained fundamental…and I continued to be addicted.

Stylestalker clearly understands that balance of toughness and femininity and they’re certainly not afraid to change things up. Their most recent collection, Desert Fox (which I’m sure has flooded the interwebs by now) proves that there is no creative stoppage for this team. Bambi Northwood Blyth, everyone’s fave broodingly beautiful Aussie model, is the face of Desert Fox and her serious eyebrow-ed attitude worked seamlessly with the motorcycle theme.

Of course my favorite piece is the Snakebite pant, cause, there it is again, the lacing. I will never tire of the lacing. Those details totally make me appreciate tying my shoes, hell, they get me pumped for anything involving strings going from grommet to grommet. Another favorite of mine is the Tarantula Dress, one more interestingly detailed back in Stylestalker’s arsenal of backside intrigue. The black chiffon, gypsy-flavored peasant top is darkly charming and when styled with the cowboy hat and excess of chunky silver jewelry, it’s just damn good.

Up against prior collections, Desert Fox seems to exude a fresh attitude, more understated cool than new wave glamour; more serious and subtle individuality than playful funkiness. Stylestalker’s ability to constantly reinvent yet stay true to themselves has me anxiously awaiting their next creations.

Jeffrey Campell Neorealisimo

2010-11-15T10:19:00.005-05:00

tie dye poncho, vintage. hooded sweater vest, vintage. khaki cargo skinnies, Old Navy. boots, Jeffery Campbell. turquoise bracelet, vintage. cross ring, Forever 21.

Photography by Dave McKelvey

Vintage Clothing Provided by Designer Days Boutique

Shoe obsessions run deep, and I know that this is not a weakness relegated to women only. I’ve spoken to many a man about the intricacies of their favorite shoes, or the shoes that they are lusting over. Two of said men are my brothers, and they’re straight, brusque specimens of manliness, stacked with muscles, height, large feet, and they totally love their shoes.

But why not…is my question. Why not obsess over something so seemingly superficial, so seemingly disposable, and yet so utterly expensive? Why judge me for having some 6 odd pairs of boots, and countless other shoes that rarely even see the soles of my feet? Let he who does not harbor quantities of anything-unnecessary cast the first stone.

The day that I finally broke down and bought the blogged-to-death Jeffrey Campbell Litas, was also the day that I had to read Some Ideas on Cinema by Cesare Zavattini. The idea of mixing shoe shopping with Italian neo-realism leads to a quandary of a discourse, but Zavattini himself bridged the wide gap between superficial consumption and neorealisimo.

Zavattini begins, “No doubt one’s first and most superficial reaction to everyday reality is that it is tedious. Until we are able to overcome some moral and intellectual laziness, in fact, this reality will continue to appear uninteresting.”

He then goes on to cite an example of realism being fleshed out with a women, shopping for shoes. He equates the shoe-shopping-woman as an adventurer, “in all of [the action’s] banal dailiness it will become worthy of attention, it will even become ‘spectacular.’” That’s right bitches, Zavattini makes shoe shopping spectacular.

The Litas embodied that sentiment for me. Of course they’re cool looking boots that excrete JC’s trademark oddness; boots that at first sight garnered excessive lusting by me and every other sartorially inclined shoe freak who also desires height beyond their leg’s capacity, but, as I mentioned before, they are blogged.to.death. The ‘dailiness’ of seeing the Lita’s on every fashion bloggers feet, in every other streetstyle photo, and splattered all over my tumblr and Bloglovin’ dashboards, made them commonplace. The excess made the otherwise bizarre boots, dare I say, normal. I’m never one for normalcy.

Despite their gradually diminishing appeal of eccentricity, I had to have them. I had to take them from the dailiness of my computer screen, to the reality of my feet. I had to make what was a digital image, into a tangible, wearable, reality; to wear them in this city where, miraculously, some fashion majors at the Art Institute don’t know who JC is (which kind of irks me), to feel the height of 5” heels and the oft reviewed surprising comfort of the platforms.

I proceeded to labor intensely over which color to get, which material. Black distressed leather, brown suede, white pony hair, silver sparkles, leopard print…blue was my first choice, but unavailable unless I lived in La Jolla, CA or something. Taupe suede was next, but of course once everyone saw that Rumi Neely had those ones, they promptly sold out. I searched online shoe store after online shoe store, checking sizes, colors and prices. I finally decided on the practical grey distressed leather, partly because I rarely saw others wearing them on the interwebs, partly because I don’t own grey shoes but mostly because, what doesn’t go with grey?

Further Zavattini-like exploration of the Litas can be read here: Litas, Meet Pittsburgh

Bridge to Everywhere

2010-11-01T23:20:00.007-04:00

skirt/lace top/beanie, Express. Recycled silk Scarf, The Culture Shop. denim jacket, vintage Levi's. boots, Jeffery Campbell Lita's.

Photography by Erin Magoc

I call this my bridge. Its real name is the 40th St. Bridge, but it's my bridge like the Brooklyn Bridge was my bridge when I lived in New York. I take this bridge to get to my road to everywhere, Route 28, a perpetually backed-up, under construction, PennDot clusterfuck constantly bottle necked, constant traffic. You can't hear a traffic report in Pittsburgh and not hear "28's backed-up," the reporter's bored tone slips deeper into a malaise for that number and those words, as if the phrase is just a grunt that driver's automatically understand to mean, "it will take 2 hours for you to move 23 miles." Yeah, this bridge gets me to that special frustration.

I go for runs on this bridge, people honk their horns and I'm never quite sure why. I highly doubt that I look honk worthy in an oversized hoodie, but people are weird.

Living in a city full of bridges is pretty damn cool. It hearkens back to some childhood obsession with an ability to walk over water, preferably a simple log positioned a little dangerously over a creek which garners a certain riskiness that intoxicates the under 16 self with perilous excitement. I still get that feeling, every single time I run or walk across a bridge, as if this sturdy architectural element could mindfully be transformed into the precariously placed log, and a "Cross at Your Own Risk" sign should be involved. Everything looks different when you have that bridge-feeling. The Sun is bigger, and the city is jaw-droppingly gorgeous.

I could try to go on and claim that this is very much a Pittsburgh obsession, this is after all the "City of Bridges," but I think the multitude of such passageways actually makes bridges totally quotidian here, sometimes even an annoyance...ahem, 31st St Bridge...McKees Rocks Bridge...West End Bridge...I could go on. They're an annoyance when one is in a vehicle, trying to get somewhere: work, soccer practice, date, home. But bridges are best served straight up, not on the rocks of your Kia Sedona when your trying to get to your daughters dance recital; or in your Ford F-150 when your trying to move a load of scrap; or in your Mercedes SL Class when your trying to just fucking drive. Bridges must be walked across, so you can feel the elasticity and the cars whizzing by and the wind from the open space. Although if you are the one with the Mercedes SL Class and you had a wide open, mile long bridge...that would probably be pretty blissful as well, just sayin'.

The Genius of Gaultier

2010-10-25T14:03:00.007-04:00

top, vintage Jean Paul Gualtier. skirt, vintage, web tights, Express. boots, Forever 21. bangles/necklace, sister's. buckle watch, target.

Photography by Dave McKelvey

Vintage Designer Clothing provided by Designer Days Boutique

To wear Gaultier is to wear a proclamation. His penchant for blurring gender lines and showcasing society's underbelly by way of casting shows with the pierced and tattooed, aged and full figured of the streets, is more than a statement in realism; it is a manifestation of idiosyncratic beauty, and the collections' originality have staying power no matter the era.

My frustrations with fashion stem from the industry's complacency when it comes to individualism; it's become a proverbial sea of sameness and indulgence. The biggest names are doing the same things, same materials, same drapes, same colors, as if they are all too economically focused and therefore dressing the same damn women. Of course when it comes to 'getting it right,' we also have the likes of Rodarte, but for the moment we're gonna focus on Gaultier, the enfant terrible of French fashion.

Bodily perversion seems to be the frame in which Gaultier is always working.

Exhibit A: Madonna's iconic cone-shaped bra; I could probably delve into an in depth analysis on what that thing means in terms of a cultural fascination with breasts and the feminist power therein, but that might be better fodder for a book than a blog post.

Exhibit B: Marilyn Manson's sometimes dapper, gothic suits, and fetish-like, feminized feather and leather compilations, worn for the album The Golden Age of Grotesque; Cultural dissection of that album's inferences to the Weimar Republic, and Pre-Nazi Germany in correlation with Gaultier's produced aesthetic of masks and gothic zoot suits could ensue...but again, I'll save that for a book.

Exhibit C: Peter Greenaway's The Cook, the Thief, His Wife & Her Lover; Gaultier designed the entire decadent, English Gangster wardrobe. The film is most well known for its' lavish cinematography and formalism. The wardrobe works in flawless conjunction with said formalism insomuch as it is oozing Frenchness, which adds to the licentiousness of the mise-en-scene. There is of course, just a pinch of gothic-street Gaultier with the bondage-y straps on Georgina's dress. Bodily perversion in the designs actually comes via the narrative ending: cannibalism, 'nough said.

The piece that I was so lucky to wear for a few hours of my life, hits on gender bending as well as bodily subversion. The front is all menswear, a simple, pinstriped vest complete with a pocket for a silk square of fabric that sports my initials or something, like a proper gentleman would carry. You know, the kind that peeks out just a tid-bit from a front pocket, adding a hint of color on an otherwise dark uniform suit.

The back of course, is all feminine, a bow of chiffon in a brilliant red/orange color with white polka dots. The bow hits mid-back, which accentuates the small of the back, drawing attention to a sexy spot in a far classier way than a tramp stamp. Its appeal is in the understated allure and the sort of black-and-white-cookie way of incorporating both gender styles. It really makes me think of that character from A Nightmare Before Christmas, the mayor, whose head swivels around depending on his emotions. Clothing that changes meaning depending on which way you're standing is pretty much as brilliant as it gets.

Thanks to Designer Days Boutique for allowing me the Gaultier experience. I hope my styling did it justice.

Ethnic Exploration

2010-10-17T12:30:00.010-04:00

boots, Nine West. crochet skirt, vintage. red bandeau, AA scarf. wide brim hat, thrifted. scarf on shoulder, found? bracelets, sister's/unknown origins. cross ring/fake onyx ring, Forever 21. silver knuckle duster, Rue 21 (who knew?). feather necklace, Wet Seal (again, who knew?).

Photography by Brian Herman

I’ve definitely channeled this whole pseudo-witchy-gypsy vibe before and I apologize for rehashing old tropes. I’ve always believed that I had some gypsy blood in me somewhere, I mean when you’ve heard words like Russian, Ukrainian, Byzantine Greek, Czech, Slovak, and Polish your whole life, and are never given any kind of pie chart to quantify what you actually are composite of, your mind wanders into gypsydom. It’s far more fun than saying, ‘I’m a European mutt just like the rest of you Caucasians.’

Gypsy has become less and less of a historically and ethnically significant word for me, and more and more of a stylistic one. This makes me very sad. I always mean to do some hardcore research, do a little reading, maybe hit up my grandparents for a few more Russian and Slovak lessons, take my stock phrases beyond the Byzantine Catholic greetings: Christos Razdajetsja…Slavite Jeho, Christos voskrese…Voistinu voskrese. Pretty impressive for a girl who goes to church twice a year (not really, I had to Google the spelling of that shit).

Regardless of my inconsistent knowledge of gypsies and my own ancestry for that matter, my ethnically confused eye is constantly drawn to aesthetics that channel, what I can only assume is a watered down, sort of Americanized version of Bohemia. There are always inferences to The West, a very American conceit usually involving turquoise, bones and a Missoni like print; there are also lots of feathers (an undying obsession of mine that is growing stronger by the day); scads of jewelry and printed silk scarves.

The problem with this style is its inaccuracy. If I truly were nomadic I would not want to bother with profuse amounts of jewelry, in fact I probably would have hocked all the wearable baubles for food, or beer, or tobacco. I would certainly be wearing something more substantial up top than an American Apparel scarf over a bandeau bra…one needs a high impact sports bra if they’re gonna be hiking through the mountains of Eastern Europe, I mean…shit! And despite the perfect comfort and fringe-y playfulness of a crocheted knee length skirt, nomadism is no arena for delicate things. That $7 ebayed skirt would be ripped, snagged, and exposing my very non-element weary under things in no time. And then there are the 4” heels; the near-over-the-knee height is great for avoiding scratching the hell out of one’s shins and knees from burs and jaggers, but those damn things hurt like hell when worn for more than 4 hours of consistent walking.

Thusly, I need to practical-ize my gypsyness. I suppose this is where the likes of Spanish Moss Vintage, Free People, and The Sisters of the Black Moon come in. Otherwise my stylistic, some-day nomadic dreams would be complete with a simple pair of Ann Demeulemeester boots. I really need to get my Slovak/Russian/Polish/Irish ass to the “old country(ies).” and too stop rambling…later on stylish people.

Paisley

2010-10-01T02:12:00.005-04:00

paisley dress, Urban Renewal X Urban Outfitters. black knee highs, Express. moto boots, Harley Davidson. belt, Express. turquoise pendant necklace, W'Erin Art X Erin Magoc.

Photography by Dave Mckelvey

Every piece of clothing has a story, a philosophy that actually deters me from shopping too often. I deliberate between this oversized, open-knit Wang-like sweater and that shape-defining Hervé Léger-like dress; this pair of vintage boots versus that pair of Jeffrey Campbells. I go back and forth between items making pro/con lists in my head, one for functionality and another for design. I think about situations in which I would be wearing the pieces, what would I be doing, where would I be; the weather, my form of transportation. My obsession is a little intense.

This particular dress was a special occasion dress but it was bought at an age sometime before responsible adulthood. A time when shopping was something I did more on a whim than as a very calculated investment. Needless to say, this dress doesn’t have as much of a story as it should, at least by my incrementally aging standards, the standards of a responsible bill payer. I’d rather reversion this dress’s story of being bought with capriciousness from an Urban Outfitters for a price that was out of my college-student-income's reach. I’d like to make it mean something new, much like the way I used to play Broken Social Scene’s Anthem for a 17 Year Old Girl in different situations with different moods so as to force its shedding of a meaning ripe with lovey dovey high school romance. Forget the old, and keep it currently me.

This dress is not vintage; for some reason, my vintage prone self has a hard time putting meaning on a dress bought at a chain store. It’s much harder to connect it either to its creator, the designer, or some hole in the wall consignment store that smelled like dust and antiques, and was run by an older woman, but not so old that she didn’t get to thoroughly enjoy the later half of the 70’s.

The dress’s very quotidian origins led me to begin with a word as opposed to a given complexity - - a place, or a person. Paisley is the most intriguing thing about the otherwise simple dress. I rooted myself in that word and what I found was a saga that stretched all the way back to the 6^th century B.C. The people of the Zoroastrian empire called the teardrop design boteh, considered it to be a stylized floral spray blended with a cypress tree: a Zoroastrian symbol of life and eternity.

Flash forward to the 20^th century, 1960’s summer of love, and contextualize the ancient Azerbaijani meaning with the now, obviously psychedelic pattern as demonstrated by the Beatles with their paisley wielding pilgrimage to India, Fender guitars with their pink paisley Telecaster, and Prince with Paisley Park Records. John Lennon actually went as far as getting a custom paisley paint job on his Rolls Royce. From ancient to contemporary popular culture, paisley holds meaning.

So from “life and eternity,” to “Do your own thing, wherever you have to do it and whenever you want. Drop out. Leave society as you have known it. Leave it utterly. Blow the mind of every straight person you can reach. Turn them on, if not to drugs, then to beauty, love, honesty, fun” (Marty, Myron). The dress has some sense of a new meaning, one simply sewn from old threads.

Meditations on Leather

2010-09-13T13:53:00.007-04:00

gladiator sandals, Steve Madden. faux leather leggings, Express. plaid woven button-down, vintage. double finger cross ring, chain embellished pinky ring, Forever 21. watch, Target.

Photography by Ben Filio

One time I was dilly-dallying around in a True Religion store, which my wallet told me I had no business being in but the image of a denim clad Erin Wasson spoke more loudly; so there I was, the single solitary customer being waited on hand and foot by the blond bubbly sales associate. We talked about denim the same way two stoners might discuss their favorite cereal, throwing out washes and fits like flavors and crunchiness. We deliberated over how to style which deconstructions and what structure of shoe went best with what size leg opening. I was a denim nerd enjoying conversation with a like-minded dork who just happened to be waiting on me.

Then she said it…the word that means more than the material that it’s etymology represents: leather. Visions of leather clad rocker chicks flashed before my eyes. The Goth/rock aesthetic of Rick Owens bounced around my head. Accents from Alexander Wang designs, Pieces of Phoebe Philo garments, even those Barclay pants by The Row made an appearance in my leather induced trip. Rock ‘n’ Roll, motorcycle, and just general bad-assness started whizzing about the store when she pulled my size in leather from the shelf and brought, what might as well be gold encrusted, to the fitting room.

Dramatic…of course. I’m not gonna mention the price tag, ‘cause that didn’t matter for the few moments between bubbly sales associate girl mentioning leather pants and me having them on my body. I have never, in my life, felt sexier than I did for those fleeting moments as I stood in front of the True Religion fitting room mirror admiring my frame in the pants I’ve had lucid dreams about for years. The shear smell of leather is usually enough to give me a style-gasm but my senses were in a high-risk state of euphoria with the scent, sight and feel of the leather pants. I had to take them off and leave the store before I did something regrettable like spend my next two months rent.

So I parted ways with my dream leather duds, never having set foot in the store again for fear that I might be tempted, credit card brandished, to spend an inordinate amount of money on something I can’t quite yet allow myself to splurge on. I settled, as per usual, on the faux version. They’ll do for now, but they lack many elements I deem important. For instance, the 5-pocket element of pants is nonexistent with these. What are pants without pockets? Leggings, that’s what. They also lack belt loops, and when belts are a bit like jewelry to a wearer who loves jewelry, this sucks. They are also too short (only come in regulars) and, final complaint, the button/fly closure is on the side, just a tad inconvenient. I will say, in the pants' defense, the faux (minus the leather) as Express so cleverly labels them parentheses included, is pretty damn real looking. They are far more breathable than leather pants and can therefore be worn in the warmer months, and they have cool little zipper details on the ankles. I do have a weakness for exposed zippers. So at a fraction of the True Religion price, the Express (minus the leather) leggings are the current placeholders for my dream leather pants.

White Trash Chic

2010-08-26T19:21:00.003-04:00

fringe crop tank, Harley Davidson. denim shorts, boyfriend's DIYed Express jeans. cowboy boots, Nine West. belt, Levi's.

Photography by Jeremy Zerbe

Heavy machinery, grown in lots and shabby abandoned buildings make up the aesthetic of lower Lawrenceville in the residential area under and around the 40th Street Bridge. It was Zerbe's location call which he made before he even knew what I was wearing. "White trash chic," is what he dubbed it, and I gotta say, as an editorial story it worked out pretty damn well...

So this tale is about a girl who grew up playing with her dad's model paints in a garage, which housed his pretty blue 1969 Chevy El Camino. She never really took a serious interest in cars, trucks, or motor vehicles of any kind until she met and fell in love with an auto detailer (but that's another story for another editorial). Her interest in Harley Davidson motorcycles grew from a seed planted by her mother who every time she heard a Harley would go off about how beautiful the sound was, how beautiful the structure was. She spoke about Harley's as if they were Monet's.

The girl’s dad was always cool with taking the sidecar in her mom’s dream bike. The dynamic of soft spoken father and audacious mother led the girl down a teenage path of one part cigarette smoking tongue pierced rebelliousness to one part NPR listening Atlantic Monthly devouring band geek nerd with a strong desire to have a flare for art. Awkwardly bouncing from one interest and professional desire to another…gardener…Olympic gymnast…dolphin trainer…painter…Hare Krishna…actress…drummer…circus clown…lawyer…President of the United States…a cast member on the Real World (but only if it’s in Bangkok)…the list goes on.

Upon making it through those years of restless naïveté she just decided not to decide. Some say Baudrillard made her give up, depleted her rebellious ambition. Though it may also have been Theodore Adorno and his Negative Dialectics. Because honestly when the time for revolution has passed, what’s the point, ya know? Let’s just blame the whole Frankfurt School of thinking.

Regardless of her upbringing, the creative invocation from her father, the brash self-confidence imparted from her mother, the girl turned out to be just another twenty-something hipster: politically apathetic, well read, underpaid, a hopeless creative with a seemingly dead end job. Yet she swears if she accomplishes nothing else in this all too short life of simulacrum, it will be to own a Harley Davidson motorcycle with a side car for that auto detailer she fell in love with.

Leopard Print Power

2010-08-16T21:04:00.005-04:00

leopard print dress, vintage. three buckle belt, Forever 21. black men's vest, brother's. shit-kicker boots, ebay.

Photography by Jeremy Zerbe

Apparently I'm stuck in a styling mindset that forces me to exude 90's era Riot Grrrl grunge type looks. It's probably the boots; or 'leopard print as power' mentality as opposed to 'leopard print as sex.' My penchant for this pattern is not derived from any particular love for the cat either. No, I think I'm more of a lion type girl, my leopard love is culturally derived.

The very idea of taking something that is essentially a sex symbol and turning it into the everyday is not only fun, but like I said, empowering. It's my own personal nod to Olympia, Washington in the 90's; Bikini Kill, Sleater Kinney, Bratmobile, Le Tigre, Peaches, Heavens to Betsy, Victoria LeGrand, Cyndi Lauper, PJ Harvey, Marisa Meltzer...ok ok I'm just name dropping at this point. I'm also recognizing the fact that without the revolutionary movement that prompted L7's guitarist Donita Sparks to throw her menses soaked tampon at hecklers, the one that gave us Excuse 17's "Such Friends are Dangerous," the one that made Courtney Love something more than Curt Cobain's crazy girlfriend, I probably wouldn't like leopard print so much. I might never wear it. Hate it in fact. Avoid it for fear of feeling like I'm wearing lingerie in public, being oversexed, over glammed, over divasized.

While leopard is one of those fashion elements that is always, somehow, a trendy thing to wear, a wearer needs to proceed with caution. Not simply because it's loud, nubile, and not flattering in every way shape and form, but because it is essentially a product of feminism. It has been reversioned into a symbol of clout. So don't go claiming you're not a feminist while wearing some leopard print panties beneath your layers of "good girl" clothes. Don't fear the word feminism because it's got some lesbian like overtones. Those aren't real. They were manufactured by people who aren't good at thinking. Feminism means agency for anyone who has a vagina, and sometimes I just like to substantiate that agency in the form of a little leopard print dress.

Stepping down from my soapbox now and I kinda feel like I need to watch some football, go see The Expendables, drink some beer, fart and belch. Excuse me while I use my agency to do the aforementioned.

Americana

2010-08-09T19:07:00.004-04:00

headscarf, old school AE. grey bodycon dress, AA. denim shirt, WetSeal. black menswear vest, big brother's. American flag choker, vintage. feather necklace, WetSeal. dogtags, boyfriend's. chunky boots, ebay. turquoise cross ring, Forever 21. rose ring, vintage.

Photography by Angie Candell

One thing led to another....I perused Spanish Moss Vintage's blog for something like 5 broken up hours, started listening to The Felice Brothers and everything else that Pandora was telling me sounded like them, headed to Consignments on Center to satisfy the jewelry craving SMV had brought on and ended up spending $30 there. Note that in a consignment store economy, 30 might as well be 300. It was pure hedonism, just like anytime I go thrifting for treasures. I stood in front of the glass case that housed Consignment's barrage of wearable nick nacks, scanning, transfixed by the opiate aura of bangles beads and chains. After awhile I realized there was a women standing on the other side of the case, waiting for me to point to something, anything. I slowly looked up at her, glassy eyed and said hazily something like, "This stuff is like crack to me."

Her smile flattened, eyebrows wrinkled, a look that was one part horror, and one part confusion, with a dash of sympathy.

"Jewelry," I said, defying her damning expression. I mean I stood in front of her with a ring on every finger, 4 plus necklaces, big feather earrings, and countless bangles. Can you say context clues? Not to mention my full head of hair, full mouth of white teeth, and what I like to think is a somewhat muscular physique. Although I can't hold the presumption against her, she did give me my fix.

Part of that fix was this American flag choker. Entering the shop with a head full of Americana inspirions a la Suzanna, the American flag caught my jewelry stoned eye immediately. And around this little symbol of patriotism I styled the above outfit ripe with Americana. Denim...check, shit kicker boots...check, Hendrix-like headscarf...check, super tight/super short...check check, and because they always remind me of eagles, feathers...check. I kinda feel like I should say "Happy belated 4th" or something.

Arsenal Artist

2010-07-30T16:57:00.004-04:00

pink bodysuit, AA. crochet poncho, Grandma. denim cutoffs, DIY (Express denim). belt, Levi's. leg warmers, handmade x K8. boots, sister's.

Photography by Jeremy Zerbe

Sometime before the advent of that style-debilitating heat wave which prompted a strict appetite of bikini tops and cut-off shorts, Zerbe and I wandered down to Arsenal Park to shoot this poncho thingy. At this point in July the very idea of nubby crochet anything puts me in a state of an itchy sweat pool; but at the time (sometime in early July) it worked and I think later that evening I actually got cold, replaced my daisy dukes with flare jeans and felt even more ‘princess Woodstock.’

Ambling down the quintessentially decrepit concrete steps of said inner city park I noticed a group of rowdy urban youth, probably students at Arsenal Middle. I overheard one of them say, “She must be an artist or something, look at how she’s dressed.”

Initially I was kinda flattered. I mean, when applied loosely ‘artist’ could describe me, I suppose; and these punk kids were simply recognizing, drawing a nice little stereotype…weirdly dressed girl equals artist. Cool, cool…I can dig, because it’s a step up from being reduced to just “that weird girl,” a statement which occurs mostly in the looks people give me, on the bus, walking down Liberty Ave., anywhere downtown. But what started out as a sliver of adulation from a crew of kids whose idea of style is a pair of fresh kicks and a Rajon Rondo jersey (which is stylish, mind you) quickly dissipated with their adolescent play of mockery. They darted around pretending to take pictures of each other while others in the crew struck over-the-top poses, giggling, loud; making comments I didn’t bother to remember. I wanted to say something witty, snarky, and funny to them...but they outnumbered me and their gusto and youth threw me off my wit balance. Shortly thereafter Zerbe's battery died, so we left the rambunctious crew till the next time we shoot in Arsenal, and I totally hope they're there.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to work on my snarky comment designed specifically for middle school age boys...who will, in fact, be boys.

Outside of society, that's where I wanna be

2010-07-27T20:32:00.006-04:00

boyfriend blazer, Forever 21. cargo capris, American Rag. boys beater, Hanes. gladiator sandals, Steve Madden. studded belt, thrifted. feather earrings, vintage. wooden bangles, sister's.

Photography by Angie Candell

Taking personality cues from my tough girl get-up, Angie had me climb precariously all over the butt of this supremely graffitied and down trodden train car in my four inch, open-toed heels. Trusting that I wouldn’t fall in my attempts to climb the thin rung ladder and walk along the porous single foot wide platform, or rather hoping that if I did fall I could do so gracefully, like the model that her lens made me out to be.

Any time I wear a studded belt, regardless of what other garments and accessories fall into place on my limbs, I feel as if climbing on a parked train car in the Strip District with a storm brewing in the distance, is the least extreme of my purported actions. Moshing to The Dead Kennedys, Black Flag, or The Circle Jerks would be more appropriate. I might read speeches by Stalin, Mussolini and Marx; because ironically, anarchists like the way those men organized their governments. I’d pierce my ears with safety pins, quote Henry Rollins and prattle about how Billie Joel Armstrong sold out; shave my hair into a Mohawk, and let me be clear, that’s “MO” not “FAUX,” because punks of any kind are never fake, unless they shop at Hot Topic, though if you give those kids a genre identifier, say “mallrat punks”, then they can be legit too.

I could ride this train down south and trade in my safety pin jewelry and cargos for creepers and a moto jacket. Morph my Mohawk into a pompadour and call myself a psychobilly. That would of course entail blasting Me First and the Gimme Gimmes in my garage whilst I pinstripe my choptop Mercury. Chucking my former pretensions for communist dictators, I’d take on a more chill apolitical stance because there’s nothing fun about politics. My past punk extremist ways would subsequently be channeled into campy sexploitation, B-grade horror films and anything taboo.

Back to reality…I can’t really claim that I’m any sub-genre of punk, mostly for fear of offending those who are (you know how they are about their “identity”). But I do really dig Patti Smith regardless of how much metal studding is on my person, and that counts for something, right?

So I'll Continue to Continue to Pretend...

2010-07-22T17:27:00.006-04:00

hat, thrifted. boots, Nine West. dress, The Culture Shop. black halter bodysuit, AA. turquoise pendant, sister's. dog-tags, boyfriend's. turquoise cross ring, Forever21.

Photography by Angie Candell

Flowers Never Bend with the Rainfall appropriately playing in the background as I sit in my empty but cooly conditioned house on this day of my birth. I turn 23 today, and I would surely sound like a whiny hipster if I lamented over how old I now am, so despite how old 23 sounds to me, I'll spare you the self deprecating blather. It's hard though, keeping age in perspective. How exactly does one stay young and grow up at the same time? People have been telling me to not grow up too fast all my life, advice I've always thought to be a bit silly, especially at the ripe age of 9 and stuff. Antithetical to that of my parents who've said things like, "grow up Kate, balance your checkbook Kate, think about your student loans Kate, find a job with benefits Kate, quit spending money on frivolity Kate." My mom even ventured into conversational terrain involving the "M" word the other day while we were having lunch. Marriage? For real? I don't even feel comfortable taking on the responsibilities of a credit card let alone whatever is involved with marriage. My room is rarely in order, I'm always behind on laundry, I'm a horrible indoor plant caretaker, and I lose my house keys daily. Yes, marriage is a very distant and foreign territory for my too young 23 year old self, sorry mom.

I will say, in regards to staying young, the ability to dive into my inordinately full closet to reemerge with a piece I used to rock in my high school days is always good for a youthful flashback. I got to reposition myself as a 17 year old with this particular dress. In my, eh hem...old age, I can't remember exactly where it came from, but an educated guess tells me it's from The Culture Shop, a hippie dippie mainstay on East Carson St, my proverbial depot for concert going wares and the like. I discovered this sartorial bohemia in high school, back when we hung out at the Hkan on Fridays and smoked pistachio, watermelon, honeydew, and cappuccino hashish. We weren't quite as bad as the speedy kids seen nowadays at the Millsite Tavern on open "DJ" night, but bad enough to smoke hookahs and talk about John Coltrane and Mahavishnu Orchestra, reference Darren Aronofsky films and novels by Milan Kundera. Talk about growing up too fast, I suppose that's what artsy nerdom will do to a teenager..."so I'll continue to continue to pretend...my life will never end..."

"I always wanted to live a man's life in a woman's body."

2010-07-06T16:36:00.004-04:00

silk floral embroidered blouse, Diane von Furstenberg. ruched red tube dress, Express. combat boots and belt, Forever 21. metal feather necklace, Wet Seal. metal feather earrings, vintage.

Photography by Ben Filio

Long before Pheobe Philo was painting an aesthetic of perfection for strong, fashion forward woman of a wide range of ages, the Queen of femme and wrap dress fame, was inventing the very idea of strong, fashion forward women. Now 63, Diane von Furstenberg, who prefers her Belgian last name to be umlaut-less and is quite literally a princess (through marriage), is continuing to wield dominance when it comes to dressing the women on-the-go who is glamorous, sexy, and always put together no matter how many red eye flights she’s endured in her globetrotting escapades.

Furstenberg’s collection starting points go anywhere from Bond Girl to Rock Goddess to Groupie, with the ever-present theme of Nomad mixed in. She quite literally has something for everyone: while my grandma may be into the femininely oversized hound’s-tooth suits, my mother would probably really dig the flower chiffon wraps, and me…well I can’t stop staring at the all-leather fitted suit with the structured, waist-length, three quarter sleeve jacket and cropped pants from her Fall 2010 RTW collection.

There’s no denying Furstenberg’s knack for packable clothing, so many of her pieces are chiffon or jersey knit and this particular blouse, at one hundred percent silk, holds up flawlessly to my fidget-y tendency to wrinkle everything I'm wearing. I also must admit that at first glance, this blouse did not strike me as, well, me. I bought it because of the label, which is something I strive never to do...but at five dollars, I felt in the spirit of fashion archeology, that the best place for this piece was in my closet. It did however, happen to be love at first wear. Buttery smooth, cool, comfortable, with the potential for conservativeness, if ever I needed it, but simultaneously oh-so-sexy when styled just the right way. I will now eternally be a DVF fan.

Fish Obsession

2010-07-02T08:35:00.004-04:00

fish crop tank, thrifted. skirt, AA. vest, sister's. boots, Nine West.

Photography by Ben Filio

The location...strange. The outfit...kinda stranger. Though severally anemic on the drama scale, the hues remind me of Romance Was Born, kitschy-ness and all. Now that I see the pictures, I've realized that a fierce expression does not pair with such a whimsical piece of rayon fabric...or does it? I do take fish seriously...eating and otherwise.

I was drawn to this garish three dollar thrift find because quite frankly, I really dig fish. Salmon, tuna, talapia, rainbow...can't get enough. And I'll take my omega-3's with a little mercury, thank you. Environmental concerns go by the wayside with my consumption of Starkist canned tuna, which really is a shame because I truly do care about the dolphins, Elaine Benes. In fact, I've got two inked indelibly on the center of my back. Go ahead and laugh about my cookie-cutter, cliched tat...I was the coolest sixteen-year-old when it was a fresh inky scar. Mom pulled me out of chem lab for a "doctor's appointment," which just so happened to be at a place called True Image, my doctor had gauged ears, a myriad of facial piercings and tattoos up the wazoo; he spoke passionately about anarchism while he "treated me," swell guy. A dolphin tattoo was a right of passage for the women in my family, Ya Ya, ya know?

Aside from my dangerously high intake of what I've got to assume is mercury infested (why am I alive?), and my rock 'n' roll sixteenth birthday present, fish have been a decorative obsession for me for as long as I can remember. Sea creature mania was born from that stage in a girl's life when she wants to have and do anything and everything that her older sister has and does. Wear floral jumpers...me too, me too! Patent black maryjanes...where's mine?! Oh, broken wrist, neon green cast?...that's so cool, lemme break mine!

My sister's girlhood fashion sense was one thing to copy ad nauseam...we have since gone our separate ways style-wise; she, the mature environmental scientist/grad student/hippie-esque professional who knows the difference between dressing up, everyday wear, and dressing down...and me, well seen here sporting a rayon fish crop tank. You get the point. What really stuck with me in terms of following my big sister's lead was her sport, swimming. While she took it seriously and followed through to college, I was usually more concerned about what pattern was on my bathing suit than the time I got in my wretched 200 IM. Despite her overexertion, and my lazy under-exertion, we're both swimmers for life...and therefore can't get enough of creatures that thrive in water.

My Name is Volatile

2010-06-25T16:07:00.006-04:00

fedora, Urban Outfitters. cardigan, American Apparel. denim overalls, thrifted. striped crop top, thrifted. boots, Harley Davidson. aviators, thrifted. earrings, W'Erin Art X Erin Magoc.

Photography by Jeremy Zerbe

I'm a 90's kid, no doubt, and after conversing about spraying "overweight suburbanites" with orange soda a la live ICP, (note that the audience description are Spin's words, not mine)...we landed on the topic of a 90's fashion staple. No, not JNCO Jeans, although I'm sure I could get my hands on a pair of those via any now grown-up raver dude who continues to hold on to them like a bastion of glow-stick ecstasy bliss. I'm talking about overalls, worn gangster style of course. If worn correctly, one ends up looking like one of two things...under the age of five, or a hick. If you are in either of those demographics I'm sure you look super-fly in symmetric double strapped overalls, but being the G that I am I had to go with one strap.

My 90's nostalgia was topped off later this outfit's evening with the long anticipated start of 311's Unity Tour where my thirteen-year-old self's crush on Nick Hexum was re-realized at the drop of Amber. In addition to every other Beautiful Disaster in the Amphitheater at Station Square, I swayed crooning along with the blue-eyed Nebraskan rocker to let him know that amber is the color of my energy too! Please excuse my ultra tween-girl episode...I promise I made up for it in the mosh-pit.

Surrounded by the meatiest of meaty 311 fans, the front lines were a raucous sweat stew of jumping, elbowing, pushing, and the random stray crowd surfer's butt cheeks. All totally enjoyable when indulged to the sounds of Eons, Beyond the Grey Sky, and Homebrew just to name a few of the set-list's highlights. After the killer encore of Omaha Stylee and the shout-out to old schoolers with Down, the crowd fizzled to an empty lot reminiscent of that scene in Almost Famous when Penny Lane is dancing to the The Wind. Drenched in the sweat of everybody there, including the band's...the state of sleeping willingly far from our minds as a result of too few over-priced Miller High-Lifes and Newcastle NutBrowns, we left Station Square to relive the show in our heads til 8:16am...

Gothic Gypsy 'Love' Child

2010-06-20T10:40:00.007-04:00

black halter bodysuit, American Apparel. red "shawl," American Apparel. corduroy pants, Old Navy circa 'my highschool years,' head scarf, vintage. grey glass bead necklace, W'Erin Art X Erin Magoc. black beads/black&gold bangle, sister's.

Photography by Jeremy Zerbe

Frolicking amongst the religious symbols of my youth should probably have had more of a somber affect on me, but childhood memories of gathering between gravestones in Mt Airy cemetery to watch the annual Tarentum fireworks display set off from a barge on the Allegheny, always turns somberness to glee. Sure, a graveyard is a strange place to plop down your worn comforters, kick off your flip-flops, eat candy and gaze up at the sky, but when the whole town does it the place becomes a field of familiarity, and the creepiness dissipates with the sounds of OOO's and AAAHH's and the oh-so summertime smells of fireworks and charcoal grills.

My retrospective comfort in cemeteries blended into the other oddities of my upbringing. Raised by partial ex-hippie parents, I dressed to pay homage to some bygone era of braless-ness and headscarfs. I'm not 100% sure that my mother burned her bra back in the day, but she definitely has the potential to have such a kick-ass feminist side.

My Janis Joplin-esque get up began with inspiration from Anna Sui's 2011 resort collection which screamed clean, feminine hippie. With some inversion on the girlishness of her peasant shapes, floral and paisley patterns, and lace slips into my dark colored masculine cords and complicated accessorizing, all I ended up taking from Sui was the theme, and I emerged more Grace Slick and less flower crowned love child. There was just no subduing the rock 'n' roll.

Every man's memory is his private literature...

2010-06-05T09:51:00.016-04:00

halter/t-shirt, DIYed from Big Bro's T's. cargo khakis, Old Navy circa 2000? combat boots, Forever 21. turquoise macrame necklace, W'Erin Art X Erin Magoc

Photography by Ben Filio

The bizarrely ardent connection of scent and memory far surpasses the reminiscence power of a photograph to me. When my older brother and his finance departed from Oakmont, PA on a cross country, one-way trek to Long Beach, CA – he left behind a closet and dresser full of discarded t-shirts and anti-Cali climate sweaters. Space saving move for them, total DIY playtime for me; I grabbed up garbage bags full of ‘90’s style boy sweaters, miscellaneous t-shirts of a Grateful Dead or beach-y ilk, and countless men’s button downs all reaching dress lengths on me. I originally claimed I’d give them away to my guy friends of a similar size and shape, yet here they remain hanging from a curtain rod like a little museum of my older brother’s middle school fashion sense, and sitting in torn open garbage bags in the corner of my bedroom like a treasure chest of memories.

Each time I dig through the mess of oversized play clothes the scent of my brother hits me and I remember the days when I used to steal his soccer t-shirts to wear to school, anything with a sporty number on the back was cool to me apparently. His left behind AE plaids circa 1997, drug-rug ponchos, and young-buck sweater vests represent the passage from laid back avid concert go-er to the now Docker and polo rocking, clean shaven Californian, soon to be wed and soon to be pro in something other than linecook-ism and chilling.

Until I can make my own way cross country for some big bro hang time, I'll keep him around via his ever present beach inspired T's. His fashion sense always did point him toward the West coast shore.

She reads all the high class sex literature...

2010-06-02T09:13:00.010-04:00

peasant top, thrifted. zipper belt, H&M. leopard boots, ebay? wooden flower earrings, flea-market of some sort. black string bikini top, American Apparel.

Photography by Ben Filio

Ever since about seventh grade I’ve had an obsession with peasant tops, flowing, shoulder baring, in muslin or chiffon and iconic of free-spiritedness. Always in search of comfort, I’ve been leaning towards the boyish lately with variations of cargo bottoms and oversized tanks in the spirit of Alexander Wang type minimalism or Erin Wasson like hoboism. But this ultra feminine hippie staple combines the perfect amount of sheer coolness with loose fitting liberation, and oh so short hemline for leg baring provocateur, which I tend to do a lot of as well; thank you very much Alexandra Spencer.

I feel like I can always link things I love to wear with things that I love to read, and in the retro essence of developing my love for such tops in 7th grade, I can always remember falling in love with Henry Miller somewhere around then. Yes, a bit racy for a Middle Schooler, but I was always trying to grow up too fast, especially literarily. The line "She reads all the high class sex literature," is from a poem by David Lerner who is clumped together with the likes of Ken DiMaggio, Alan Kaufman, and Rudolfo Anaya. The poem is called Slamdancing to the Blues and it's totally about me except I don't take my clothes off to Tom Waits and the Dead Kennedys at a theatre on Market, although back in the day I like to think that I looked like a 14 year old beatnik with an IQ of 200. Always reveling in my youthful attempts at understanding the stream of consciousness writing from expat American writers living in Paris.

The poem ends...
"she has invented herself so well
she's not sure she can
escape

I know that song"

"Angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient..."

2010-05-29T09:06:00.007-04:00

top, Urban Renewal/Urban Outfitters. shorts, H&M. boots, Harley Davidson. studded belt, thrifted. black/gold bangle, sister's. celtic scarf slave bracelet, DIY.

Photography by Jeremy Zerbe

Channeling a little Rodarte inspiration with lacy layers and army green cargo shorts. The heat has not yet deterred me from black boots, although it has fostered copious amounts of sunbathing in my urban backyard which usually ends in total frustration brought on by attacks from black Lilliputian like ants. The black Lilliputs and red Blefuscus constantly crawling onto my feet and hands totally make me miss my lifeguarding days when I essentially got paid to tan. I am seriously contemplating the acquisition of an inflatable pool for my spot; I just can't stand being away from water, especially in the summer!

Enjoy the holiday weekend, and think of me whilst you sip beers and chow down on burgers cause I'll pretty much be bartending from now until late Sunday night.

"Sometimes I'm sexy, move like a stud..."

2010-05-20T09:56:00.001-04:00

image source Google Images

I've always idolized groupies, not in a way like I wanna start doing heroine and play musical sexual partners among band members, but in a way like I wanna have the power and the closeness to affect change in something like the Rolling Stones Forty Licks, a la Anita Pallenberg. Furs, jewelry, traveling and parties...all sounds like fun to me. Fun aside, Penny Lane's re-versioning of the term "groupie" to be "band-aids" pretty much solidified my 13 year old self's aspirations to be a part of the boy's club without being a slut. As she famously said, "We are not Groupies. Groupies sleep with rockstars because they want to be near someone famous. We are here because of the music, we inspire the music. We are Band Aids."

Now, the scene is different, and as much as Krystal Simpson wants it to be the decades of free love and fringe up the wazoo, it's more like the decade of dancing to glitchy music in 5" black wedged booties. I feel like I'm surrounded by aspiring DJ's more than aspiring rock stars. So what's a "groupie" to do? Probably get a job and only rock out on weekends. It's a shame it can't be a sustainable lifestyle anymore...or can it?

Music of My Saturday...

2010-05-15T14:15:00.000-04:00

Ariana Delwari is both here and now, and faraway and long ago. She is an Afghani American living in Los Angeles and her music speaks to both traditions, that of her homeland and her hometown. Her voice is ethereally ethnic, but also brightly Joni Mitchell-esque. The above video is so poignantly definitive of who she is, at once old Hollywood glam and tribal Afghani beauty. She's just so fucking cool.

"Who was breaking away from the pack..."

2010-05-14T09:45:00.001-04:00

cardigan, vintage. striped crop top, vintage. black bandage skirt, American Apparel. thigh high socks, American Apparel.

photos by Erin Magoc

One cup of afternoon coffee tends to feel like something more potent and thus leads me to gallivant through alleyways in a mini-skirt. Thick humid atmosphere leads to messy hair, clumpy bangs, smeared eyeliner, and makes midriff baring crop tops acceptable. The constant threat of thunderstorms the past few days has had me in a perpetually twitchy state of excitement that flares up with every tantalizing lightening strike that flashes in the distance like an appetizer of summertime weather destruction. The anticipation is vexing; summer must be here because the weatherman is always wrong. The night ended with clear starry skies and a little less stickiness. But after some beers with friends and bacon burgers on the grill, I forgot all about my longing for a thunderstorm. However, here's to hoping it happens today, I just wanna play in some puddles.

Craving...

2010-05-13T16:30:00.000-04:00

via Stylesightings/ Knight Cat

I feel like it kinda takes some balls to wear bold hats like this one. I can hear the comments from the seedy men who sit along Liberty Ave. in my head - "How you doin' Indiana Jones?"..."I like your hat, and your legs,"..."Nice hat, are you married?"

Any plucky accessory, whether sexualized or not, insights a slew of catcalling, thusly, one needs balls to bare the adventurous wide brimmed hat. And lemme tell you, I've got big balls, so if you know where I can find a hat like this for less than $50, leave a comment, I would totally appreciate the tip, because I am dying for one of these hats!

Reinvigoration...

2010-05-12T18:26:00.000-04:00

photo source StevieDance.com

There's something about perusing Garance Doré's blog that constantly leaves me with the feeling of immense pride that I am a women. I'm not sure if it's her relentless work ethic, extraordinary artistic talent, ability to make any subject look and feel beautiful, or her celebration of human aesthetic eccentricities (that occur even in the fashion world). Probably all of the above, and most importantly that last one.

Meandering through Garance's blog I came upon a post about Stevie Dance, the editor of RUSSH Magazine. RUSSH is one of my absolute favorite fashion magazines because it is constantly offbeat, going against the grain, and offering a highly unique point of view through styling and photography. In my sinuous fashion blogging link trail, I found myself at Stevie Dance's website perusing her editorial work, all of which is sensational. And looking through the photography of Daul Kim I felt saddened but in a way like I was supposed to, as if her tragic beauty emanated from my glowing computer screen, to remind me of the genius of the depressed beauties. When I say beauties, I don't necessarily just mean the physically beautiful like Kim, but largely the creatively beautiful.

Daul Kim's life and tragic death was given more meaning to me after I watched the documentary The Devil and Daniel Johnston. Johnston and Kim parallel in their depressed genius, Johnston a genius of poetry, and Kim a genius of posing; both beautiful creatives.

I apologize if I seemed to have gotten off track, but that's what fashion does to me, sends me on tangents about art, film, music, whatever; I just wanted to share my little trip through fashion cyberspace with you all, and touch on how its meaning is totally morphed by readings of meta-culture.

Gym Time

2010-03-30T13:39:00.000-04:00

source Fashiongonerogue

I don't know about you guys, but I definitely rock high heeled open toed platforms when I hit the gym. Jokes aside, I like this editorial featuring Eniko Mihalik (styled by Jonathan Kaye, shot by Alasdair McLellan, published in the first issue of Gentlewomen) because of what it says about the female body. To me it says, hey, models have to work their asses off in the gym too. Just because they look flawless all the time doesn't mean that they don't have to work for it or that it's all just about denying themselves food. They're strong and beautiful. Strength begets beauty. So lift some weights, run around, feel beautiful.

Real Girl Play-Time.

2010-03-29T16:27:00.000-04:00

image source 10th Muse

Motorcycle riding, dare-devil, fearless, runs with the guys, dirt under her nails, anti-drama, low-maintenance, gutsy, and smart. There's something about working like a man that makes a women feel even more like a women. I spent about 5+ hours in a dingy, dimly lit, unventilated garage yesterday. I used the roaring shop-vac to suck up pennies half smoked cigarettes and a general wide array of filth. Sprayed copious amounts of barely diluted acid, 100 times stronger than citrus on dirt encumbered rims. Diligently removed tar and bugs from the lower part of the car body with a mere soft sponge and a lot of elbow grease. Finally, reeking of kerosene, with dirt deep under my nails, and wet socks, I caught the shootout of the Pens v. Maple Leafs game blaring over the shitty shop radio, through the sound of the buffer to hear Dupuis win the game. Man, I feel like a women.

MGMT's Congratulations

2010-03-22T15:33:00.003-04:00

Frida Giannini was inspired by MGMT back in '08 when Gucci's Spring '09 collection premiered. She dedicated the collection to the disco-y duo making it a helluvalot easier for them to find some models for wives, though they probably could accomplish that sans Gucci connects. Regardless, let's embrace some new MGMT because we can. Their new album Congratulations is available for easy listening, in its entirety, on their website WHOISMGMT? So check it out, be inspired, design a collection that rivals Gucci's Spring '09 and maybe you'll get to kick it with Ben Goldwasser and Andrew Van Wyngarden.

image source Google Images/WHOISMGMT.com

I'm not Your Toy....

2010-03-15T14:43:00.000-04:00

source Google Images

I'm currently obsessed with La Roux....because she's got great hair.

The Sky Might Fall

2010-03-12T15:16:00.001-05:00

boots, Forever 21. pants, H&M. studded belt, thrifted (Avalon, Pgh). watch, Target. knit tank, thrifted. black hooded top, Express. turquoise pendant macrame, Erin Magoc.

Photography by Erin Magoc

I've been listening to a lot of Kid Cudi, post modern music making at its most catchy, hence the title. The sky might fall but I'm not worried at all man, cause it's finally warm out! All the snow is melting, and flips flops are once again acceptable. And then you see 'em gray clouds up above man, metaphor to my life, man....ok that lyric is kinda depressing, how about 'til then I roll more than I've ever rolled...happy 60 degree Friday everyone.

LCD Soundsystem X YSL

2010-03-10T14:30:00.001-05:00

source Pitchfork Media

I'll spare you the "I"m sorry I'm not such a diligent blogger" speech. I know it's been awhile, I pretty much ignored this space all during Fashion Month. Tisk, tisk, I know.

Anyways, more important matters....this killer collaboration between Yves Saint Laurent and LCD Soundsystem. I love fashion most when it brings together the most prominent artists of all forms. This particular collaboration kind of shocked me. I mean, when I think of LCD Soundsystem, Daft Punk is Playing at my House begins bumping in my head, I start dancing a little, might even get up from my desk chair and shake it around my room, in front of the mirror. Too much information? Sorry, but that's what happens with LCD Soundsystem, it's like mature electropop. Dancey but not always too dancey, sometimes your grooving in a dark underground club where ecstasy is passed around like a communal pack of Mentos, sometimes your just chillin' poolside sipping cheap beer with your crew and shootin' the shit. That's the thing about LCD, its always electro but can be channeled and enjoyed in different ways. Now, I never thought of LCD Soundsystem as the type of sound that would be matched with the decadence of YSL. YSL is a storied fashion house, known for glamour and expensiveness. But the song played in the background of this runway show works, it actually brightened up the dark collection, made the little pops of color kind of whimsical. It was fantastic, and renewed my fandom for LCD Soundsystem.

Fuck that, this is my parking spot...

2010-02-16T22:10:00.002-05:00

boyfriend blazer, Forever 21. hoodie, boyfriend's. dress, American Apparel. thigh-high socks, American Apparel.

photos by Erin Magoc

I'm not sure what's going on in the residential side-streets of the rest of the snow debilitated Northeast, but here in Pittsburgh, the term 'parking-wars' has a whole new, and very school-yard like meaning. Childish car-owners all over the city have been calling dibs, and saving spots carved out of the mountainous remains of the perpetual ass rapping that is the winter of 2010, using lawn and folding chairs as wimpy declarations that they shoveled snow, and therefore own a piece of the street. I have mixed feelings on the whole situation, this is however my chair, and it is in the spot that Darren pulled out of this morning, and when I got home from class this evening, it was sitting atop a nearly 5 foot tall hill of ice and snow, replaced by some asshole's tiny two door car. Trap it with the removed snow? Eh, I'm really not that ambitious.

Honestly, I'm so beyond being sick of the weather, that I think for the first time in my life, I don't even care about the cold. No more dread leaving the house to face a 2 degree windchill, or fear of time standing still while waiting for the already, incessantly tardy 54C, or even anger for the fact that I can't wear heels. It actually kinda just makes me want to take up snowboarding.

Um...

2010-01-29T22:04:00.000-05:00

source We Heart It

I don't know how many times I've asked myself, "why am I studying literature?" But here I am, once again, frustrated beyond belief with school. What will all this work yield? Where will it take me? Nowhere? Nah, I'm not really that negative...I am however bogged down by work, and therefore have not posted in 10 long days, and I apologize, it will probably be a few more days until I have another outfit post because everyone in my house has the stomach flu-ish thing. And as I write this post, and my boyfriend hogs my bed whilst feverishly muttering random reasons why he loves me (in sickness, and in health; check), my stomach is beginning to feel much like "the beginning." So I'm gonna get a leg up on this being sick thing, and drink some ginger ale, and join the sickly in that infested bed of mine.

The Contrast.

2010-01-19T15:37:00.000-05:00

sweater, Vintage. fedora, UO. tights, Forever 21. scarf, American Apparel. thigh high socks, American Apparel. dress, American Apparel. boots, Nine West.

Charlotte: [...] your coat looks as if it were calculated for the vulgar purpose of keeping yourself comfortable.

Manly: But remember my dear sister, and I wish all my fair country-women would recollect, that the only excuse a young lady can have for going extravagantly into a fashion, is, because it makes her look extravagantly handsome.--- Ladies, I must wish you a good [Tuesday].

Burberry Prorsum's Vin Diesel-esque Outerwear.

2010-01-18T09:21:00.001-05:00

source The Moment's Twit Pic

So Vin Diesel in XXX. I know, I know, piss poor plot, predictable acting, but the wardrobe department was definitely killing it in that movie. All of those German gangsters had such badass coats on, and even the skanks in the club had crazy eccentric makeup and atypical cocktail dresses. And that Russian secret agent girl with the intentionally bad teeth wore the most luscious Harley Davidson shearling lined leather jacket I've ever seen. This coat is actually from the Burberry Prorsum collection of dramatic military inspired pieces. Definitely modern day German gangster, and I say that with my reference to the aesthetics of a German gangster being from a Vin Diesel movie, so if your a German gangster and you're reading this, just know that I think your kind wears badass outerwear.

Dark, dark, dark.

2010-01-15T20:13:00.000-05:00

sweater, Forever 21. tank dress, American Apparel. leggings, Wal-Mart. boots, Harley Davidson

New dark hair, finally above freezing, sharing the bus shelter with a crazy racist black man that kept yelling about Jewish people in Shadyside; that was just the meat of my day. Currently we're waiting on elements of our night to get back to us, or not...not sure, might just cook some dinner.

Photography by Marco Coppola: Fashion and Beyond.

2010-01-15T16:44:00.000-05:00

source Marco Coppola

Dynamic, kitschy, bizarre, emotive, edgy, did I mention bizarre? The photography of Marco Coppola is both marketable, in that he captures Makeup Forever eyelashes on a girl eating marshmellows for breakfast, and artful in that he captures a nude clown tattooed, wearing only a nose, seen through the lens of black and white polaroid. His images are just provocative enough, just beautiful enough, and just weird enough to be great. He also has a penchant for lo-fi images which are actually my favorites. Raw, gritty, and packed with feeling. They kind of remind me of home movies, and by home movies I'm not referring to old photographs from my youth that my Dad took with his fancy shmancy Canon mulit-lens, but home movies. To be honest, I think that it's the amount of green grass in the shots, I remember a lot of grass in my childhood.

P.S. sorry for the lack of posts...school can be debilitating sometimes.

"You got a Smoke?"

2010-01-07T20:19:00.001-05:00

boots, Nine West. crocheted tunic, vintage. blazer, Forever 21

I've watched Escape From LA 2.5 times in the past 36 hours, hence the titled of this post. And I'm about to go to a surprise Girl Talk show happening at the Brillo Box (a bar that exist within about two leaps and a 10 second sprint from my house). So I'm off, to dance my worries away to head bangin, schizophrenic pop rock rap mashing!!!! :)

Jewelry by Arielle de Pinto.

2010-01-04T09:56:00.001-05:00

source Zero 1 Blog

I stumbled upon these incredible web-like pieces when meandering around 01Magazine's blog. I love how exotic they look, kind of African Princess meets Gypsy Dancer. You can find more at Arielle de Pinto's website here. The above photos were taken by Margaret Haines and you can check out more of her work here.

It's a Giant Pretzel!

2010-01-02T01:34:00.001-05:00

coat, vintage. jeans, H&M. belt, Forever XXI, scarf, vintage

When the ball dropped we toasted with Troeg's Mad Elf instead of the alternative of cheap sparkling white offered by bar parties around these parts. Staying in definitely had its benefits; good friends, good beer, zero dollars spent, and I could lounge on a couch and remove my shoes while playing Mario Party. So I had fun, in. I've kind of been following the mentality that if I'm gonna go out, I'm gonna go out hard and Pittsburgh just doesn't offer good fun anymore, or maybe it just takes to many illegal substances to be fun, maybe particular people who relocated to NY took the fun with them. Oh well, I'd rather save my pennies and go to Vegas. Happy new leaf turning everyone.

New Year's Resolution #2: More Outfit Posts.

2009-12-31T19:34:00.000-05:00

boots/tights/belt, Forever XXI. top, Baboushka. cardi, Zara. skirt, AA

Haphazardly making NYE plans, going back and forth between party and chillin'. Thus my ensemble reflects confusion on whether to dress up or dress down. I opted to do both. The boots, by the way, best 30 bucks I ever spent. Please excuse my messy room, have a safe and happy New Year! Later gators :)

Stylish Snuggies, For Real Though.

2009-12-30T20:27:00.000-05:00

source Beautiful Decay

I've been really into over-sized sweaters as of late. Because of the cold, yes. But also because of the amorphous look. I love bulky tops with skinny jeans or worn as dresses over tights and high boots. These gorgeous sweaters bridge the gap between fashion and art because they were designed by artist turned fashion designer Du Yang. Yang titled this collection It is a Dream; the collection was inspired by a spiritual journey to India.

Things That Make You Go Hmmmm....

2009-12-30T18:15:00.000-05:00

source Haw-lin

Tailoring to My Man's Tastes.

2009-12-30T10:34:00.000-05:00

My man has got his own style, no doubt. It's not that he's one of those dudes who shops designer and gets manicures. He's a working man, so his hands are rough, and he wears his hockey jersey style Metallica hoodie like a second skin. But he certainly doesn't lack personal style, baseball hats have different meanings for him, and blazers are meant to be dressed down. He's undeniably cool, and I'm not just saying that cause I love him either.
Now despite his coolness, or maybe because of it, he's kind of a picky dude. So shopping for him, though I sparingly do it, is kind of difficult. However, I stumbled upon this Pendelton X Opening Ceremony collection that has a few pieces that look like they may push him stylistically without going over board.

source Rotten Fresh

He's always talking about getting a white blazer, so the white jacket at the top seemed like a combo of dressed up white with dressed down plaid lining. The second jacket is just fucking awesome because it turns into a back pack-ish type thing for when it gets too warm. And the third plaid shirt has a hood. Hooded tops are always preferable to hoodless tops, he and I see eye to eye on this saratorial ideology.

I gotta say, its kinda fun flipping the script and shopping for menswear instead of women's, the added challenge of the items not being for me make it a nice change of pace.

Sisterly Tensions from Hair Jealousy.

2009-12-30T09:52:00.000-05:00

source Get Away Nasty Baby

My older sister has hair very similar to this model. Long, thick, slightly wavey, and brilliant red/orange. Since we're only 18 months apart when we were little we were always compared to each other by the elders at our church or older extended family members. We even wore similar outfits sometimes, outerwear with slightly varying details and in a different color, dresses with the same shape but different print. I never minded because I, like most little sisters, wanted to be just like my big sis. Of course when my little sis came along and she wanted to dress like me, I wasn't having it. Typical, I know.

The trend of similar dress between sisters born close in age was mostly just to make my mother's life easier, and i suppose we looked pretty damn cute. But my jealousy of my sister's hair started at a very young age. Everyone gushed over it, and why not, it was fucking awesome. I asked my mom why I didn't get pretty hair too to which she responded, "You do have pretty hair honey."

Somehow from asking enough times over the years the theory developed that I didn't get pretty hair because my mom was breast feeding my big sister when I was in her belly. Does anyone know if that's true?

Keds X Opening Ceremony.

2009-12-29T09:43:00.000-05:00

source Rotten Fresh

When I was little, my mom would buy my sisters and I Keds to wear because they were super cheap. She'd find them at Payless and we pretty much went through a pair every three months. As disposable of a shoe as they were, they were a blank canvas for a young girls imagination. My mom definitely knew how to dazzle a Ked. Puffy fabric paint, glittery clear coat, she could transform the drab tenni into the most fab footwear in all of the 2nd grade. I went through a phase of oft opting for mine to be dyed red and painted with red sparkles to emulate ruby slippers. I would wear them and answer only to Dorothy.

This new line of Keds for Opening Ceremony, are far from a blank canvas but oddly enough, they are still some shoes that I would totally wear. Fifteen years later, I still want a pair of Keds, though I highly doubt they are as cheap as they used to be.

I Don't Care What I've Said in the Past, She is Just so Fucking Cool.

2009-12-28T09:49:00.000-05:00

source Fashion Copious

source FFFound

I know that during NYFashion Week I got super pissed off about her alleged ripping off of a Zac Posen skirt from a couple years back. And then there also that jewelry line debacle that had me fuming and preaching about the criminal offense of ripping other people's artwork off. I should continue to be angry, and vehemently oppose her. Refuse to buy her designs, and maybe boycott RVCA altogether like my mom boycotted Nike over child labor. Similar offense right? Nah, in all actuality I can't help but love her. She is so damn cool, and her philosophy on fashion is so fresh and exactly what got me into it so deeply. So, here's to you Erin Wasson, keep on keepin' it real.

Christmas Links a la Mode

2009-12-26T19:10:00.000-05:00

The Happy Holidays Edition

Edited by Retrochick

Well, I suppose I shall start this weeks Links à la Mode with this:

HAPPY CHRISTMAS!

It's Christmas Eve and I'm sure visions of sugar plums are dancing in everyone's heads as they trim the tree and sup mulled wine in preparation for tomorrows frivolities. All too soon it'll all be over and brain power sapped from too many TV Christmas Specials you'll be wanting some mental sustenance, and that's where we come in.

Essentially that's a long winded way of me saying that what follows are some lovely links to keep you busy over the Christmas period.

M.I.S.S and JeweleryWhore have D.IY ideas to keep your mind and body occupied, ID Style and Little Miss Make Up show you how to ramp up the glamour in your make up bag, whilst Daily Diva Dish and The Working Wardrobe will help you plan what to wear for New Years Eve and that dreaded day you return to work.

If you run out of entertainment here then you should always check out the full Links à la Mode thread for more yummy fashion goodness.

I hope you all have a fantastic holiday and that Santa brings you everything you asked for!

Links à la Mode : December 24th

Alice in Stilettos – Don’t Be Victimized By Fashion
DailyDivaDish – New Year’s Eve Fashion: Make an entrance without breaking the bank. Includes 2 looks + DIY ideas.
Fashion X K8 – Bringing attention to an essay of literary criticism that provides the proper vocabulary with which we can converse about a new fashion paradigm.
Fasshonaburu – An interview with Liu Wen, the first Asian model to strut her stuff on the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show catwalk.
Idiosyncratic Style – Wham GLAM Thank You Ma’am – Indulge in a little glamour for the holidays.
Jewelry Whore – HUGE Roundup of DIY Christmas Present Ideas! It’s not too late to make some fabulous jewelry for Christmas presents!
kaKofonie Of si(gh)lenS – You’re only a couple clicks and a few stitches away from owning your own one-of-a-kind designer piece with free patterns from SHOWstudio
La Société de Mode – A scream of an interview with stylist Brett Bailey
Little Miss Makeup – Bold lips: This season’s hottest makeup trend.
M.I.S.S. – Another simple yet attractive necklace by Pandora from Acessory Source in this week’s She’s Crafty.
Previously Owned – To celebrate the [almost there] opening of the ONLINE store Previously Owned BLOG is giving away a Royal Blue hobo!
Retro Chick – Vintage Hair Styling with Flamingo Amy
Style on a String – Harem Pants: Yay or Nay? And some quick tips on how to buy and wear them.
Sugar and spice and all things nice – 10 things I like…. no, LOVE… about FANTASY SHOPPING!!
sweetarchivia – Review of the much anticipated launch of the Rodarte for Target line by the Mulleavy sisters.
THE COVETED – Versace Pre-Fall returns to color
The Demoiselles – Wing Tips: Your First Time…at the Tailor
The Fashion Planner – The Fashion Planner is excited to announce the publication of The Fashion Planner’s Guide!
The Style PA – I review the comfy, Cable Cosy by Isabella Oliver
The Working Wardrobe – Learning the art of layering that is both fashion-forward and office-appropriate

Hit up these bloggy blogs and be sartorially enlightened.

Liya Kebede Kickin' it in Roller Blades for Elle Italia

2009-12-26T16:13:00.000-05:00

source Fashion Gone Rogue

Aesthetically speaking, my eye tends to be drawn to the bizarre. I like weird shapes; I'm an anti-classicist, I don't want A line dresses, empire waists, knee length skirts, and I'll never wear a gown to my wedding. I don't like classic pumps I think they're too hard to walk in. I slash t-shirts, cut up hoodies, and fray pants purposely. I can't help but look messy, in fact a lot of times I try to be. I don't feel myself if my hair is perfectly coifed and my tights don't have a single solitary snag in them. My bangs get greasy as I get further away from my shower time, and my nail polish chips as I open bottle after bottle behind the bar. I don't like matching, unless its black. I love showing off my swimmer legs, but constantly shroud my D cup boobs with over-sized tops or snug cleavage abating bodysuits.

For some reason the roller blades in this offbeat editorial reminded me of all of the weird things I do and can't help but do stylistically. Another occasion that reminded me of how exotic I look to some people was Christmas Eve at my boyfriend's house. He comes from a very traditional Italian family all of whom live in small suburban towns, belong to a local church that does that crazy midnight mass shit, and dedicate their Sundays to everything Steelers starting with the preprepre-game show. Their a lovable bunch, a massive group of generations seeped in Pittsburgh/Italian traditions. And while there was nothing inappropriate about my Christmas Eve ensemble (Express Red tube dress, under a black boyfriend blazer, patterned black tights, and 4" heeled black combat boots), I felt, well, exotic in a way that was met with intrigue and not disgust. Open-mindedness, interest, and eyes drawn to my weird shoes. Unbeknownst to me, I was percolating oddness, a fact of which I'm very proud. Maybe for their Memorial Day picnic I'll pay homage to Liya and rock the roller blades. Who knows, I'm just glad his family likes me for me.

Merry Stylish Christmas.

2009-12-24T12:46:00.000-05:00

source De Mode

My New Year's Resolution.

2009-12-23T11:57:00.003-05:00

I've decided to commit myself to writing. Finally. I mean, I've been saying that I want to be a writer since I was in third grade and my teacher gushed over a silly prompt that I wrote. I distinctly remember the immense amount of pride that I garnered from the tiny first attempt at creative non-fiction. From that moment, as I moved up through the grades I became captivated by different kinds of writing, fiction, non-fiction, political, religious, theory, journalistic, postmodern, non-English, music, FASHION. But always fearful of rejection, success, whatever, I never really made myself write. I liked the way it sounded, "to write." And felt, tippy tappy keys on a keyboard, click of a pen, the physicality of it. The habits too I kind of romanticized in my head, like carrying a tiny notebook around with me at all times, filling it with thoughts and quotes, highlights from conversations, scribbling away as I might sit at the bus stop or bored in class.
The very idea of writing was always a somewhat distant one for me. I felt that I could never consider myself a writer because all I've ever written are papers for school and maybe a handful of published articles in publications that go unnoticed and are more likely to be used to pick up dog poo on the sidewalk than be read. But as my New Year's Resolution, I am going to start calling myself a writer, I hear that it has a costuming affect. Calling myself a writer is kind of like putting on a business suit and being able to more confidently walk into a board room meeting. If I call myself a writer then I'll magically be a writer. Naw, I'm just kidding, along with calling myself a writer, I am going to write for at least an hour every morning, and read more contemporary lit. School sucks literally, it sucks the life out of me and makes me not want to write which is why its a hard habit to start. But like going to the gym, it feels good mid workout. So, from now on, I'll write, cause I'm a writer.
In honor of my New Year's Resolution, I'm going to share with you some writing inspiration from one of my all time faves, JACK KEROUAC. (Sorry for the lack of fashion).

BELIEF & TECHNIQUE FOR MODERN PROSE
List of Essentials

Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy
Submissive to everything, open, listening
Try never get drunk outside yr own house
Be in love with yr life
Something that you feel will find its own form
Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind
Blow as deep as you want to blow
Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind
The unspeakable visions of the individual
No time for poetry but exactly what is
Visionary tics shivering in the chest
In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you
Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
Like Proust be an old teahead of time
Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog
The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye
Write in recollection and amazement of yourself
Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming language sea
Accept loss forever
Believe in the holy contour of life
Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind
Don't think of words when you stop but to see picture better
Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr morning
No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge
Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it
Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form
In praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness
Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better
You're a Genius of all time
Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven

source Google Images

Fashionably Literary

2009-12-19T00:15:00.006-05:00

Image Source AfricanAfrican.com

I just finished reading this critical essay on the importance of apparel in Nella Larson’s novel Quicksand. Finding this essay was a great thing, because I was always under the assumption that my desire to apply fashion tropes to anything creative (books, music, art) was purely because I am just a fashion obsessed girl. But oh, was I wrong in assuming that I’m the weirdo shoe giddy, style conscious, book-worm. Kaley Joyes, the author of the essay The "Highly Important Matter of Clothes": Apparel and Identity in Nella Larson's Quicksand (published in Fringe), is also seemingly a little fashion obsessed. She dissected the novel (which I’ll admit, I’d never even hear of until I read this) down to the meanings of the main character, Helga’s color choices in her garments.

If you follow my blog, you might remember awhile back a post I did called “Tudors, Gothic, Literary, Gypsy Pirate?” That post was my weak ass attempt at articulating the fashion element in Samuel Richardson’s novel Pamela. Once again, I'll be honest with you, I’m kind of a lazy student. And by kind of I mean very. But I digress; the post was a little tiny assignment for my PhD cowboy of a lit prof, to transmediate the novel Pamela. In my half assed studiousness and flurry to just finish assignments as quickly as possible, I decided to kill two birds with one stone, “hey”, I thought, “why not do a blog post about Pamela, then I can blog, and do homework!” Brilliant idea, except Dazed and Confused a la a Fashion Gone Rogue post took me to more of a bizzaro highly stylized, and modernly coifed portrayal of Tudor style in an editorial spread. And of course, I was distracted by the strange yet elegant fashioning in the photos and kind of forgot what the assignment was. I mean, I still got credit, because cowboys are also good for giving a nod to a creative attempt. But I missed the mark on what I was trying to do.

I think what I was actually trying to do with Pamela was what Joyes did with Quicksand. She eloquently used fashion as a way of breaking open a text and analyzing the cultural and psychological significance of apparel in a person’s life. According to Joyes, clothing is sort of an “art form” for Helga and an avenue for self-discovery. She writes, “Larsen tracks Helga’s quest for self-discovery not only across multiple geographic settings – from the American South to New York, Denmark, and back again – but also through multiple changes in costume.”

The way that she magnifies the significance of fashion and other material aspects of Helga's life, such as just generally having "nice things," doesn't exactly justify a very material centric lifestyle it just sheds light on how inescapable and innate it is for us to place surface markers at such a high priority level.

The essay is definitely a good read if your into intelligent fashion thought. However I personally tend to get annoyed with literary criticism that goes too deep. Its one thing to wrestle open a reading stacked in one direction, but high-falutin' literary jargon mixed with a thickly lain on analysis becomes a little too detached. I like to keep readings and analysis grounded, and around page 7 I started to feel like I was floating around in the clouds that encircle the tip top of the proverbial ivory tower. But if you read it, and you get to this point, just push forward, its not that it gets less academic, its that your brain just gets more comfortable.

I think the essay is an important read. Think of it as a tool, a tool with which we can start to speak what we think. Well, speaking for myself, I've been looking for ways to articulate the importance of fashion. In fact my goal with this blog is to fight the idea that fashion is merely superficial vanity. This essay has leant a lot of ideas that can be utilized as building blocks for a new fashion paradigm. I strongly urge you to arm yourselves with this tool fashionistas, its a very useful one.

The "Highly Important Matter of Clothes": Apparel and Identity in Nella Larson's Quicksand

By: Kaley Joyes

Published in Fringe

"How to Fail With Dignity"

2009-12-14T13:03:00.000-05:00

My older sister, who's a smarty pants grad student and also enduring torturous finals right now, sent me this email. Knowing that a lot of you ladies out there who happen upon my blog are also students, I had to share. Good luck with finals!! (and feel free to use any of the above answers on your exams, I don't need to be credited :).

"I Remember, I Remember Way Back When..."

2009-12-13T21:33:00.001-05:00

Image Source De Mode

Photoshopped

Playing.

2009-12-12T17:05:00.000-05:00

Links a La Mode

2009-12-10T14:39:00.000-05:00

Choices, Choices!

Edited by Dream Sequins

At this time of year, even the smallest decision can feel like the biggest burden. As holiday shopping season swings into full and relentless motion this month, the choices we make as consumers can often feel overwhelming. This week’s compelling roundup of reading explores these choices from every possible angle and makes it clear that as bloggers, we should feel empowered, not overwhelmed. Whether it’s writing about a specialty gift guide for a geek chic girl, choosing the perfect red lip color or even exploring the nuanced difference in quality between designer and mid-priced items, these choices are what make us unique and connect us as an independent fashion blogging community.

Links à la Mode : December 10th

A Typical Atypical – Get into vintage 50’s housewife mode for the Christmas season!
Bobbins and Bombshells – Fashionable History: L’Officiel de la Mode Archives
Brunette and Pink – Holiday Makeup Inspired by the Sephora 2009 Holiday Sephora Catalog using Urban Decay Book of Shadows Vol. II
dramatis personae – High Fashion & High Art… Two Worlds Apart? Thoughts, Arguments, & Solutions for the Knock-off Debate
Dream Sequins – A bling-tastic evening at jewelers, Doyle and Doyle.
Fashion Pulse Daily – Fashion Pulse Daily finally finds a handbag that meets her very particular requirements.
Fashion X K8 – Spotlighting the stylishly subtantial Desirée Rogers and challenging the press’s idea that those who fill jobs seeped in tradition should not only maintain the “tradition” but refrain from being eye-catching.
Fasshonaburu – Shopping for the Geek Chic Girl: Holiday shopping advice for the girl who loves fashion as much as video games, gadgets and Buffy the Vampire Slayer!
M.I.S.S. – She’s Crafty: DIY Ruffled Suspenders
Oranges and Apples – The Sapeurs: vibrant and elegant street style from the Congo.
Rags to Reverie – A Fab Four Fanatic’s review of the Comme des Garçons x The Beatles collaboration.
Retro Chick – Fashion Economics – Are low cost retailers forcing us to be wasteful?
Sophisticated Insanity – Take a look at the lady behind Rare bird of Fashion: The Irreverent Iris Apfel
Style on a String – Leggings vs. Tights: The difference, how to buy them and what to wear (and not wear) with them.
Style Symmetry – Christmas Gift Ideas for Him, For Her and Secret Santa…
The Bargain Hunter Extraordinaire – Two days ago, it was 36 degrees out…today, I didn’t even have to a jacket- that’s New England!
THE COVETED – Love bold red lips? Check out the Ultimate Red holiday collection.
TheWorkingWardrobe – Here are some tips on how men can work jewelry at the office without any raised eyebrows.
Thrift Eye – Dreaming of Shearling: Save up for the nice stuff and be warm or go with the cheap and be cold?
ventures of jenn. – A spotlight on Berlin label Reality Studio.
Wicked Whimsy – Practical Quality: Looking into what the difference, if any, is between a mid-range item & a designer item.

Finals Equal Coffee, Blankets, and a Sea of Books.

2009-12-09T10:15:00.001-05:00

source We Heart It

A little pictorial representation of what my life has been for the past few days and will continue to be for the next week and a half. I'll probably take a wee little itsy bitsy hiatus from writing my article length posts until the semester is over. Unless of course I get so sick of academic writing that I wanna vomit on my computer and all of the lame ass 18th century novels I have spread around me on my bed. However, in that case I should probably just step away from my computer, smoke a cigarette, return to my messy lair of nauseating literary jargon and put my nose back on the grindstone. Anyway, just lettin you guys know that I haven't drowned in Shakespeare and Milton yet. I can not wait until next week is over! Back to paper...

I Wanna Be in a Micheal Bay Movie (or commercial).

2009-12-06T14:34:00.002-05:00

I for one love Vicky's Secret, been buyin' panties from there since I developed boobs. But I really think its the cultural fantasy that keeps me coming back. This most recent commercial by Micheal Bay pretty much says it all. However Sonia Rykiel just gave me somewhere else to purchase lingerie seeped in fantasty. Either or, they're both far superior to the small town alternative, department stores. Who wants to shop at a drab department store with glaring florescent lights that make the most chiselled body look bad when you can dream of the fanciful marketing ploy that brought you to a particular brand of lingerie in the first place?

Desirée Rogers, Challenging Traditions by Being Her Stylish Self.

2009-12-06T13:01:00.004-05:00

Desiree Rogers with Anna Wintour at NY Fashion Week

source NYTimes.com

History has painted the image of the White House Social Secretary to be one of matronly dowdiness or sharp edged perfectionism, class, in a rigid pants suit. While Desirée Rogers has got the role's required fierce perfectionism and can make a skirt suit look ultra sleek as opposed to politically uniform, she is anything but matronly or dowdy. The modelesque, style savvy, elbow rubber of Anna Wintour is not only the first African American women to be chosen for the position but truly one of the most modern womens' woman to plan White House soirées. She boasts an MBA from Harvard, a subsequent impeccable ability for branding, and a presence on the cover of the Wall Street Journal Magazine as well as a feature in the February '09 issue of Vogue.

Vogue

This pixied haired Zulu Queen recently has had her dutiful acuteness questioned by the press over a couple of reality T.V. celebutantes looking for their 15 minutes. I'm not going to go into the details on the attention seeking couple because to be honest, they are not worth anyone's attention, and clearly that includes the attention of White House security.

Rogers was harshly criticized by the press when the couple made it past security to a State dinner held for the Prime Minister of India. Sure, the couple was not invited and should never have been allowed to enter without invitation in hand. But in retrospect, they weren't dangerous, they are just some sleezy couple trying to get their pictures taken with some very very important people. No harm no foul, right?

Well, the harm in fact has manifested more so in the questioning of Rogers' ability to fill the stereotypical role of White House Social Secretary. I stress "stereotypical" because it is in that word that lies the problem. In the ultra press conscious world of politics there is so much emphasis placed on being like those who did the 'behind the scenes' job before you. Rogers is supposed to be invisible. She's supposed to remain "behind the scenes." She's not supposed to wear outfits that rival Michelle's, or be photographed at state dinners. But when Desirée Rogers gracefully walks in front of photographers in her Comme de Garçon gown and mingles effortlessly with the guests of the parties that she planned, she is being herself. Its a pretty impressive ability to remain one's self in the glaring spotlight and high stress job of politics and just because "herself" is a women who garners attention it is quite harsh to consider her a "distraction" to the White House. She does a great job of turning the Obamas' idea of what the White House should be into a reality. Under her planning the transparency and creativity that the Obamas' want both in the issues that they focus on, and in the social activities of their household, are made into a reality.

Security breach aside, we should celebrate Rogers for breaking the norm, for being herself, and being a smart stylish women. Let's pause and appreciate style and substance being in the spotlight. After all, it's not her fault she can't escape it.