textural things

(style.com)

for the "sophisticated youth", as described in the style.com review of phillip lim's s/s '12 show. beyond the pastel color palette mashed together with blocks of black, i love the simplicity of the shapes and the unexpected details in the tailoring: wide-legged pants with a long slit up the sides, sturdy heels with higher vamps, two-tone bags used as clutches, the liquid movement of structural pieces (cue the flutter sleeves, androgynous cuts, and airy fabrics), and an overall helmut lang semblance. lim noted that the collection was inspired by kites - their free form and movement.  even before watching the show recap on style.com, one could see movement taking place in the pictures.  there's something absolutely striking about the ability to capture movement at the opportune time, as if it were meant to happen that way.  now, i want to fast-forward the autumn and winter months now and start layering silk on silk and experiment with tailored pieces in lighter materials.

"white means the strength of fragility and the fragility of the passage of time"
- maison martin margiela

(1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7)

the color of purity and starting anew. an aid to mental and emotional clarity. it could be an early onset of delirium but i have been researching the symbolism and psychology behind the (non-)color white for the last hour and a half. its so intriguing; especially at this point in my life. perhaps that's why i find all white pictures so calming right now? nevertheless, look how fan-fucking-tastic tilda swinton looks.

(vintage silver ring/bracelet hybrid thing + single f21 cross earring, me)


once he came home with the most magnificent vintage borsalino hat, perfect in all its proportions.  the only thing was that it didn't either of us.  before shutting the (e-)doors to my etsy shop, i had sold it to someone in denver for a bargain i was happy to give.  never have i ever packaged anything with such care.  i was, and still am, happy to have let it go to a rightful owner (with who i assume to have a tiny child's head).  regardless,

i have been frantically searching for a beautiful wide-brimmed fedora of my own, reminiscent of the classic black hats historically worn by Orthodox Jews.  this article in the new york times did a pretty ok job of highlighting some of its historical significance as well as its resurgence in modern fashion, particularly for women.  the classic, wide-brimmed fedora popularized in the '50s has a certain architectural edge that creates the perfect paradox:  embracing femininity via masculinity.  maybe its just me but i always explain things using its counterparts; it just makes sense, i guess.  nevertheless, my point is is that one day i will find the perfect borsalino hat to replace the piece of shit urban outfitters one on my head in the picture above.

(self, 'les amants' by noemie goudal)


the lowest point is when life gets stagnant and routine is no longer an object of comfort but a means of an escape. i can't confidently say that i have fully reached this point, thank god, but nearing it in a dangerous proximity was enough to shake me into an unfathomable fear. what happens when things get stagnant? they rot. they suffocate. they die. a putrid layer of unmanageable refuse matures above everything that could have been - but you'd never come to discover, only daydream about its potentiality. it's almost disgusting how many things are left abandoned in this manner.  things, things, things.  even half the blog name admits to the ambiguity of this word. vague, but such a grand definition for what could be.

i sat in a conference room this afternoon opposite a man who brought with him a leather bound sketchbook.  he opened it with nonchalance and leafed through the pages until he found the first empty space that allowed him to scribble down notes from our conversation.  the notebook was nearly three-quarters filled, which would suggest that he made a lot of notes, but his pen barely touched the paper during the entirety of our conversation. all 36 minutes of it.  the absence of notes didn't concern me though; whether or not he found my answers insightful, intelligent, or creative became the least of my worries. for all i know he could have just tallied every time i broke eye contact or jotted down a grocery list.  sometime during those 36 minutes, an overwhelming fear of the familiar held my attention. when asked what i wanted to learn, i blurted out what i feared.  between the nerve-wracking circumstances in which we met to converse and my desire to clearly communicate my realization, the sentences i formed with the words i combined in a haphazard fashion sounded like pure bullshit.  it sounded like i stole some lines from a movie or i was trying too hard to impress him.  it was neither some trite movie line nor an attempt to impress anyone - just raw emotion coming from someone who desperately needed to grow.

"i don't even care about failing; i just don't want to be stuck anymore"
"ok"

i wonder if he saw my desperation as much as i felt it.