And there's something soothing about these shoes.
School girl with a dash of sex.
Photo via
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Dorothy
I keep putting off distilling all of my thoughts from New York Fashion week in favor of browsing for clothes and shoes and bags that I definitely can't afford right now. For some reason, there's something soothing about it.
And there's something soothing about these shoes.
School girl with a dash of sex.
Photo via
And there's something soothing about these shoes.
School girl with a dash of sex.
Photo via
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Golden Man
Twittering the Oscar arrivals because I sincerely have nothing better to do this evening besides watching Twister on TNT.
Number One
New York Fashion Week has ended. London has begun. My brain is still jumbled in many ways. As I make my way through the photos from the many shows I didn't get to see, my favorite out of the ones I did attend has been sticking in my mind since I saw it last Sunday.
I've noticed that most people have trouble appreciating the aesthetic of others. Not because of a disdain for the style but because it can hard to understand what you do not like for yourself. Or to accept that someone might look good in something that would make you look lumpy, stumpy or whatever negative adjective one can imagine. I've never had much of a problem with this.
Back in the early to mid-90s when very thick glasses hid my face and braces clouded my smile, my older sister spent a lot of time experimenting with her look. She wore classic attire for the time. Denim with denim. Chunky platforms. The occasional mesh shirt. More colors than I knew existed. (Many of which made their way back onto the runway last week.) But she made the biggest statement with her hair. Almost every week there was something different about it. There were shots of pink and green and yellow. Sometimes it sparkled and glitter would float toward me if she shook her head too vigorously. I never wanted to wear her clothes and do that with my hair, but I loved the way she looked. It worked for her.
This is the same feeling I had about the Preen girl as I left their show. I arrived early and disgruntled. As I stood directly behind the last row of chairs, I looked to see who was populating the front row. This was a show for all the cool New York kids. I recognized all of them. Knew all of their names from my backlog of Vogues and Vanity Fairs. (I wonder if the fact that I study the fashion world in the same way I used to study Organic Chemistry makes me a complete dork. I think the answer is yes.) The set still smelled of paint, and the fumes made their way straight to my head causing what was a simple bad mood to spiral out of control. I spent several minutes wishing I had followed my instinct to keep my ass in Brooklyn that morning.
After what seemed to be an eternity in my mind, the lights dimmed and the bass shook the room. I'm pretty sure my eardrums were irrevocably damaged. I considered placing my fingers in my ears but thought better of it. All of my gripes with the paint and the waiting and the sound fled when the first look appeared from backstage.
The first two thirds of the show didn't stray far from black, gray and white. For a brand best known for its Power bandage dress, there were a number of coats that would be more than capable of shutting out the bitter cold. I was particularly fond of the various iterations in oversized houndstooth.
The Sexy, however, was still prevalent. The bandage, which has taken over the world to the point of irrelevance, was absent and replaced by cutouts and shots of transparency.
I was prepared for the show to stay in this moody palette but was presently surprised by the shock of color in the last group.
I did find one dress that I could see myself in.
At the end of it all, I rushed out as quickly as possible, complimentary Pom Iced Coffee and Fiji water in hand. I stopped outside to stuff them in my purse. My ears continued to ring. I felt a strange lightness. I watched The Sartorialist take the picture of a girl in a denim dress. And then I made my way back to Brooklyn and leggings and bed.
Photos via
I've noticed that most people have trouble appreciating the aesthetic of others. Not because of a disdain for the style but because it can hard to understand what you do not like for yourself. Or to accept that someone might look good in something that would make you look lumpy, stumpy or whatever negative adjective one can imagine. I've never had much of a problem with this.
Back in the early to mid-90s when very thick glasses hid my face and braces clouded my smile, my older sister spent a lot of time experimenting with her look. She wore classic attire for the time. Denim with denim. Chunky platforms. The occasional mesh shirt. More colors than I knew existed. (Many of which made their way back onto the runway last week.) But she made the biggest statement with her hair. Almost every week there was something different about it. There were shots of pink and green and yellow. Sometimes it sparkled and glitter would float toward me if she shook her head too vigorously. I never wanted to wear her clothes and do that with my hair, but I loved the way she looked. It worked for her.
This is the same feeling I had about the Preen girl as I left their show. I arrived early and disgruntled. As I stood directly behind the last row of chairs, I looked to see who was populating the front row. This was a show for all the cool New York kids. I recognized all of them. Knew all of their names from my backlog of Vogues and Vanity Fairs. (I wonder if the fact that I study the fashion world in the same way I used to study Organic Chemistry makes me a complete dork. I think the answer is yes.) The set still smelled of paint, and the fumes made their way straight to my head causing what was a simple bad mood to spiral out of control. I spent several minutes wishing I had followed my instinct to keep my ass in Brooklyn that morning.
After what seemed to be an eternity in my mind, the lights dimmed and the bass shook the room. I'm pretty sure my eardrums were irrevocably damaged. I considered placing my fingers in my ears but thought better of it. All of my gripes with the paint and the waiting and the sound fled when the first look appeared from backstage.
The first two thirds of the show didn't stray far from black, gray and white. For a brand best known for its Power bandage dress, there were a number of coats that would be more than capable of shutting out the bitter cold. I was particularly fond of the various iterations in oversized houndstooth.
The Sexy, however, was still prevalent. The bandage, which has taken over the world to the point of irrelevance, was absent and replaced by cutouts and shots of transparency.
I was prepared for the show to stay in this moody palette but was presently surprised by the shock of color in the last group.
I did find one dress that I could see myself in.
At the end of it all, I rushed out as quickly as possible, complimentary Pom Iced Coffee and Fiji water in hand. I stopped outside to stuff them in my purse. My ears continued to ring. I felt a strange lightness. I watched The Sartorialist take the picture of a girl in a denim dress. And then I made my way back to Brooklyn and leggings and bed.
Photos via
Sexy Times
Yesterday I did a little window shopping on Smith Street in Carroll Gardens with a friend. I picked up this dress three times in one store before remembering that I don't have a job or a place to wear it.
Photo via
Photo via
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Short Hand
I started this twittering thing to follow a friend, but now I'm fully indoctrinated.
Follow my Fashion Week tweets here.
Follow my Fashion Week tweets here.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Cold Feet
I'm back in Brooklyn and back in my bed. I haven't washed away the tinted moisturizer and eyeliner and mascara from my face yet, but I know what I'm wearing tomorrow. A little dress I forgot I had until the walk home from the C train. Leggings to keep out the cold. Flat boots to protect my feet from the beating they took today.
At the Robert Geller show, I stood outside in the cold in my heels for 40 minutes waiting to be seated. By minute 27 my feet had numbed to the pain and the cold. My wait was rewarded when I entered and was greeted by two coolers filled with liquid gold aka bottled beer. I sipped and waited for the show to begin, scanning the crowd to see what others were wearing. I chatted with my co-worker about how her day had been since we had parted around noon. The lights dimmed. I thought the show was good but not knowing very much about menswear, it's hard to describe my feelings with any other words. I rushed outside and put on the flats in my bag.
Almost exactly 60 minutes later I found myself on that same block waiting once again. This time for Lorick. I didn't take the time to put my heels back on, and I stood in my ratty flats with my co-worker. I have to say that I loved it. Unfortunately there was no beer this time, but the clothes made up for it. The palette consisted of deep navies and steely grays with the occasional pop of deep yellow or red. High necklines in the front were accented with low backs. Full skirts were everywhere. The clothes seemed to be growing up. Or maybe it's the Lorick girl that's carefully making her way into adulthood.
It's hard to explain all of this without photographs, but there will be time to add those tomorrow. Now it's time for one of the chocolates that my mother sent me for Valentine's Day and a late showing of What Not to Wear and bed.
At the Robert Geller show, I stood outside in the cold in my heels for 40 minutes waiting to be seated. By minute 27 my feet had numbed to the pain and the cold. My wait was rewarded when I entered and was greeted by two coolers filled with liquid gold aka bottled beer. I sipped and waited for the show to begin, scanning the crowd to see what others were wearing. I chatted with my co-worker about how her day had been since we had parted around noon. The lights dimmed. I thought the show was good but not knowing very much about menswear, it's hard to describe my feelings with any other words. I rushed outside and put on the flats in my bag.
Almost exactly 60 minutes later I found myself on that same block waiting once again. This time for Lorick. I didn't take the time to put my heels back on, and I stood in my ratty flats with my co-worker. I have to say that I loved it. Unfortunately there was no beer this time, but the clothes made up for it. The palette consisted of deep navies and steely grays with the occasional pop of deep yellow or red. High necklines in the front were accented with low backs. Full skirts were everywhere. The clothes seemed to be growing up. Or maybe it's the Lorick girl that's carefully making her way into adulthood.
It's hard to explain all of this without photographs, but there will be time to add those tomorrow. Now it's time for one of the chocolates that my mother sent me for Valentine's Day and a late showing of What Not to Wear and bed.
Break Time
I'm back in my apartment during a four hour break from shows and presentations sitting in my yoga pants drinking a midday bottle of Brooklyn Lager while watching cartoons. Considering that I spent this morning jogging two blocks in the East Village in heels and a skirt much too short considering how windy it was, this is the best way I can imagine spending my break time.
One of my friends asked about my lack of enthusiasm about the whole thing. I am excited. It should all be fun. But I am tired. Exhausted. I passed out at 9:30 PM last night and slept straight through to the morning. All I want to do right now is fall back into my bed and take a nap. But I don't want to miss Shipley & Halmos. Or Costello Tagliapietra. Or the people I see at these events. Like the guy wearing an oversized tee with Michelle Obama's face on it and a kilt over skinny black jeans.
After you've spent weeks opening invites and trying to get PR people on the phone, it's easy to become disenchanted by the entire process. But once you get there, you remember why you did all of it in the first place.
That is if you ever get back out of your yoga pants and into something more appropriate.
One of my friends asked about my lack of enthusiasm about the whole thing. I am excited. It should all be fun. But I am tired. Exhausted. I passed out at 9:30 PM last night and slept straight through to the morning. All I want to do right now is fall back into my bed and take a nap. But I don't want to miss Shipley & Halmos. Or Costello Tagliapietra. Or the people I see at these events. Like the guy wearing an oversized tee with Michelle Obama's face on it and a kilt over skinny black jeans.
After you've spent weeks opening invites and trying to get PR people on the phone, it's easy to become disenchanted by the entire process. But once you get there, you remember why you did all of it in the first place.
That is if you ever get back out of your yoga pants and into something more appropriate.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Short Story
I got back to Brooklyn at 10:30 PM yesterday. Fashion Week starts tomorrow. And all I want to do is crawl back into bed. So until my head has become less cluttered, I give you a placeholder otherwise known as another thing I want for Springtime.
I'm not really a shorts person, but this longer pair is perfect for me. The deep navy can be a backdrop for almost anything. And I need something to balance out the 12 skirts in various pastels and florals littered throughout my closet. Something I can just throw on without much thought.
Photo via
I'm not really a shorts person, but this longer pair is perfect for me. The deep navy can be a backdrop for almost anything. And I need something to balance out the 12 skirts in various pastels and florals littered throughout my closet. Something I can just throw on without much thought.
Photo via
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