I watched the Marc Jacobs show much as I have so many shows during the past two major seasons. With my computer on my lap and some sort of snack at my side. After the show, as I began to read all of the various commentary people typed out from their seats, there were definite patterns. Numerous decades were thrown around. The 1940s girl. The 1950s girl. The 1970s girl. Oh, and this girl was being taken on a trip. To the brothel. To the sex shop. To the future.
Nothing changed as of this morning. People's thoughts were everywhere and nowhere at once, trying to grasp exactly what they had seen the night before.
In a long ago college English class, another student complained about the fact that we could never just enjoy the books that we read. That we were muddying up the text by spending so much time discussing the author's voice or whatever else it was that we spouted to make ourselves sound smart.
There are, of course, times and places for that type of analysis. I am not immune and often feel the need to parse and define on sight. But I should spend more time letting the beauty of certain things remain undefinable.
Even if I can only stand to do it for a moment.
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