me myself and eye

I think I've crossed a threshold in my blogging experience wherein I no longer expect anything to come out of my content creation. When I started out, there was a purpose: to get people's attention. And once I had their attention, another purpose emerged: to monetize my popularity. I was successful in my pursuits, but only for so long. While many bloggers were and are able to maintain their rate of production and profits, I am not one of them. I attribute this to my own failure to put money into my blog: I never paid a web developer to design me a more sophisticated layout, I never bought my own domain, I never traveled to New York for fashion week, I never hired a photographer to take my pictures. I remained "DIY" at the expense of my potential to thrive. Like anyone who missed the boat on an incredible opportunity to build an empire out of their access, I have my share of regrets. I could have translated "Fated To Be Hated" into a commercial endeavor generating enough ad revenue and collaboration fees to constitute a salary. I could have even set more modest goals, like aiming for a cool $1000/month. But not even that came into fruition. Nonetheless, for 99% of the time my blog has existed, I have been able to at least exchange sponsored garments for cash. The other 1% of the time includes the first couple months of my blog's existence -- and now. 

I hope that my blog's commercial failure is a creative blessing in disguise. I have only the clothes I started out with left (yes, the same pieces you saw in 2010) which means I must tap into a place of complete sincerity. There are no sponsors to appease and there are no liabilities. I have absolutely nothing to lose. And I am not obligated to blog about things I don't genuinely like just because I can flip them for ten bucks on eBay. 

Hopefully this is the beginning of a new life for me and my platform. A fresh opportunity for me to create, for free, with as much expressive recklessness as I see fit. I have no expectations of monetization -- and that's liberating, not a disappointment. All the labor I put into this blog must satisfy ME, because no gratification will come from anticipating validation or payment from others. I am untethered to everything but my Desire.



80s Purple mirrored shades, Romwe sequin eye sweater & blouse, vintage Minnie Mouse jorts from The Dog Show, Under Construction platform boots c/o Echo Club House, Pink Brix Kelly skull earrings + Coco ring

Everything is infinite,

Bebe

rosetta stoned

In my five years of writing a whole lot about absolutely nothing, I've discovered that it is really easy to like things. A fashion blogger's default emotion is 'loading justification..." -- She is always generating a reason to like something she owns or sees or is offered. And generating a reason to dislike something she can't have. And then when she has it, she generates a reason why she was wrong, another reason why she likes it now, another reason why you should want it too. 

Fashion blogging has never been about sustainability: it blossom/s/ed from the novelty of apparel, not the usefulness of it. But given the technocentrism of the past several decades, "aesthetic delight" is not a good enough reason to fund an endeavor with labor and time. An urgency to imbue 'the love of things' with practical meaning surfaced and consequently, liking anything has become a performance with purpose: a gallant charade to foreshadow necessary identity. Liking things is an exercise in the creation of the self. It is the motion of "style."

While affirming the self and strengthening a sense of personal power, "style" also engenders a motivation to justify. Because we socially agree that our style is a picture of us, we internalize that it is about us. And we are driven to explain every choice (this hat over that headband, these heels instead of those flats) because we want each outfit to seem like it accurately describes our selfhood. The trouble is, we don't actually get to choose our style. Capitalism does. So we end up devising extremely personalized, qualic reasons for purchases and outfits and makeup routines after the decision has already been made for us. Everything happens afterwards. And it happens in defense of an invisible economic force.

The fashion blog is a platform for these justifications. It soothes the author, who is better able to veil her material exploitation in the rhetoric of "I'm just doing my job," and it soothes the consumer, who is able to use whatever reasons generated by the author for the service of rationalizing her own surfeit desires. But perhaps the most potent function of a fashion blog is its propagation of the idea that style is "purpose-serving." Utility, or at least the image of it, transforms frivolity into function. We conclude that fashion must be practical. It must communicate a message. Otherwise... it's a vain mess of ego and resource deprivation. Or better, or worse. 

The problem with framing style as "purpose-serving" is the possibility that we might include material self-expression in our constitution of subsistence. Material self-expression has nothing to do with subsistence. It is a luxury. Yes, it serves a purpose. But not a purpose that pertains at all to maintaining survival. We tend to reference utility to prevent the threat of deprivation. The more you need something, the easier it is to persuade someone out of taking it away. So by describing material style as a useful tool, our excess is protected under the clause of pragmatism. And as we all know, pragmatism and love of beauty are what make humans civilized. Material style is very well guarded by the rhetoric of postindustrialism, and consequently... all the ugliness that accompanies excess is insulated. 

There's a downside to the admission that style is frivolous, too. But I've already filled up half the page with my errant drivel and accomplished what I set out to do: appear to justify blogging about my outfit by including useful thoughts. HA.




Choies mod moto jacket, Yes Style harem pants, Missguided canvas sneakers

Everything is infinite,

Bebe

midi class

When I first caught glimpse of Alice Dellal's "boy" campaign for Chanel in 2012, my heart raced with the adrenaline of championship. It was a victory for punks of the affirmation-seeking genealogy, a home run in the department of respectful nods from arguably the most important fashion house of all time. No longer could one claim that ripped fishnets and semi buzzcuts were "un-Chanel" err tacky. The look was officially stamped with the seal of Wintour excellence. Rejoice! 

Of course, I wasn't actually one of those 'punks.' *My* sense of triumph stemmed from a smug eagerness to see counterculture imitated, insured by the approval of a militantly elitist white man, and sold back to the suckers who resolved to align themselves with resistance but defaulted to the flattery of seeing themselves reflected in the glossy pages of a magazine. It was both "in yo face!" for the hipsters who needed their style copied and repackaged before believing it was worth something, and "told you so!" for me. Yes, your undercut is 'high fashion.' So are your fingerless gloves, shredded tights, combat boots and smudged eyeliner. Because everything threatening, everything representative of revolt, everything suggestive of resistance is high fashion eventually. You get to see a Brazilian model who looks like you dazzled in Coco accolades, I get to see my economic prediction proven correct in 3...2...

Fast forward three years and grunge-en-vogue is still a formidable composition. For my look, I coupled a Romwe midi skirt with a mesh top I cropped myself. Since futuristic sneakers remain avant footwear for 2014, these secondhand boots might not make any seasonal appearances on the catwalk. But they're made for pounding pavement anyway. (Un)Fortunately at this rate of creative exchange, tastemakers might usher in an era of  sidewalk runways to replace traditional elevated platforms. Be warned: they know where to find our level. Down here. Gravity takes care of the rest. 



Chanel pendant, bangle, and earrings, Yes Style crop top, Romwe midi skirt, PinkBrix ring


Everything is infinite,

Bebe

ed hardly

I reeeeeally want to be truthfully able to say "overalls are my new thing," but I'm sure 'new thing' suggests 'worn more than twice.' In my heart, I am committed to overalls. Long ones. Baggy. Unflattering. Approved by a farmer. Although I only own a humble four pairs, they've somehow managed to monopolize my head space. They're the first article I look for when browsing shops online. They're tempting to wear to high brow production meetings when a fitted blazer is more appropriate. And dammit they comfortably embrace my entire body like a medium wash denim diaper. Like the onesie, they save me from having to select a top AND pants. When your top already *is* your pants, the time you'd otherwise spend inside your closet can be practically devoted to the more important things in life. Like herding cattle and farming.

But unlike my prudently dressed pastoral pals, I've got a penchant for luxury and couldn't resist glamming up. Combined with pumps and chunky Chanel earrings, my overalls leave no doubt that I'm a city slicker in disguise. But I own it. For Pete's sake I'm even wearing a rhinestone embossed Ed Hardy racing jacket.

You can thank Echo Club House (formerly Swaychic) for blessing the public with this look -- I'm holding down the fort in the Linebacker Bra, Cosby Sweater Snapback, and Gare Du Nord overalls. Check out their new site, show them some new love, support them by getting ya hands on some new goodies! At the very least, follow them on insta for 00s inspo.

Outfit c/o Echo Club House

Everything is infinite,

Bebe

cotton candid

Oh how I yearn for the days of not getting my ass kicked. I'm talking about the weather, not the fact that I'm a bully's pipsqueak dream victim. Every time I leave the house I get assaulted by 1) perfectly tolerable winter temperatures that feel like summer to Minnesotans but hell frozen over to me 2) extremely RUDE wind currents that have absolutely no respect for my hairstyle. So I'm left longing for the days of tie-dye tank dresses and frivolous faux fur... ya know. Back when your life didn't literally depend on your vestiary armor. 

This pastel power combo features a hippie dippie Romwe tank and platform boots from Echo Club House (formerly Swaychic). Matched le transparent pink Claire's purse to le transparent pink cap and called it macaroni.




Romwe rainbow print dress, Daily Look coat, 24 HRS snapback, Cobrashop aviators, Echo Club House "Under Construction" boots

Everything is infinite,

Bebe

knit that kinda girl

Since cutting monosodium glutamate out of my diet (well, at least before bed), fewer nightmares have interrupted my precious beauty sleep. If you didn't already know -- MSG, a popular flavor enhancer used in processed foods, is an excitotoxin that overstimulates and exhausts neuron receptors in the brain. Despite my intimate knowledge of what havoc it can wreak on the life of a sensitive binge eater like me, I have yet to swear off the terrifying little devil entirely. Nontheless I knew I had to make a drastic holistic change after one particularly heinous dream slapped the fear of God into my cheeto-inhaling, monster-imbibing self. In this hell circle of my slumbering subconscious, I accidentally traded a prized pair of knit yellow shorts for a crew neck t-shirt. I don't know how it happened or what tricks Criss Mossimo Xhilaration Angel played on me to swindle me out of such a beloved garment, especially in exchange for something so average and ghastly. All I know is that I woke up in a cold sweat and immediately sorted through each and every dresser drawer to quell my nocturnal panic. So. No more "flamin hot" flavor for me. 

The good that came out of my night terror was a renewed appreciation for these shorts, which are actually one half of a sweater set from OASAP that I will debut 'in whole' eventually. It might take me a nightmare about accidentally donating the matching sweater to Goodwill before I quit taking that too for granted. ;-))) In the meantime, this Romwe knit number whets my whistle. 



Romwe sunglasses and sweater, OASAP shorts, YES "Pound" platform sandal, Rebecca Minkoff purse


Everything is infinite,

Bebe Zeva

gallerina

Before Lagerfeld's iconic SS14 collection starring technicolor smock dresses and art supplies-as-accessories, few fashionistas would have equated the primary kitsch of printed paint palettes with couture as quality as Chanel (well, except for a brazen few of us). "High art" became en vogue all over again this past year, and with festivals like exclusive Art Basel replacing inclusive Coachella, it won't be long before that culture, too, is subsumed by mainstream attention and interest. Jk that is definitely already happening and I'm modestly pretending to live under a rock.

A year ago, I probably would have resented the Chanel collection for "appropriating" from an aesthetic that suggests liberation from currency. But this year, I hate "art culture." I revel in its aesthetic appropriation, its commercial flattening, its manipulation through association with new signifiers. I want it gone, or at least reduced to apparel where it can go out of style again. It is a culture of legitimizing institutions (schools, agencies, galleries), appraisal of beauty with paper and plastic, possession and materialism, distance from humility. It isn't something to defend or preserve. It's something to translate into commodities: obsolescence. 

Surely I am the only person alive paying sartorial homage to 'high art' because it feels like a passive aggressive goodbye.



Break Ice Trends plaid blazer, Romwe paint palette top, Yes Style harem capris, Persunmall heels, Chanel Privee collection framed flap bag, Chanel earrings + bangle

Happy 2015, friends!!!!! I'm gaining my momentum back... one season at a time.

Everything is infinite,

Bebe