Anyone else hurtin for a makeover? Every once in a while I feel thrown into an intermediate phase (even though every moment belongs to a phase that is impossibly intermediate) and flounder in the insincerity of the 'aesthetic' with which I am currently, accidentally, shamefully associated. Times like these illustrate the self-automating nature of the 'aesthetic' and its role on the internet; I don't need to actively perform it every individual instance I get online. It is already in motion, working in real time to constitute the overall photograph of my 'brand.' My eyes don't have to be processing 'instagram' as information for me to be on instagram. Someone else is looking at my profile when I'm not, and the still lives I upload dance for them without my enthusiastic participation but certainly with my permission. What makes me most insecure is that permission is not static -- it is dynamic and animate. I permit every second I allow images of me to remain, I permit every second I allow my profile to exist without intervention. I authorize the disingenuous aesthetic associated with my online identity by simply not putting a stop to it. So even though I'm not on instagram right now uploading a photo I don't like that much, the crisis is the same... people are still processing the information already present, judging me accordingly, coloring me in with the hues I provide because I don't put them away. I hate that I allow this to go on... more, I hate that I don't overwrite it with material I do enjoy instead.
This outfit reminds me of a Dior campaign... modish, feminine, bridal but young and rebellious. I fashioned the headwrap out of a pink sheath and flower pin then paired it with earrings from 2001 that actually look like they're from 1960s. Lately I've been pushing myself to explore more DIY approaches to accessorizing... picking out a floppy hat and sunglasses isn't creative enough anymore. Pairing a brooch with a sheet of fabric and tying it together with matching jewelry and lipstick feels so much more rewarding when the result is something as seamless and recognizable as this. The flower girl grows up and gets married... she's in a perfume advertisement, she's bohemian but sponsored...
Chicwish dress, Valentino bag, Dailylook heels
Everything is infinite,
Bebe
Hyperindustrial city livin' sure has made me a fan of garden motifs. Not because the Bellagio observatory renewed in me the sense of botanical wonder that slowly faded as I inched farther and farther from my New England homebase, but because in principle one always wants what they can't have. And I can't have plants. Okay, the occasional cactus and evening primrose on the rare chance that I'm driving through the desert. But besides that it's just artificially planted palm trees and potted shrub shit lining hotel walkways. So I compensate with flower-shaped Valentino purses, bejeweled Lanvin necklaces and vintage brooches in shades of jade and ruby. Paired with Ralph Lauren Rugby plaid, a floral halter and Armani blazer, I appear on the carefully pruned terrace a scholar of botany... vesting faith in the existence of chloroplasts and vascular stem tissues. Just philosophical axioms to me, a stranger to nature in this barren parking garage we call an entertainment capital.
Kidding -- put everything I said except "Valentino," "Lanvin," "Armani" and "Ralph Lauren" under erasure. GOTTA GO.
Lanvin necklace, Plein Sud halter top, Armani blazer, Ralph Lauren skirt and heels, Valentino bag
Sous rature,
Bebe Zeva
