rebbe without a cause

I originally wanted to debut this look on a Friday since it's obvi Shabbat appropriate, but it was just too hard to keep my little pun hidden from the public like an esoteric Kabbalah prophecy. I'm proud. Of my Judaism and wordplay and chiffon harem pants. And tragically impractical skill at nailing the punk-rock-Rebbetzin hybrid aesthetic with a wide-brim hat, plaid checks, and Hebrew letter sweater clip. By the way -- those little shiny symbols that look like Pi followed by a curvy apostrophe? They spell the word "Chai" (nope, not a tea latte) which means life. Now ya know why we say "L'Chaim," to life, after clinking glasses of spiked grape juice (otherwise known as Manischewitz).

Not sure that I do or don't have a cause, although I am almost positive the green contacts I'm wearing in these photos afford me the semblance of a shiksa in costume. Or maybe my dysphoria is triggered by the fact that I actually look more Ashkenazi than ever... it's been a long month, bear with me people.

I've been sick on and off since the beginning of this year and it's taken a pretty major toll on my 'chai' outlook. You'd think I'd feel more grateful for those peaceful days in between agony and weakness, but strangely they leave me wondering what's the point of even waiting for them at all. The truth about these green contacts is that the last time I visited LA (nearly two months ago) they shriveled up in their travel case and were thrown away. Kinda like me. Exposed to air, immediately sucked dry of life and purpose, disposed by my own volition. Even more interesting and metaphorical is the nature of sickness -- sometimes it appears in foreign bodies that can be charged from the battlefield with artillery like antibiotics, antivirals. Other times, and more often than not at simultaneous times, that sickness appears in nebulous auras of chiaroscuro morbidity. An uncanniness in silhouette, safeguarded from any biologic weaponry through its infinitesimal form. No dimension, no parameters, just existence. Presence. Thereness. I'm resigned from waiting for days in between compromised states... I seek routines that feel like ripe momentums. Anybody can experience the weightless thrill between jumping and landing. I've already had my turn with that fleeting moment - it's called "falling." When will it be my turn to experience that fleeting moment everyone else endearingly calls life? I can hear them already, reminding me that this actually is life, chai. A series of merciless thuds.

Not that there's anything worth toasting to, but maybe today I'll order a tea latte. 



Romwe leatherette jacket, Romwe checkered sweater, Romwe harem pants, Yes Style wedges, Spooky Eyes contacts, PinkBrix rings and chain necklace

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

drop out

Quick post today! Just showin' off my new v-neck jumper from Break Ice Trends. I layered it over a cropped Romwe blouse and pleated Missguided skirt. To me it looks like I'm wearing a collared dress under my sweater... and now I'm in frantic search of an actual collared dress to actually pair under sweaters. This could be a strong winter outfit motif. Wish there were clearer pics of my Chanel pendant but ~oh well~ I guess I'll just have to wear it again... poor me. 



Break Ice Trends sweater, Romwe blouse, Missguided Skirt, Yes Style platform shoes

Everything is infinite,

Bebe

for crying out loud

I feel like I might be the only blogger who discusses her struggles with finding an outfit photographer to call on consistently. My sister is usually the eye behind the lens, but since school has started again she's been too busy to snap my pic in the courtyard. So I've resorted to the unthinkable: asking my mom. She's a couple generations behind but so far peering into my SLR and pressing a button hasn't been too burdensome. She even took all these pics of me vogueing in palazzo pants! And I love how they turned out. It's never too late to learn the ropes -- any ropes. 

Anyway. This ensemble is what I wear when I ceremoniously cry for the haters. Keeps me grounded. Although you could say my third eye chakra is a touch overactive... 



OASAP third eye asymmetrical top, Yes Style palazzo pants, Daily Look heels

Everything is infinite,

Bebe

vogue boss

Yesterday's look was for sure my favorite outfit, but today's theme is my favorite aura. 1980s situationist slam poet, a tortured artist whose 'soul' complaints include the "the toxic breath of post-fordist capitalism" and a "labyrinthine secret order imprisoning my carnal unit." Favorite movies: Videodrome and The Lawnmower Man. Favorite musicians: Art of Noise, Biota. Favorite artists: Cindy Sherman and whoever is responsible for this youtube video. Favorite quote: "Never Work."

Might I ever be a "Vogue Boss" in an outfit this kitschy? Might I even desire to be a "Vogue Boss" if capable of an outfit this kitschy? I think I'm more inclined for a position as 'Adbusters Creative Director of Fashion Hacking.'

Jah bless to one of the ex bf's for this top, I am well aware that it's the greatest shirt you've ever seen and that I have good taste in suitors. They usually give me excellent clothing to reward me for being such a wonderful girlfriend before inevitably breaking up with me, blocking me, and sending me seething text messages during one of their cocaine comedowns in the ensuing months. Worthy trade-off!

Vogue Boss Slam Poet's parting Debordian cry:

"INCESSANT TECHNOLOGICAL RENEWAL, INTEGRATION OF STATE AND ECONOMY, GENERALIZED SECRECY, UNANSWERABLE LIES, AND ETERNAL PRESENT... OH, THE HORROR"

Vintage top, Romwe leggings, Yes Style beret and heels

Everything is infinite,

Bebe Zeva

get money

I don't understand bloggers who don't use their internet presences as platforms to vent about how much their life sucks. Maybe it's because I don't understand people whose LIVES DON'T SUCK... this blog is officially a forum for complaining, feel free to use the comment section below to shit talk yourself and others.

My sweater (as you can prob surmise) is a HILARIOUS JOKE considering I'm the brokest bitch you will ever virtually meet in your lifetime. Where do people get money? How are peeps even emotionally stable enough to handle a job? In addition to not understanding lifers, I do not understand rich people, working people, and the mentally healthy. Blogging multiple times a week is as much stability as you're gonna get from me. 




Romwe illuminati sweatshirt, Yes Style jeans, Daily Look heels

Everything is infinite NOOOOTTTTTTTT,

Bebe 

don't have a cow

Forget the misleading title -- I am not a reasonable, rational person. I am a histrionic cry baby drama queen who most definitely does 'have cows' or whatever when shit starts to get real. I don't genuinely believe in karma but I must have done something seriously messed up within the past several weeks to deserve the INSANE amount of curveballs life has been throwing mercilessly in my direction... but what?? Maybe the universe is trying to whip me into shape, and by forcing me to confront (literally) painful situations I'm learning, developing into an adult, becoming a responsible and discerning woman, etc. ALL THAT GOOD STUFF. 'Growing up' has been oddly concentrated into one year of my life so far, that year being this one, 2014, my good old 21st anniversary on woeful planet Earth.

At the end of the day, after I've cried out every last milliliter of tears, I realize that at least I still have my sense of style. I constantly reference taste as an alternative currency because I firmly believe that it is valuable in ways money isn't. Even if you're flat broke and sifting through bargain bins, it's your vision and ability to artfully arrange that renders you stylish - NOT the amount of money you're privileged enough to spend on frivolity. The tougher life gets, the more passionately I appreciate my tastes because no matter what they cannot be taken away from me. 

Now. Onto the real cow print elephant in the room - I'm wearing like 4 acrylic nails total in these pics, that's how hardcore my life is. K bye.



6ks cow print blouse, Rings & Tings necklace, Retro City sunglasses, Yes Style beret and slacks


Everything is infinite,

Bebe Zeva

afterlifer

I suspect that me wearing this mesh gradient top (c/o Tunnel Vision -- who else is as skilled at curating vintage but Madeline and her team?) borderlines cultural appropriation... but then a part of me cringes at the insinuation that a fractal pattern is uniquely a sacred social signifier and not a shared mathematical property that white people, save for ironic paisley bandannas, have yet to insult with their vulgar tendency to conflate with unrelated tropes in cop-out postmodern theatrics.

*camera pans to reveal the lower half of my outfit* Considering my historically accurate entitlement to pair the shirt's almost objectively religious print with the irreverence of paint-splattered sweatpants (in this context playing the starring role of 1980s art-is-dead revival bravado), I am everything that I hate and criticize in this world.

But! But! But no -- no buts. No rationalizing. I am an accurate portrait of fashion's reckless spiral into disrespect for Aura. Let's face it, the tremendous obligation to honor something special interferes with corporate culture's trajectory towards cashing in on Everything Ever. 

Surely someone will appreciate me... the pretentious dixie cup genie of blogspot.



Holes eyewear, Tunnel Vision vintage mesh gradient fractal top, Yes Style splatter paint harem pants, Missguided heels 

Everything is blah blah whatever,

Bebe