caliguluxe

Posh geometry, ancient luxury, Grecian excess, Italian glamour... I'm back bitch!!!!!!!!!!! Been waiting since the fall of Rome to debut this Vertigo Paris blazer my mom scored while voyaging for vintage. So... besides Caesar's Palace, where have I been for the past month?? I'm not really sure either. But like the Greeks, I've left behind a lengthy written record of my indulgent exploits. I recently traveled to Newport Beach on a complete and utter whim, and before that spent my birthday weekend in San Francisco. I flirted with the Las Vegas 'party scene' for several weeks, but like most great moments in history, that too was just a conquest. For a minute I was even rich! I purchased many satin gowns, colonial undergarments, Pepsi max and a portable notebook 'for my opinions.' My little empire thrived. My little empire fell. Now I find myself alone in history... wealthy with experience, impoverished in resource. A carnal Collosseum, crumbling, atrophied, all the while resilient in my charming torpor. Not photographed: the unforgiving violence of time.



Forever 21 hat, Chanel earrings + bangle, Vertigo Paris blazer, OASAP geometric print skirt, vintage Chanel chain belt, Burberry bag, Missguided heels

Everything is infinite,

Bebe

cuff to the chase

I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever revisit these blog posts and refer to them as diary entries. The thought alone has sparked some anxiety that I'm not being forthcoming enough in my copy... I'm talking too much about peripheral details -- weather, vague emotional patterns, the act of blogging itself. Maybe I keep so much hidden because there truly isn't much to reveal. Unlike most people my age I'm both unemployed and not actively seeking a job (or a career for that matter). Even more uncharacteristically, my social life... simply isn't one. If I have to talk to another person, it's either by text or email or social media, on the elevator, in the lobby while making coffee, at the concierge desk asking for packages, while purchasing a pepsi max at the gas station next door, while greeting the bellmen, engineers, valet drivers and janitorial staff on my way in or out of the condo I now consider a safe marble cave. I'm Rapunzel in my prison tower, except I have hair extensions and Stockholm Syndrome. I choose this life. I invite no prince. Despite perversely loving my electively doorless cell, it's difficult to find pleasure anywhere. Music doesn't sound as good as it used to. Movies make me impatient. Narratives delivered through any artistic medium feel superfluous as I'm already surrounded by them by virtue of using language. So I'm frustrated. And distrustful. All in all I guess if I were to treat this blog as an honest diary to accompany my honest images, the only events I'd have to describe are my feelings. Sooooo...

Dear Diary, I like this outfit.




Zara hat, Vionnet fringe scarf, Member's Only jacket, Missguided leather top, J Brand leather cuff jeans, Etro bag

(Thank you for the lovely pics, Mama!)

Everything is infinite,

Bebe Zeva 

spring persueded

Paisley. Velvet. Suede. Spring. Spring. By the look and feel of things, this season won't be any peppier than the others (which is not at all if you're me). But I'm hoping that great weather will bring greater incentives to walk outside and soak up some vitamin D for an extra 'happy kick' here and there. Maybe this time of year will change me in more ways than sun exposure... after all I am turning 22 in May (the 7th to be exact, just in case any of you wonderful people are considering throwing me a *surprise birthday party* wink wink). I don't really know how to go about processing my age because it doesn't match my lifestyle or attitude or expectation. As a kid, the '20s' seemed pretty old, sophisticated, fun, sexy. I imagined myself in a maxi skirt attending college in Boston, already working on my second or third novel in the courtyard grass. I thought I'd already be published, well-known, independent enough to live in a dorm room, disciplined enough to even get into an ivy league at all. Instead I'm wearing yoga pants, living with my mom, bitter about my academic failure and nowhere near publishing anything except this blog post. My net worth is even identical to what it was in sixth grade when my only expenses were Starburst and Orbit gum. I know life is full of surprises but I didn't realize they'd all be this... unflattering. My only solace, my constant respite, is clothes. They make me feel good about myself even when my track record doesn't.

My mom and I arranged this outfit together. I find that including my mom in the process of arranging a look, choosing complementary locations, and photographing the whole shabang is SO much more gratifying than riding solo. I might be bossy but lord knows I could use a reality check every once in a while from mama-knows-best. ;)



Romwe sunglasses, Etro paisley and velvet scarf, vintage turtleneck and suede miniskirt, Jimmy Choo Rhea purse, Missguided platform boots

Everything is infinite,

Bebe Zeva

avant garden

This look is hazy and pastel, glazed in a milky winter dew reflecting spring hints in bulbs of morning condensation. The synesthete in me distinctly tastes 7 AM in shades of lavender and makes me wish I had woken up even earlier today. Can't understand why I feel so disappointed thinking of the approaching noon. Maybe it's that there's no mystique in moments of clarity.

Hard to believe my mom snapped these shots but I better get used to it -- she's becoming très professional behind the lens, and even gung ho about driving to special locations for more unique backdrops. That's something I'll never take for granted; I'm used to settling for a white wall. ;)




MeeMee pastel fluff bomb knitted jacket, OASAP jersey top + floral pants, Missguided heels

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

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

glamour kills day five: rock stud

I know the title "rock stud" has already been squatted by Valentino and respectively dispersed by upper echelon fashion bloggers, but how else can I describe my look? I'm a stud. Who rocks. I'm a rocker who wears studs. My pants are studded. My shirt is rockin'. I see no problem here. This top is identical to the mint mischief muscle tee I posted on day two -- but this time in a more slimming color (or lack thereof). Glamour Kills affords the opportunity to order two or three of any shirt in varying styles/colors/graphics and work it into your closet's staple section. So I got two tees, diff colors, diff days. Same hot rod rock stud. 

My pantalones are perfecto for a minimal black and white theme. Remember the Tantra faux leather shorts I blogged about last month in Plaid To The Bone? Well these bad boys are blood related -- they both hail from my favorite jeansmith Cult of Individuality. This pair is called the "Teaser Skinny" and retails for $150. That's the minimum I would spend on a pair of pants! Any less and you're dealing with some brokeback disposable denim. 

This outfit will propel me through September, October, November and onward... so long as I throw on some quality leather and maybe a pair of spiked earmuffs. You don't even want to know what kind of craziness exists in my fantasy winter collection. 

And with a resounding THANK YOU GLAMOUR KILLS I conclude this week of cute tops and summer-fall-winter transition wear! Tune back in on Monday for the new new.



Glamour Kills black mischief muscle tee, Cult of Individuality Teaser Skinny jeans in white, Missguided heels, ZeroUV sunnies

Everything is infinite,

Bebe