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
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
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
I know, amazing pun. We all know I'm not a patriot so I supplanted the red for shred. Enter my spankin' new boyfriend jeans and oversize blue flannel from Break Ice Trends. I originally intended to couple these pants with suede heels and a leather clutch purse, but on the way to the shooting location with my photographer I donned a pair of beat up white Keds for comfort. Then I saw my reflection in a mirror passing by and realized this, this walking from one place to the next, is the real subject of my vision as a blogger. The candid moments, not the staged glamour. So here's a real outfit for a real mission.
Cobrashop Bug-a-Boo shades, Diesel leather jacket, American Apparel crop top, Break Ice Trends flannel blouse and boyfriend jeans, Pro Keds
Everything is infinite,
Bebe
I've long time needed a pair of faux leather shorts like these to expedite the process of picking out an outfit. It's not like I value efficiency when it comes to fashion... we all know I prefer the impractical and consider functionality a detriment to creative potential. But when it comes down to me standing in the center of my closet, depressed stressed and pressed for time, I don't want to be thinking about what political statement I can make with my options. I just want a soft pair of shorts to slip into (and out of, if I just so happen to get lucky that day). And I want my brain to shut up for five seconds so I can live my life without feeling guilty for looking good according to 'normal people standards.' Fortunately, these shorts don't make me feel like I'm compromising my soul for comfort. Maybe it's because the brand is called "Cult of Individuality." I'm an individual no matter how wonderfully practical my outfit is.
Everything is infinite,
Bebe
Hi, did I ask for your opinion? No? Then why are you condescending to me with your unsolicited advice? Do you honestly believe that I am incapable of making my own decisions? If so, please kindly turn around kiss my ass to compensate for your disrespect, because the insinuation that I need your moral direction, as if my own won't suffice, is capital "D" Disrespectful. By the way, my aesthetic discretion -- you know, the sartorial and cosmetic choices I make for myself, for my own body, to represent myself the way my BRAIN sees fit -- is not a THREAT TO YOUR PEACE OF MIND. If I wanna draw my eyebrows on HUGE, that is my prerogative And it is immune from your interference. No matter how many times you try to shame me with your biased rhetoric (oh you know, appeals to the Western beauty standard... as if I give a shit about what society has decided is most beautiful, as if I give a shit that constructed manifests of 'natural beauty' are valued higher than 'outrageous' [innocuous] cosmetic displays) I will *not* surrender to the idea that I should change MY makeup routine to suit YOUR cowardly preferences. The preferences that were decided for you by the media. Some of you believe that I wear makeup to seem more attractive to other people -- that's not the case. I wear makeup to exercise agency over my FACE, which I did not choose. A series of DNA and a punnet square decided my face for me, and if that's the first thing you're going to look at when you see me, I should so hope that you are actually seeing some representation of my *personhood*, not my GENE POOL. Swiping two bold brunette stripes over where my natural eyebrows would otherwise be is a rather humble exercise of my ENTITLEMENT TO CHOOSE. Don't like it? Don't look.
Think.
For.
Yourself.
FROM TOP TO BOTTOM:
On a much more positive note, I'm sporting a pair of Burnetie high-tops today! While reading the company's bio, I was stoked to found that Burnetie totes 'corporate responsibility' as a priority in their manufacturing process. And they care enough about reducing waste and protecting the environment to create sneakers out of vulcanized rubber. Gives me hope in the world. Heh. Hope that inspires anyone who's been feeling disillusioned by business lately... there are kindred souls in the industry after all. ;)
Speaking of kindred souls... HELLOOOO PETALS AND PEACOCKS. Y'all kind of really freakin' rule. "BONE ME" t-shirt? Are you for real? Waving BYE to all my other lame tank tops that think they can compete with this one. Stay clever. For everyone else: let's all make an honest effort to keep up with their wit. PEEP DA SITE.
Everything is infinite,
Bebe Zeva
