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
I was never on any sports leagues growing up and usually sat out of group activities in gym class, preferring to take a zero than one for the team. But for that I consider myself an athlete. See, I'm an olympian loner. I train all year for tournaments that no one knows exist because they don't. And I always come in first place. Isolation, solitude, withdrawal, social indifference... they're not games so much as they are tests of strength. They measure all the same qualities a traditional sport would: willpower, determination, passion, and for all intents and purposes cooperation - because who's to say the Self is one agent and not many working for and against each other at the same time? I don't need teammates to prove that I can make compromises or set up a winning play. For that I have states of mind; sovereign and nebulous, simultaneous and independent. In most cases I don't even play for the same team during the same competition... I play for both, all three, every and none at all. No hoops or hurdles necessary, no bridles, no bats, no balls. Only a court -- the one I inevitably take with me, that inevitably takes me with it. I don't really have a choice when it comes to participation. My only goal is to come out a champion -- by not ever coming out at all.
Forever 21 hat, Etro scarf, Sugarlips blouse, equestrian riding pants, Gucci pumps, Lanvin purse
Everything is infinite,
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
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
