Three o' clock blues

This post has nothing to do with B.B. King's song, except for the fact that the color spectrum for this post would be blue, because it is inspired by the blue sea and some other blueish antics. But before I jump headlong into the sapphire mess I'd like to share a revelation (or rather, a self-revelation, because more than half of humanity had probably already came to the conclusion during the Jurassic Ages, made a little post-it of it and moved on) that I have come to while reading the Americana series of Archie comics, "Best of the Sixties". As the blurb put it, the book encourages its readers to "encounter mod fashions fresh off the racks! Rev up your engines for drag racing fun and laugh again at the antics of America's #1 teenagers!"And I was doing just that, except that one disturbing thought remained plastered in my head- in fact its been circling it like a housefly for quite some time and wouldn't go away. I was bothered by the conflict between time -or compartments of time as we like to label them "past", "present", "future" or the decades and centuries, whichever- and fashion, as well as more broadly, personal identity or identity of teenagers as a whole. (Teenagers, because as much as I'd used to persevere in my belief of what one might call the "ageless youth" and the everlasting adaptability and l'overture d'esprit of the older generation, I've come to believe that teenagers have in fact been the ambassadors and societal catalysts for things good and bad throughout history, and are the cornerstones of the age they live in. Like in a certain Bob Dylan song.) 


I realize I did up a reflection on the fashion aspect a month back, and I wrote: 

Somehow in fashion there's an especial stigma that clings onto anything too old and too new; if one wishes to pay tribute to the past, present or future one must be aware of the inter-relationship it shares with the other two and just about everything in between. And anything done in a vacuum or out of a continuum is perceived to have been off-tangent, and one gets the sense that something is wrong. Also, there seems to be some inexplicable code of rule in fashion which says that the works and its medium of presentation has to reflect what goes on in contemporary times, whether the world at large or within oneself, an agent of modern times (Anna Wintour stressed in the David Letterman show that fashion does its part as a documentation and commentary of contemporary times, referring to how the runway was dominated by military themes when wars were raging on in the world.)

And because I am an avid Rookie fan (as you may have already begun to gather from how I always give it permission to sneak into my posts), and because the tone of Rookie echoes the past, and at the same time is tailored to teenage girls and speaks about seemingly universal qualities of girlhood experience, below that wonderful fuzzy feeling of being identified with and being inspired (which I think is a very important thing, and applaud Tavi and her gang for making so many beautiful connections to girls around the world), I begun to feel dismayed, just a little bit, at how there is a cap to the human condition and experience. No matter how history books have managed to characterize each era there is a cyclical pattern to all of them, even among the teen-led revolutions, which always seem to bring in gusts of freshness to whenever and wherever they were held. Suddenly that ... human nature? (O boring Shakespearean term)... which interprets humanity's experience seemed to me to have limited the color of the human experience, and led people like Aaron Rose to declare with fervor that:

The early 21st Century has not been allowed to develop a unique aesthetic because we are too busy bowing down to eras past. I think it’s time to kill our idols and change that.

And then I realized that I was being as stupid as the fashion critics, and fallen prey to that "stigma" I talked about in my earlier reflection -where every time-related reference had to be singled out and accounted for and not being 24/7 conscious of the interplay between the time compartments (for lack of a better term) was a terrible sin, an artistic crime. There may be the same intangible guidelines which are wired into humans' psyche and drive the course of history as we know it but art, that thing which somehow always leads back to a beauty of some sort, the additional layer of interpretation which so often yields so varied and diverse modes of expression, is what I should celebrate. My literature teacher told me that in every generation, the teenagers always assert that their's would be the first to remain as teenagers forever or the last to grow old -but they found different ways to express that. And that natural outgrowth of emotion we call art should be what I'm concerned about. 


But this isn't the point of my post today, and I feel the conclusion doesn't hold much potential for discussion and had probably been exhausted by many other confused teenagers long ago. So without further ado here's my list of blue inspirations: 


1. A shakespearean introduction

Artwork by John William Waterhouse

The excerpt is from Shakespeare's The Tempest- and this is probably one of the only instances where I have found his work interesting, and have bothered to poke and turn around in my head during dinner time. I spent 5 minutes trying to figure out what kind of font would do justice to the piece of poetry, and I think I've made the picture look like it popped out of some illustrated series of Shakespearean tales for children, which I guess isn't exactly that bad but it didn't fulfill my aesthetic vision of it. 

2. Let them eat Chanel, let them swim in Chanel

Images courtesy of style.com, vogue.co.uk

For Spring/Summer 2012, Karl married the visual concepts of two universes -the ocean and the galaxy- and the union, I felt, achieved the same sort of effect as when one admires coral reefs, supernovas or the Milky Way, stuff about Nature which behold such an inconceivable degree of perfection that we feel the beauty has in some way been engineered. This is the man-made equivalent -and response- to those magic tricks of Nature; not because the collection aimed to emulate them, but because like les oeuvres de Nature it was a seamless outgrowth of something bigger than itself -what they like to call "the handiwork of God" in the case of Nature and in the case of Karl, the sea and outer space. It wasn't entirely "sleek chic", neither did it only carry the intricacy of the corals -one sees the creation of a parallel universe, with motifs such as the seashell and the pearl establishing another connection with the extraterrestrial on top of their relationship with the ocean.

Images courtesy of vogue.co.uk

A fellow tumblr-er expressed her thoughts on Chanel Cruise 2013 in a single statement, "victorian anime mermaid army". Add Marie Antoinette, Alice in Wonderland, Enid Blyton and Meadham Kirchhoff to the list and you'd more or less have my take on the collection. But it wasn't entirely Meadham Kirchhoff, where the pair had always given themselves free rein with their creations. Though there was a significant expansion to that sense of freedom and nowness the voice of the Original Coco still reverberated through -at times, such as the camellia jewelry corsages, the merger worked out; at others, especially edging towards the end of the show the mosaic between the Chanel tradition and the inspiration which is supposed to be rooted in the very present and in every next moment produces an odd chimera. As Edward Meadham and Benjamin Kichhoff say, "we do not to have a signature but rather a handwriting. We like to tell stories in different ways", the House of Chanel has to let loose of the signature that has kept her identity an immaculately-mowed lawn and allow the camellias to envelope it freely. As we have seen in so many of the collections Karl has presented to us, and especially so in Cruise 2013, the seeds are already there.


3. 'Washed up' exhibit at Selfridges

Image the courtesy of stopdropandvogue.tumblr

The exhibit "celebrates fashion's creative debt to the ocean". Though I'm always happy to see art being mobilized as instruments of commentary and introspection of very real and pressing issues, in this case the sustainability of the ocean, sometimes I find the combination between a primarily self-centered form of creation (art) and an objective cause inclusive of the whole of humanity ironic. And as Homer of the Simpsons said in Season nine of the series, "singing is the lowest form of communication" -I haven't quite figured out what it means, because I believe it refers to more than just, say, the lyrics/melody/visual elements glossing over the gravity of the subject matter. I think the interaction between the audience and a piece of art which carries a message of such a nature is much more complex, because I believe the medium itself is fundamentally rooted in the concept of beauty, and that in itself is a dangerous thing. 

4. Chalayan Fall/Winter 2012

Images the courtesy of style.com

Be not afeared; the isle is full of noises 

Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. 

Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments 

Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices, 

That if I then had waked after long sleep, 

Will make me sleep again; then in dreaming, 

The clouds methought would open, and show riches 

Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked I cried to dream again

Shakespeare, The Tempest

5. Sea of sargasso

Unknown source; a picture that reminds me of the Sea of Sargasso

Since we are on the topic of seas I figure I shall give everyone a little bit of background on the name of my blog (should have come earlier, sorry for being rude). I first came cross the Sea of Sargasso while reading 'Moby-Duck: The True Story of 28,800 Bath Toys lost at Sea and of the Beachcombers, Oceanographers, Environmentalists, and Fools, Including the Author, Who Went in Search of Them' by Donovan Hohn. A little bit of geography: the Sea of Sargasso is the only 'sea' on Earth that does not possess shores, being located in the middle of the North Atlantic Ocean and 4 major current systems. Its romantic name, is derived from the seaweed Sargassum that floats en masse at the water's surface -in fact, because it is at the "eye" of all these current systems it is the calmest part of the ocean, and as a result the seaweed all end up being deposited here. 

Like all other kinds of natural landscapes with magical elements, in this case a fascinating ton of seaweed in the centre of a huge ocean, it has crept into popular culture and public imagination -depicted in literature and films as a place of mystery (the Bermudas are located on the western margin of the Sea of Sargasso, and they are another set of mysteries altogether). And I remember saying to myself "so Sargasso is where it all ends up" and it all made sense and seemed so terrifyingly beautiful to me at that time, that I made up my mind to name this blog after the sea. Like the Sargassum, this is where I hope to channel creative energy.

Bisous,

Rachel Wu

Mid-century Americana classic

Whoo I finally got down to stitching up this post, which would basically brim with nostalgia of 50's America, the aesthetic vibes and cars and escapades and old school spirit and headbands associated with it all. Except I'm not really interested in the resurrection of the era in its most authentic sense- nor am I bothered with "exploring the interpretation of the past through contemporary lens". I'd leave the former up to the Rookie tribe, and the latter to the multitudes of half-hearted stylists and editors and their lukewarm editorials which haven't quite mastered the art of the time machine, channeling the wrong vibes from either end, the very proof for the age of decadence for editorials- where they no longer protect the delicate balance between consumerism and inspiration and fashion as a visual art at its heart. What I mean to point out is that the vessels from which I chose to receive the era are all very modern, and that it's simply how everything has come together in my head from the moment I halted next to the window at Prada to reading a short story parterre in the living room.


1. Prada Spring/Summer 2012... Everything from the runway to commercial collection, static to video campaign to the 2012 Fantasy Lookbook

Video Campaign for Prada Spring/Summer 2012

Images the courtesy of fashionologie.com

Now isn't this vintage in every sense of the word, with the collages so frightfully tasteful, and the tone of the video campaign hitting just the right notes top down from the visuals to l'acoustique? It's Americana at its best, embellished with the quirk of Miuccia Prada- where car culture as it was celebrated during the economic boom of that time reincarnated in the form of vivid shoes and striking prints emblazoned on skirts, retro-style bandanas and sunglasses and everything topped off with a dash of three dimensionality in the intricate floral textures and jewelry. In other words I loved it, and the inspiration hasn't gotten old.

2. (Rad) editorials + lyrics + literature 

Hot to Trot, W Magazine February 2012

You taste like whiskey when you kiss me, oh I'd give anything again to be your baby doll This time I'm not leaving without you
You said sit back down where you belong In the corner of my bar with your high heels on Sit back down on the couch where we Made love the first time and you said to me this
Something, something about this place Something 'bout lonely nights and my lipstick on your face Something, something about my cool Nebraska guy Yeah something about, baby, 
you and I


You and I, Lady Gaga

Josephine by Mark Kean, Wonderland Magazine, April 2012

Darling, darling, doesn't have a problem Lying to herself cause her liquors top shelf 
She says you don't want to be like me Don't wanna see all the things I've seen I'm dying, I'm dying She says you don't want to get this way Famous, and dumb at an early age I'm lying, I'm lying
The boys, the girls, they all like Carmen She gives them butterflies, bats her cartoon eyes She laughs like god, her mind's like a diamond Audio tune lies, she's still shining Like lightning, light, like lightning
Carmen, Carmen, staying up til morning Only seventeen, but she walks the streets so mean 
She says you don't want to be like me Looking for fun, get me high for free I'm dying, I'm dying She says you don't want to get this way Street walking at night, and a star by day It's tiring, tiring


Carmen, Lana Del Rey

I think there are strong narratives running through these. Because you kinda wonder where these two girls are heading to, who they're waiting for, and where they are, who they are- and this fictionalizing soon wounds a thread through the images so that they become part of a running roll of film, and any kind of story just gives the apparel and the model a whole new dimension. There is interpretation involved, a development and evolution of ideas from what was originally presented on the runway, not simply an adaptation- and that's what I found special about the editorials.

Talkin' Bout Fictionalizin':

Image the courtesy of little-dancing-princess.tumblr

The beloved Betty Boop

He doesn't mind I have a Las Vegas past He doesn't mind I have an LA crass way about me He loves me with every beat of his cocaine heart
Swimming pool glimmering darling White bikini off with my red nail polish Watch me in the swimming pool bright blue ripples you Sitting sipping on your black Cristal Oh yeah
Light of my life, fire of my loins 
And I'm off to the races, cases of Bacardi chasers Chasing me all over town Cause he knows I'm wasted, facing Time again at Riker's Island and I won't get out Because I'm crazy, baby I need you to come here and save me I'm your little scarlet, starlet singing in the garden Kiss me on my open mouth Ready for you
My old man is a tough man but He's got a soul as sweet as blood red jam And he shows me, he knows me Every inch of my tar black soul 
Likes to watch me in the glass room bathroom, Chateau Marmont Slippin' on my red dress, puttin' on my makeup Glass film, perfume, cognac, lilac Fumes, says it feels like heaven to him
My old man is a thief and I'm gonna stay and pray with him 'til the end But I trust in the decision of the Lord to watch over us Take him when he may, if he may I'm not afraid to say that I'd die without him Who else is gonna put up with me this way? I need you, I breathe you, I never leave you They would rue the day I was alone without you You're lying with your gold chain on, cigar hanging from your lips I said "Hon' you never looked so beautiful as you do now, my man."


Off to the Races, Lana Del Rey

Image the courtesy of sophialorens.tumblr 

Marilyn Monroe

I think whether attention in the form of musing, portraiture, debating, re-enacting, sexualizing, quoting and fictionalizing- these women have definitely received their fair share of it, and will probably continue to have their plates full for a very long time. I mean for decades, every single coin of a secret, fact and mystery about them (and one doesn't even exist in person) has been flipped from head to tails millions of times- they've moved on from the silver screen to characters in comic books to collectibles that come together with a Happy Meal. So why this timeless stock female icon? What is it about and within them- and us- which feeds her ageless tale? 

Excerpts from Polka Dots and Moonbeams, by Jeffrey Ford

He came for her at seven in the Belvedere convertible, top down, emerald green, with those fins in the back, jutting up like goalposts. FRom her third-floor apartment windows, she saw him pull to the curb out front.
'Hey, Dex,' she called, 'where'd you get the submarine?"
He titled back his homburg and looked up. 'All hands on deck, baby,' he said, patting the white leather seat.
'Give me a minute,' she said, laughed, and then blew him a kiss. She walked across the blue braided rug of the parlor and into the small bathroom with the water-stained ceiling and cracked plaster. Standing before the mirror, she leaned in close to check her make-up- enough rouge and powder to repair the walls. Her eye shadow was peacock blue, her mascara indigo. She gave her girdle a quick adjustment through her dress, then smoothed the material and stepped back to take it all in. Wrapped in strapless black, with a design of small white polka dots, like stars in a perfect universe, she turned in profile and inhaled. "Good Christ,' she said and exhaled. Passing through the kitchenette, she lifted a silver flask from the scarred tabletop and shoved it into her handbag.
Her heels made a racket on the wooden steps, and she wobbled for balance just after the first landing. Pushing through the front door, she stepped out into the evening light and in the first cool breeze in what seemed an eternity. Dex was waiting for her at the curb, holding the passenger door open. As she approached, he tipped his hat and bent slight at the waist.
'Looking fine there, madam,' he said.
She stopped to kiss his cheek.

• ..

'It's been too long, Adeline,' he said.
'Hush now, sugar,' she told him. 'Let's not think about that. I want you to tell me where you're taking me tonight.'
'I'll take you where I can get you,' he said.
She slapped his shoulder.
'I want a few cocktails,' she said.
'Of course, baby, of course. I thought we'd head over to the Ice Garden, cut the rug, have a few, and then head out into the desert after midnight to watch the stars fall.'
'You're an ace,' she said and leaned forward to turn on the radio. A smoldering sax rendition of 'Every Time We Say Goodbye', like a ball of wax string unwinding, looped once around their necks and then blew away on the rushing wind.
She lit them each a cigarette as the car sailed on through the rising night. An armadillo scuttled through the beams of the headlights fifty yards ahead, and the aroma of sage vied with Adeline's orchid scent. Clamping his cigarettes between his lips, Dex put his free hand on her knee. She took it into her own, twining fingers with him. Then it was dark, the asphalt turning to dirt, and the moon rose slow as a bubble in honey above the distant silhouette of hills; a cosmic cream pie of a face, eyeing Adeline's décolletage. She leaned back into the seat, smiling, and closed her eyes.

• ..

'My dear, you tear my heart asunder When I look up your name and number Right there in that open book My flesh begins to cook It's all sweetness mixed with dread And then you close your legs around my head As I look up your name and number'

• ..

Dex got up and went to the car to turn the radio up. 'We're in luck,' he said, and the first notes of 'Polka Dots and Moonbeams' drifted out into the desert. He slowly swayed his way back to her, She smoothed her dress, adjusted her girdle, and put her arms around him, resting her chin on his shoulder. He held her around the waist and they turned slowly, wearily, to the music.
'So, we'll shoot craps?' she whispered.
'That's right,' he said.
Three slow turns later, Adeline said, 'Don't think I don't remember you've got that set of loaded dice.'
Dex put his head back and laughed, and, as if in response, at that very moment, the stars began to fall, streaking down through the night, trailing bright streamers. First a handful and then a hundred and then more let go of their hold on the firmament and leaped. Way off to the west, the first ones hit with a distant rumble and fireworks geysers of flame. More followed, far and near, and Dex and Adeline kissed amid the conflagration.
'Pick me up at seven,' she said, her bottom lip on his earlobe, and held him more tightly.
'I'll be there, baby,' he promised. 'I'll be there.'
With the accuracy of a bullet between the eyes, one of the million heavenly messengers screeched down upon them, a fireball the size of the Ice Garden. The explosion flipped the Belvedere into the air like a silver dollar and turned everything to dust.

American pop, British Vogue, March 2012

This was minimalism as far as the Americana trend permitted it to stretch.

Powder Play, American Vogue, March 2012

All images courtesy of models.com

And this was the interplay between the ultra-contemporary and the 50's put forth super sleek- at the same time expounding on the sweetly-inauthentic icy pastel color 

palette of the era and creating a sugar-coated cotton candy effect.

3. Self-portraits of Eleanor, Rookie Mag

Images the courtesy of rookiemag.com

4. Cuban cars

Image the courtesy of guardian.co.uk

When romanticism -nostalgia for a past where the automobile was the pet of society, a center of a universal dream and escapades of teenagers, and where Havana was hailed as the most fashionable city in the world- and poverty exist side by side, it's hard to make decisions. Definitely, Cuban car owners freed from the current law which dictates that they can only trade and sell cars that have existed on the road before Fidel Castro's regime would help them get newer and more efficient cars, and its expense at the country's status as a live museum (literally) would probably be worth it (for now), for its citizens to get a breath of fresh air from a market that has been closed off for too long. But then when we get our bowls full we begin to suffer again from first world nostalgia. For now I'll enjoy the pictures depicting good old Chevys rumbling down the street.

Minimalism

I figure I should start writing again, before bright red polka-dotted mushrooms begin to take over my brain. But before I churn out a new post, allow me to refer you to a short essay I completed some time ago, which is basically a rambling about minimalism as an aesthetic theory, only with a little bit more structure than is usual of my musings (backstage at listography, which really works well for me because of its user-friendly interface and neat organization). I am, of course, proud of it, because in some ways I think it marks a small little stepping stone in the pond of my writing, with an "academic voice" (as my teacher puts it) which gives me just enough space to sound serious and have serious fun at the same time.
---

The crux of minimalism is finding the right balance of visual elements that serves to attract and not distract. As such, it is often associated with a primitive color palette of monochrome or comprising colors with a minimal gradient range, sleek and blank surfaces and a contrast between two and three dimensions, or a general use of space. This gives a piece of minimalist work its characteristic visual quality of being bare and stripped to a skeletal necessity- a style that usually either evokes a sense of stark clarity in the viewer or is perceived by him or her to be elusive, sometimes incapable of meaning and conveying nothing but itself. At other times, the artist may create an acoustic space within the visuals. Upon stepping into this range one feels as in both a muted natural landscape with a subdued, almost pleasant musical quality, and in an infinite, formless space which amplifies all sound with increasing intensity.

As these visual elements still reach out to the observer, attempting to attune him or her to the core essence of the artwork, making minimalism synonymous with objectivity is not quite in the spirit of the concept as it devalues the interaction the artwork has with its audience. Taking off from here, the nature of minimalism is very much interdependent- it functions as a two-way relationship between the audience, the material and visual form of the artwork and the creative process behind its creation. Ultimately it establishes an intimacy between the audience and the artist himself, because the artwork is after all a manifestation of his artistic identity, and a medium through which both sides can connect.

Working with this framework, one would find that the expression of minimalism is diverse. Ornament need not function as its direct adversary- because an implicit understanding of the clockworks of excess is the key to the skillful handling of the reduction mechanism required in the practice of minimalism. In fact when both co-exist in a single piece of work it can be argued that the contrast works in favor minimalism, as the eye has a tendency to be drawn to absence in the midst of overwhelming presence. In any case both visual philosophies, though not necessarily opposite ends of the spectrum, have a potential to complement and enhance each other- because like many concepts that are perceived to share opposing polarities they are responses born out of each other, rendering them inherently intertwined. Minimalism deflates when its artist forgets to engage its counterpart.

Minimalism in fashion can be explored on two core tiers- namely individual garments, and their collective presentation as a body of work. In discrete garments minimalism usually takes shape in the form of a single, compelling focal point- whether the silhouette, tailoring, or a detail such as draping or a deliberate contrast in fabric. This focal point should be potent enough to permeate the overarching visual concept of the collection while at the same time retaining a sufficient degree of versatility to be explored and subsequently, evolve. In a collection, minimalism takes on a macro-scale, where it usually manifests in a strict homogeneity in color scheme, nature of fabric and sometimes silhouette. A good minimalist tale, like any other collection, should possess a clear chronology on the evolution of visual elements- while unlike any other collection the artist redirects majority of his aesthetic and conceptual awareness towards the focal point-in-question, such that it is the best representative of the artist’s mind, and the audience be able to track his stream of consciousness just by watching its development closely.

It is perhaps apt to end with a reflection on the value of minimalism. While many champions of minimalism have subscribed to its practice as their aesthetic compass aligns perfectly with its coordinates- there is a general acknowledgement of its status as an artistic challenge, because it calls for a highly selective refinement of visual elements and making room for a meeting space for both the heart and eye. Diverging from the field of visual arts, it may or may not be surprising to find out that the most passionate practitioners of minimalism are the very people around us- regardless of whether they apply it in their worldview, way of life or style. As the guinea pigs of a new age of excess, the naked and raw simplicity of minimalism would very well be perceived as the next most comforting alternative. u

Potpourri, piñata, hodgepodge, cauldron- collective nouns for not so collective things

I believe a rather formidable gulf exists between your inner core- what I like to call the lava of your existence, the centre of your personal belief system- and the physical, outward manifestation of it, what I in turn like to call the external identity landscape. One of the most visual of these landscapes is no doubt that of personal style, where you're really basically wearing your identity- or rather, your interpretation of that inner core. You'd have to take a plunge at that Death Valley before your arrive at the other side of yourself ready to present something to the world. And the space in between is where all the knots and synapses and faults appear- a journey across the trench is required to build a sturdy bridge across it- in other words some degree of self-experimentation and exploration is necessary to understand what you might or might not be comfortable with and establish a personal identity of sorts. That is where all that "finding yourself" and intense, gushing emotions that is attached to anything that is too centered on oneself come along- and also where the wealth that we call diversity is born, and gives humankind just one more reason to distinguish themselves from their cousins in the animal kingdom and glorify their existence in the universe.


So why this talk about Death Valleys and landscapes and volcanoes- because (we're supposed to be inherently self-interested, remember?) I've been experiencing a tension between the tightrope I've wound between my inner core and outward representations. Most of the time in the midst of angst and frustration I blame it on my age, because fifteen is some fertile ground for growth of such personal crises, or I blame it on the people around me, because a culture of conformity simply cries out for a troublemaker of some sort to upset the status quo once and for all. But really I know that the most coupable of all is a personal obsession with leaving a mark somewhere, the next best alternative to having people come up to my brain while it's being cracked open and watch the colorful chemicals and thought processes and glitter gush about and exclaim "Yes, she's alive indeed!" or even go beyond that to see that maybe there's a little more pink glitter and rainbows in my head than someone else's they may have seen on the street and appreciate that. It's a the-world-revolves-around-me thing.


The collective effect of many things I came across and was exposed to eventually kicked this crisis into motion (and sprouted problems with relationships with the people around me, including losing faith and/or interest in the relationships themselves and shifting the focus of my interest to the people alone instead, girl hate, occasional bursts of passion from a mother who doesn't understand why her daughter had become a misanthropist overnight and wants to reinvent her wardrobe so badly that she wouldn't step out of doors unless necessary until it is done and is redirecting steam from her academics to pursuits such as this blog and creation and an increasingly tight circle of friends, really a kind of survival test based on natural selection, whom I trust to entrust entry to the backstage and whom I am sure will remain standing and applauding up till the finale of the performance of my life). I've cried, bawled, whichever, complained, scorned, questioned- all those things girls do in the shower or under the sheets at night or in front of a computer or in a journal or to a friend or to the mass of air and space that stretch down from the top of a cliff (I've never taken serious physical steps towards suicide, though.) But I've also apologized and repented- to whom, exactly? My teachers for not turning in assignments on time because at that time I really felt that reading a particular theorists' work would benefit me more in the long future? My mother (though I think I owe her one. A renegade daughter added to the list of an absent father and brother that I hope is growing up) for switching priorities in my life? My friends for being extremely volatile (okay I owe them one too. I think they've started to label my time periods. Now it's the angst age, with a 'z') and giving them the impression that they are not worthy enough as confidantes because I myself am overwhelmed by the flux that takes place in the outer and inner world? And most of all to myself, because maybe I'm ruining it all for myself by letting go of the title of first honors in return for something that may not work out? 


I'm beginning to see the value in being unapologetic for all these fluctuations and flaws. Because I really did gain a lot from reading that theorist's work. Because I know that my mother and my friends place trust in the decisions that I make- albeit the anxiety they display while I'm in the process. Because I know more than I ever have in my life what I want to get out of this strange sensational experience we call life and am trying everything in my ability to figure how to get there. 


Besides, I'm having lots of fun.


And making a u-turn around the cherry bush I shall finally get to the point of my post today, which was supposed to feature a list of inspirations which contradict what I have perceived to be my core, when I began to be aware of its existence. I've thought of my core as minimalist- because I'm biologically attracted to the skeleton of anything- theories, visual arts- not dissimilar to how beauty affects the psyche, if such a process existed and is attributed to biology. The entire anti-cluttering process, which with a keen sense of irony requires the creation of that clutter in the first place, and pinpointing of a skeleton and afterwards a slight embellishment on my part (with a satin ribbon, no doubt) helps me deliver the reflections that have been sludging in my mind with coherence. But I've gotten excited over these inspirations in the same way, and I guess they've all come down to these, and I would like to celebrate (as opposed to celebration's more vulgar counterpart, legitimize) this other dimension in the core with the below list.


1. Nostalghia, Interview Russia

Images the courtesy of models.com

This isn't the best representative for the anti-minimalist in the list today, but the attention to the detail of the garments- the collar badges, the careful and almost deliberate arrangement and angular shape of the collars themselves, the knits and prints- embody the spirit of excess in themselves, because it requires the eye to take it all in from top to bottom, and in the process relish the intricacy of each detail.

2. Orla Kiely's fashion films

Orla Kiely a/w 2010 

Orla Kiely a/w 2011

Always lovely to see fashion in motion- directed by its most intimate partner, the designer herself. The video presentation for the autumn/winter 2010 season reminded me of a dear Pixar film involving fidgety lamps. Both brim with youthful energy channeled from the 60's- and perhaps of no coincidence it strikes the same note as Tavi and her gang at Rookie, from the quirky tunes right down to the schoolgirl knee-high socks tucked into heels. 


3. Tim Walker photography

Images the courtesy of timwalkerphotography.com

What else can I fully articulate about these photographs apart from them being absolutely divine? The richness of imagination and angelic romanticism in these works of art provide sufficient impetus for the birth of another body of art- theatre, literature, film. The power of the visual is on display and glows, in his photographs. 


4. Magical Mystery Tour, Lula Magazine

Images the courtesy of models.com

The circus for me provides a strong symbol for many things wicked and magical- for talent and stardom, for childhood and nostalgia, for evil ringmasters and fiery animals which defy domestication and artists which defy gravity and popcorn. If I explore the circus right now it'd take a decade, so for now I'll redirect you to The Butterfly Circus, a beautiful short film:

 

And also a novel by Peter Hoeg, mind-boggling to read but one of the most startling pieces of literature I've ever encountered in my life, about a most extraordinary clown:

Image the courtesy of scoop.co.nz

5. Hodgepodge

Mixte #2 s/s 2012

Images the courtesy of thewickd.tumblr

Images the courtesy of annecatherinefrey.blogspot

Lula Loves (Ph: Nicole Nodland)

Lula Loves, Lula Magazine

Dawn is Mine, Lula Magazine

Images the courtesy of models.com

And hence a potpourri, piñata, hodgepodge, cauldron.