Tambourine queen.

The Girls in Glasses 

Painting by Danny Roberts.

I've never wanted something more. What an homage to the house of Chanel.

Little bird.

As part of the millennial generation, where even losers get trophies and praise is what sustains us, I feel that my uneasiness regarding the future is justified. WE ARE LAZY. The expansion of adolescence is to blame: our parents continue to coddle us well into adulthood, we've been told that "we're special" throughout our childhoods without having done anything, and we demand positive reinforcement despite the quality of work. We can't handle criticism or the ludicrous idea of sitting down to a 9-5 job where we're expected to do work. We weren't taught how to fall down and pick ourselves up again. I am certainly guilty of this; my parents have made it so easy to be dependent and have been proactive in the prevention of my judgmental mistakes that I haven't had many chances to learn from experience. While this is both a good and bad thing, there is no better teacher than experience. Employers are adapting to my generation as it begins to infiltrate the job markets by relaxing dress codes, de-formalizing the environment, etc. in order to cater to our resocialization transition. But our economy is suffering from the late-blooming work tendencies caused by the extension of our adolescence. Pre-Industrialism, children would work as soon as they could walk. Now we aren't getting our acts together until late-twenties/early-thirties! I read an interesting article in New York Magazine about college students feeling entitled to a high grade based on their efforts. Professors argue that it's not the amount of effort that determines the grade, it's the final product. I completely agree, however, perhaps our sense of entitlement stems from the cost of tuition? We're paying for it, so we want the reward in return. We see college as a business rather than educational investment. Anyway, that's my rant for the day.

I stumbled across this artist the other day. Aurel Schmidt, based in New York, is insanely talented and I am so impressed by her pieces. One of my new favorites, for sure.

A chauffeured car.

"Anything we want, we are trained to want." -Palahniuk.

Are our desires determined by our upbringings? From day one, we are bombarded with images and ideas of what constitutes success and the perfect life. Anyone who doesn't adhere to the consumer-driven opportunistic lifestyle is labeled and ostracized as apathetic and unmotivated. What a melancholy notion to consider.

Ethereal.

Pastel-hued items I'm lusting after this spring:

Christopher Kane scalloped silk dress, Net-a-porter.

Burberry metallic trench, Net-a-porter.

Bebe Carmen skinny jean, Bebe.

By Malene Birger Isalai silk skirt, Net-a-porter.

Balenciaga T-Strap Sandal, Barneys.

Fendi ruffle top, Net-a-porter.

Lanvin Mini-Pop bag, Net-a-porter.

American Apparel floppy wool hat, AA.

Donna Karan jacket, Net-a-porter.

Alexander Wang silk shirt, Oak.

Proenza Schouler large Poncho bag, Barneys.

Stella McCartney silk skort, Net-a-porter.

What did you ever do?

A girl

with French teeth

and dandelions

in her hair

stops

a black sportscar

beside me

on the street

and says,

Get in.

Where are

we going?

I ask.

To my place,

she answers.

We drive

through the tunnel

and go

all the way out

to 1,000,000th

Broadway. 

Her apartment

is nice.

There are

original Klees

and Picassos

hanging

on the walls.

She has

a thousand books

and a Hi-Fi set.

I would

make love

to you,

she says,

but I have

cement

in my vagina.

We drink

coffee

from little cups

and she reads

Apollinaire

to me

in French.

She is

very beautiful

but the dandelions

are starting

to wilt

in her hair. 

-Richard Brautigan

I often smoke out my window. I tie the sheers back with scarves and sit at the base with a glass of water and Bon Iver or sometimes my French tapes. I watch people come and go with their dogs and books. I'll start to worry about my roommates smelling the cigarettes, but then I remember that I don't care.

This must be the place.

I need these. Better yet, I need a boy who will wear these. Romain Kremer is my new favorite menswear designer. Not only is he French, but he can make DayGlo look chic! These looks are from his AW08 collection; a few seasons behind, yes, but breathtakingly innovative! I would totally rock those pants/chaps. Check out his new collection here; he is a mastermind!

(photos via seven and romainkremer)

Relax, this won't hurt.

Electric Chair. 1964. Warhol.

"How about this for a headline for tomorrow's papers? French fries."

-James French's last words. Executed in Oklahoma, 1966.

Ebbing and flowing.

I didn't speak one word today. I'm afraid I'm guilty of partaking in the individualistic societal way of life commonly found on campus: everyone going their separate ways, paths crisscrossing, but never looking up from their Blackberry long enough to make eye contact or have a conversation. My first-year enthusiasm for making friends has been jaded. We all have our own agendas now; it's sad.

In the wake of Paris Couture, New York Fashion Week commences this Friday but you'd never know it by the understated amount of PR. I can see why advertisers/the media are showing a suppressed interest this season (even the website looks gloomy); so many designers have cancelled their shows due to economic instability. It's just not worth the time, effort, and finances. With major names pulling out, this leaves windows of opportunities for lesser-known labels to make their debut. Designers are also cutting their guest lists to the bare minimum (mainly buyers and editors) and forgoing the usual glamorous parties. I have mixed feelings about this. We are now focusing on the clothes and the industry, and not frivolous appendages but isn't that what the industry is all about? The exclusiveness of it all. Where are all the celebrities?! You know times are hard when McDonald's is the official sponsor, Marc Jacobs axes his annual soiree, and Vera Wang, in an attempt to nullify the fee to rent the tents/lighting/production, moves her show to her small Soho boutique.

Something to look forward to in 2010, however, is the transition of Fashion Week from Bryant Park to the bigger and classier Damrosch Park in Lincoln Center. Near Chelsea and the West Side, this location is seemingly perfect for attendees who have to rush from show to show. Some designers, on the other hand, are less than pleased. Bryant Park was within walking distance for many studios so garments could be patched up and quickly messengered if something were to go wrong. I guess they'll have to take durability and quality into consideration next year, hmm? 

A few weeks ago, I suffered from a terrible "I have nothing to wear" crisis. With my friend waiting for me to meet her at her apartment, I unsnapped an ostrich feather trim from the hem of a Trina Turk dress and hand-sewed it onto an American Apparel racerback tank literally five minutes before I walked out the door. It was quite possibly the sloppiest sewing job I've ever done, but I must've been onto something because Riccardo Tisci, the ingenue behind the house of Givenchy, showed a similar feather-trimmed piece in his couture show. 

Givenchy Couture '09

Trina Turk feather hem, American Apparel tank, Vera Wang necklace, Lorick dress, Wolford tights. Classy theater bathroom setting.

(via nymag and style)

.44 Magnum gunshot wound to the head.

It's so nice

to wake up in the morning

all alone

and not have to tell somebody

you love them

when you don't love them

anymore.

-Richard Brautigan

hard rain. naked eyelids. tired sheets. separate sides.

cool floor. hushed steps. hunt & gather. re-dress.

deadbolt. doorknob. don't. look. back.

I am, I am, I am.

"I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet."

-Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

By the cracks of its skin I climbed to the top.

I miss my best friend.