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. 

Kenneth Cole's new billboard. 

(nymag.com)