When I Met the Woman Who Was Wearing the Night Before — by Brooke Taylor Aganovich

    ‘Hairport Lounge’. That's what the sign says, ‘Hairport Lounge’. The red letters on the poster entice, ‘Meet your loved ones with a new cut for only 14.99’. I don't know when my flight is but as long as this plastic bag is around my neck I don't need to worry. I keep taking it off. It makes me public property. Every time one of the pencil ladies walks past with those scarves that no one wears outside an airport, they clickety-click over to me and pick up the plastic envelope from the seat where I've put it and place it back around my neck tut-tutting, then they look at the card and look at their watch, as though taking my pulse, and move along. It says ‘Unaccompanied Minor’ on the plastic and the edge of the strap cuts into my neck. I don't want everyone knowing I'm an unaccompanied minor. The other children with their parents look at me as though I'm deformed. The free coloured crayons that come with the pack break when I try and draw.
    I take out a book I stole from my aunt, an airport book, an airport lounge book, but it's a seventies airport lounge book, an Asian invasion intrigue book, full of words like ‘ninja’, ‘shuriken’ and ‘gaijin’, not a nineties cyberpunk intrigue book. If I put the book on its back I can see where all the good bits are. It saves time. Page 32, Agent Takashi gives General Onegin a blow job at his villa in the Crimea to get secrets about the new nuclear airplane. She knows what she's doing, she's been trained. Because apparently when men are having sex they can't help talking about work, particularly the things they're not meant to talk about. So General Onegin mumbles a lot of secret codes while he's holding Agent Takashi's ears, along with the name of his ex-wife. I can feel my knob go stiff. But that all changes when I suddenly think of my aunt.

    Her house is like a museum, a homage to the seventies. Nothing has changed in there since her last husband died in 1978. Even her clothes and her dark glasses are the same. The glasses are worth seeing; these huge Pierre Cardin purple things with lenses the size and shape of television screens. Every time I'm sent to stay with her she gives me this cunning, in-the-know, smile and says “you know Isak I don't worry because the way fashion works these days I'm due to be very hip again anytime soon.” It's her lawyer that told her this, her only friend, but even he's on a payroll. I never say anything  but with an ass that could plug the hole in the ozone layer and a nose gone red from too much Lambrusco she shouldn't hold her breath. The only thing hip about her is her record collection and that only because she bought them when she was still capable of love, before her first husband fell off a speed boat in Hong Kong harbour and drowned. I'm allowed to look at them but not to touch which is sort of silly since I've been stealing them in two's and three's for several years now; first edition Rolling Stones and Hendrix. She says all that music is too loud and jumpy. There's writing on every record cover; ‘Can't wait to listen to this with you...’, ‘For ever baby...’, ‘Check this out, I cried and thought of you…’. All I'm allowed to play is Sade, Phil Collins and Julio Iglesias and really low too.
    She lives in un-musical world, and that's why she doesn't like me. I move like the notes of a sitar. There is a slight panic in her eyes when she watches me move around the apartment which I wouldn't call a home. It's more like a pyramid where everything has been displayed in preparation for the afterlife. If our civilisation was suddenly hiroshima'd and her apartment was preserved, by fallout future civilisations would think we embalmed our dead in tie-dye silk with lava lamps and lots of curved white furniture, “for traversing the heavens”;
    “—and the great big purple square eye lenses, professor?”
    “No doubt in anticipation of seeing the Divine Light, the Celestial Bodies....”

    And so she's careful when I'm there. As if, in each of my movements, sound has already broken everything. The phrase “don't touch that Isak” hangs from her lips like a nicotine tattoo ready to fall off at any moment. I don't blame her because once I apparently did try and break everything. It's one of those family stories that I was too young to remember. Left alone in the apartment for a few minutes I got bored, so the story goes, and took an American football out of the closet and started to kick it all over the place like I was a two legged flipper on a pinball machine. I couldn't have broken that much because the place is still stuffed, unless as Plato insists, everything in this world is a copy taken from the ideal, and my aunt, bless her discretion, has a catalog of the infinite from which she can order replacements. But anyway, the story goes that when they found me I was hysterical, just laughing all crazy like and scoring field goals all over the place. The doctor was called and they gave me a shot.
    So I suppose she has some reason to be nervous, especially since, knowing I like music she must find it curious that I will often not bother playing the music she likes. I prefer to attend the music of silence than confirm the world with Phil Collins. Wouldn't you, in a house where the sofa has a plastic cover on it? “Easier to clean,” she says. But when you sit on it it makes this terrible crunching sound. I don't think my aunt hears it though it scares the hell out of me. I can't help it, I always think of a dancing skeleton, the crunchiness being the sound his bones make when they touch.

(bta)

Proposed by Dandyakuza on Thursday 20 May 2010 at 01:08 PM · Permalink · Comments (0)

Paris Epic, Epic Paris — by Kate Grasso

Sometimes a sentence can be understood only if it is read at the right tempo. (Wittgenstein, Culture and Value, p.57)
 
V

spending most of our time seeing to be seen;
(scene)
seen to be scene-ing
see?
/scene
but are we audacious?
are we
with our naked eyes, lewd
filthy naked
are we
we are

 
terrasse-ing for the sake of terrasse-ing
is not terrasse-ing
at all

(they could talk, then agree with themselves.)

 
stuck in dainty glooms
priez
crisp
may we be,
maybe we
may we
be

visually arresting,
and may we be guilty,
and susceptible to contagions
 
(hey-uh, if she came into the room every man's prick would hit the ceiling)
 
melange it up
pitter patter pitter POP
burn it burn it burn it HOT
 
quel ancestral phobia is this?
  spending most of our time
as
are we
may we
affect the effect of ____

and a very limited mot-palette we have,
have we

we, we have,
so we,
we, we,
wee!

I am:
offended by sad-jeaned whores.

 the new idealists manifesto: things are looking up
 
the stopwatch in the spotlight; tick tick STOP
 
(not even a demoted ally in this city can't
find a complement or at least a witness
at least a witness
not trilling

and I'm somewhat ambiguous)
 
and this thrashing this pushing paris i'm so tired now
bear witness, you
yes, you- at least bear that

can I say something true here? true
too
say it
 
BUT
there is something about the way people articulate themselves on parisian streets
that floods out reality.  that supersedes the usual walkway current:
not just people going, or coming, arriving or departing,
 but people expectant of
a significant and valuable interruption.

Legs scissor and feet point and angle themselves as if perpetually perched over one inch of sky.
Floating, flow.

 Everyone nurses a break-out plan.

  it's just
 
I want collaboration

I want to be a witness to composition, COMPOSITION


the
1
2
3's
of it
 
perpetually ex post facto


and blowing out the words, smiles which bloom

into the riotous lights of Paris!; It's A Kind Of Death.

I was not born a paris-darling.

" 'Good things are being said and publishers' hopes are high,' he wrote Albert Murray in February, two months before publication, ' but I'm playing it cool with my stomach pitching a bitch and my dream life most embarrassing.' "
intro, Invisible Man

 
Author! Author!
I am a sponge, mid-soak.
Introduce yourself:

 

self-consciousness: a gait bow-legged enough to be mistaken for walking in a constant stream of apologetic curtsies

paradoxically

I LIKE IT HERE

a morning, magnetic. a call-and-response.
and the whole morning was blown! wide! open!


FLEUROTICISM:

erotica, from the stamen onwards, virtuosos of petalruption

(ylang! ylang, POP!)

 
be still now, we're almost done.
here is a moment of silence in between, a sort of palette cleanser for the non-food digestibles of a day


LIVING: IT'S A DYING ART


III

One fine February day I was paris-ing
and smoke, ing
in the office courtyard
and the air
was marshy and mild,
marinated

Suddenly! Seagulls!

QUEL CHANCE

Paris, a winter
beach-sky

---

how to: optimistic urbanity, or, the OPTIC POP!

sadly, my skin's got a shitty cost-per-wear complex, so trompe l'oeil everyone, trompe the l-o-e-i-l
 
Main Entry: creation
Part of Speech: noun
Definition: all living things
Synonyms: cosmos, life, living world, macrocosm, macrocosmos, megacosm, nature, totality, universe, world
Antonyms: death
 

stretched past capacity, unable to bear
at war, at war
with more than you: I
but with the sleepy female I.D and its complimentary body response,
the organic habit
surrender-burn desire
This is what I revoke when I raise rigid
Tremendous! in culpability, responsibility
and I allow lobe-divide, and negate spaces-inbetween

I am going to show you something.
very ugly, with the prudence afforded to:
an answer to sincerity theft
In violence ripped above human love domains
no romance but red red roped
everything, anything, is sour in motion

How do I begin? Probably not like that, but there it is and well, here we are, begun. I'm stuck on a loop, cyberspace comrades, I'm stuck on a strange, wailing technicolor time loop and things keep cycling back at me in new disguises, just different enough to keep my eyes in perpetual half-tic. Clever ones, but I am cleverer. The Eagles Hotel California sung by the thai man on Ko Chang, everything's slightly off color and off note and it is perfect, divine, how it was supposed to be sung all along then the couple next to me on the metro, the ups and downs of this sing song fran fucking cais. Toujours etrangere and an etrangere toujours. The steps along this route which follow one another automaton style alternately weigh me down like a bag of bricks. Clunk clunk pavement. Everything and anything equal parts simple and complex. Yes, no, right, wrong, it did, it didn't, it will, it won't. I get this, I don't. I can, I can’t.
 

(some consequences are quiet)
shh

(quiet and carnivorous)
sh

This just poses a slew of questions, doesn't it? Uproots a whole closetful of guilt about the crime of intellectual adaptation?

adaptation in general

So here we are Sunday, we're intellectually adapting. bringing back some concepts into life alive living.
amplifying quiet consequences.

 
parislife began.
Nominate a question to peel off the answer,
seasonless fruit
speak full of
Peel
PEEL
PEELINGS
and
the ripeness of
the
moribund
The Seine As My The River Styx.


paris est situe a 48 degres de latitude nord, et ici

sunlight so bright it burns out the world to a film noir; yes, yes sir,
this is Godard's Paris, again, and LOUDER! GODARD’S PARIS


we all have eyes for
Chaperones
subject to
CLUSTER phobia!

THIS was A Journey not measured in miles,
but in patience.
did i touch you? did I heal,

DID
I : YOU
?


because the Art of Storytelling
is only

the telling and tellings in between
of the

YOU: I

what I pray about when I not-pray into sidewalk store-windows;

to be, just for a moment:
speaking as an act of bursting with a MIND, MINDS in the state of
becoming
with another, a-hum with grey matter back and forths,
noticing not noticing the unnatural attention to fingers on tables or
eyes on the nothings
to write with a hand floating and carefree, or tortured enough to take those sharp turns
WITH my
eyes mind or brain
and we will chime-chime chime chariot frenzy,
and we will un-close and
decide existence as a pre-frontal fix
(where are you?)

That is the hum of a human train,
coucou, these
vernal migratory movements,
this is longing, this is the Artfully Waning Eye
this is the pitch of tenderness at a low hum, whir
and a machine man click whir broke and out came decay
oops, silly, rot
either the insatiable flatness of this city
either the personal decry 'fatigue!'
either or not

YES YES

SO VERY EPIC

YES

(Unfortunately, Paradise Was Beautiful.)


paradise we are, to paradise returning

there is a slow emerging theme;
one I console,
until
It is

always strange, always home

paradise we are, to paradise returning


Always Strange, Always Home

 paris
/paris


(kg)

Proposed by Dandyakuza on Wednesday 19 May 2010 at 10:44 AM · Permalink · Comments (1)

The Boy Who Wore His Heart on His Sleeve — by Susannah Breslin

She had been waiting forever, it seemed, for a boy like this one, who wore his heart on his sleeve. Now, here he was, sitting across from her in this dimly lit restaurant, his arm on the table. The exposed, bloody organ was attached to his sleeve with what appeared to be a safety pin. Across the table, he was looking at her expectantly, his head cocked slightly to the left, like a dog listening for a sound only he could hear, the right side of his mouth pulling up slightly, as if he was unsure what she was thinking. Judging by the tangle of threads unraveling around the gaping hole in his blue sweater where his heart should have been, he had carved himself open to retrieve it. On his sleeve, the heart was shaking and shuddering, straining against the pin’s grasp. They had found each other on an online dating site three days previous and met for the first time 17 minutes ago. Now, here he was, looking eager and hopeful, and it was up to her to figure out what was she supposed to do next. She looked at the boy uncertainly and tried to hurry up and decide what she was going to do about this boy and his still-beating heart before the angry waitress returned and demanded to take their order. Is it too late? she said. The boy’s face dropped. Late? he said. Too late to put it back? She nodded her head at the heart. Oh, the boy said, looking down at it. Slowly, the blood was seeping into his napkin. Soon, it would spill off the table and pool on the floor, making a mess. I don’t know, he said. The boy had no idea if he could singlehandedly un-pin his heart, stuff it back into his chest, and darn up the sweater in such a way that no one would ever know that he had stood in his kitchen in the fading light and removed his heart from his chest with a serrated steak knife, all for a woman whom he had yet to meet, a glowing collection of pixels that was her smiling out at him from the computer screen. It was too late to pull his arm off the table and put it in his lap. She would know what he was doing, and he would bleed all over his trousers. From somewhere behind him, he could hear the hard clanging of pots in the kitchen, the frantic barking of the chef, the buzz of other couples in love cooing at one another in the candlelight. Shit, he said, under his breath but loud enough that the girl would hear it. All of a sudden, he decided he had had enough. He reached over with his left hand and unfastened the safety pin holding his heart to his sleeve. Here, he said, taking his heart in his right hand. Standing up slightly, he leaned across the table and deposited the heart on the plate in front of the girl sitting across from him. The girl poked at the heart with her fork. Interesting, she said, sounding like a forensic pathologist. He had no idea what she meant by that, but he knew at that moment that if she would continue saying things like this while stabbing at his heart with the tiny tines of the silver fork in her hand, he could be with her and stay happy forever. In that moment, it seemed anything was possible.

(sb)

Proposed by Dandyakuza on Saturday 08 May 2010 at 08:18 PM · Permalink · Comments (5)

Ralph Rucci — By Alexander Aubry

As a fashion writer and editor I often wonder how detached the fashion world has become in terms of connecting to people. Not just with consumers, but with designers, assistants, editors, publicists and a multitude of individuals who make up this complex (though often misunderstood) business. A designer after all is a human being (no matter how famous). Yet it is easy to become detached in an era when editors have become brands, anonymous bloggers are increasingly shaping public opinion and designers are broadcasting their shows in real time across the web.

Weeks before the Fall 2010 collections in New York, I received an intriguing invitation from Ralph Rucci. That season, the designer had decided to shift his show away from the tents in Bryant Park to his Soho studio. At a time when fashion shows resemble Broadway productions or are going digital altogether, Rucci’s intimate version of a 21st century salon presentation could be considered subversive.

Models walked inches away from a tightly packed audience of faithful customers (Deeda Blair,  Joy Bianchi), industry heavy weights (Cathy Horyn of the NY Times, Vogue’s Hamish Bowles), and the unexpected celebrities (Patti Smith), all sandwiched between the designer’s friends and family. So close were the girls that guests could hear the swish of a skirt or the rustle of feathers on a jacket as they walked by (slowly).

The big rub of course was that I couldn’t make it to his show due to scheduling conflicts in Chicago. But when I emailed Rucci to let him know I wouldn’t be able to attend, the unexpected happened… he asked me to stop by his studio two days later to walk me through the entire collection from start to exit.

That a designer of his caliber would take the time out of his busy day (and a weekend no less) to open his door to someone who is relatively new to this business was mind boggling to me. But this is a man who actually loves his craft so much that it seeps through his every pore. Unlike some designers who fumble through interviews or speak obscurely about inspirations, I’ve never encountered anyone as articulate as he. He is able to bring the craft of dressmaking to life, and is so open about sharing that enthusiasm with those who appreciate what he does.

When I arrived at his studio the floor was still covered in the same watery vinyl used for his show. The entire collection hung along racks in the order in which they had appeared on the runway. He held each one from its hanger and explained the materials and construction; turning them inside out. There were wool jersey dresses that had been tucked, pleated, rusched and then applied with frayed pieces of taffeta to evoke smashed computer chips; reflecting craft and technology merging together, but in a very subtle way. There was a jacket composed of three layers of tulle that had pieces of cashmere nestled in-between.

One mind boggling stunner was a fur coat made from pieces of black-dyed sable that had been cut on the bias and then meticulously stitched between 3” woven strips of horse hair. (When was the last time you heard of a designer employing horse hair?) It was the lightest fur coat I had ever held in my hands; the strips of fur appeared to float on the body when worn.

The technique that generated that particular coat or any of the aforementioned pieces, took years of trail and error in order to achieve those affects. We’re always talking about modern dressing, and I think that notion sometimes gets confused with trends or the kind of over-styling that one sees at shows. But modernity today is also about a sense of ease and versatility in dressing. Similar to a designer like Alaia who is constantly refining ideas and techniques, what’s refreshing about Rucci’s clothes is that you want to luxuriate in them, not necessarily make a fashion statement one season and then throw them away. These are clothes to live in (and be pleasantly surprised).

That is one of the things I appreciate about Ralph, this couture savoir-faire that comes naturally to him. He knows of all the great Paris couture workshops and legendary Swiss fabric manufacturers such as Abraham (many of whom are no longer in existence). Towards the end of the rack he lifted a dress made out of what appeared to be knotted and rusched chiffon that created a tiered ruffle effect. Rucci explained it was actually done by a Paris embroiderer.

As he continued to pull pieces off the rack, it occurred to me that there wasn’t a single fabric, detail or feather that hadn’t been touched by human hands. I asked him how he could possibly call this ready-to-wear when it was at a couture level. He just smiled and confidently said “this is ready-to-wear, this isn’t couture it is a New Beginning."

When I visited Ralph’s atelier I got a strong sense of what the garment district must have been like at one point in time. His entire collection is literally produced in house, down to the last feather applied to a diaphanous evening gown. In this case it’s the garment district under one roof, yet it’s also a family composed of people who have been with him since the beginning. These include some very talented Russian seamstresses who head his different ateliers (for both tailoring and dressmaking, though I believe he has two that specialize in flou).

When I used to research couture houses, it wasn’t just the clothes that fascinated me, but the culture that surrounded such places and the people they attracted. It was an important element of the creative process and one could argue an essential part of a house’s heritage and DNA. You look at the house St. Laurent built with its mix of artists and muses from Paloma Picasso, to Lou Lou de la Falaise, Betty Catroux and even Zizi Jamaire and you’re instantly transported to another era. Ralph is no different in the sense that he’s incredibly cultivated when it comes to art and culture (both high and low) and you notice that in the people he surrounds himself with.

One of my favorite moments at his studio was when he pulled a streamlined caftan off the rack that he had designed specifically for his long time friend Elsa Peretti and decided to include in his fall line up. I love the fact there is a sort of history and emotional connection to his clothes (something that’s lacking in many ways today). Peretti and Ralph do share a lot in common in terms of design sensibilities, one that strives to be timeless and modern. (In his office one will find the famous portrait of Peretti in Play Boy bunny ears taken by Helmut Newton).

All of this is important to consider because fashion seems to be going through a period of much soul searching; one that not only includes notions of craft but also how to make an emotional (and human) connection through design. As I got onto the freight elevator after my visit, he gave me the kindest words of encouragement; something I will never forget.

A day later I went to the Cooper Hewitt Museum to see an exhibit titled “Design USA: Contemporary Innovation,”  which features outstanding examples of contemporary American architecture, landscape design, interior design, product design, communication design and fashion. Amongst this roster of talented individuals Rucci was one of a handful of fashion designers to have made the cut.

It hit me at that moment, as we sit here trying to define what luxury and modern fashion should be, maybe at the end of the day it’s not so much about labels, as it is about the actual act of creating and fabricating it. It’s the process of creation that may be the true measure of what modern fashion means today.

(aa)

Proposed by Dandyakuza on Friday 07 May 2010 at 01:44 AM · Permalink · Comments (1)

Vintage Vixen — by Mara Zampariolo

- PART 1/

WHERE MY CHILDHOOD DREAMS COME TRUE: NOW I GOT SO HOT I GET PAID TO ROLL IN DIRT

Today I modeled for Baptiste Viry's SS 2010 lookbook. Baptiste is talented, French, dark and tall. And no, he's not even gay.

I've only realized this by the fifth meeting, making a huge ass of myself in front of the client (him).

He designs mens accessories for women, so he picked a boyish looking model to pose for him. He eventually realized my biceps looked trannylicious on film, so he's asked the photographer to airbrush the shit outta me.

I totally dig the result.

Baptiste's work has been featured on ELLE and other magazines, and I was lucky enough to get paid to wear his stuff while tossing half naked on the floor, as the photographer gently rubbed dust on my face.


- PART 2/

WHERE MY PRE-TEEN MEMORIES COME BACK TO HAUNT ME: I USED TO LOOK SO BAD THE TEACHER GAVE ME A COMB

The Top Models from the Nineties are back. Claudia is back; Eva is back; Helena is back; Naomi, like herpes, just won't go away.

Back in the Nineties, I was no top model, but you know what?

I remember my tragic first steps in the modeling industry, and I might as well share these with you, if you don't mind.

I was 16 in 1996 (I'll spare you the maths: I'm 30 now), and my mother invited a friend over for dinner. A  fashion photographer, Giorgio. He was dark, tall, and not even gay. And he was the first man besides my father to tell me that I looked hot.

How could I forget?

I reached my final height at age 12 (5' 8,5" /1,75 mt.), but my feet decided to grow faster; at the time when usually girls borrow their mother's pumps and look all cute because they cannot walk in them, I could actually borrow my uncle's shoes, and go hiking.

My mother didn't wear heels anyway, but she looked amazing.

I remember the look on the face of men when she'd enter a room. An all-Italian beauty with long, black, curly hair and hazelnut eyes, whose delicate features were covered in freckles, and whose voluptuous body gave the shape of an hourglass to any potato sack she'd wear.

As for me, I'd give the shape of a potato sack to anything she'd buy me.

The worst part is, she'd purchase mini-me versions of her own wardrobe, so I got to see exactly how much worse I made anything she owned look.

I asked her one day: "Mom? Why does this skirt look all droopy on me?" She looked past her book and she just whispered softly "'Because you have no hips, sweet pie."

I tried to make my hips fuller by pulling them apart with my bare hands.

Despite doing so, the largest part of my body were still my knees.

Back then, I looked like a homeless person for as long as I can remember.

My mother would buy me clothes that were too big for me "So you get to wear them longer," and I'd wear the same pair of pants until it got so short I looked like Pinocchio.

She used to braid my hair, and it actually looked cute for an hour or so. Then my thin hair would turn into a gipsy-esque do, which would have been the perfect look for asking random people for their spare change.

If I got to sleep at my fathers', he wouldn't undo my braids, so the following day I'd just go back to school with the same hairdo. My teacher gave me a comb one day.

She probably thought my parents couldn't afford one.

Then, one day in the summer of 1996, Giorgio said that I should start modeling.

Everyone laughed their heads off.

The following day, mother took me to an agency in Milan.


At Riccardo Gay, they got me waiting amongst heavenly creatures that were talking on their cell phone—which weighted more than themselves by then—looking glamorously bored.

I tried to emulate them.

I knew for sure how to look bored—hours of Latin verbs conjugation became suddenly of some use—but I couldn't grasp the fashion in it.


Pouting while applying lipstick, while crossing and un-crossing long legs, while whining on the phone, whilewhile pointing at a picture... I've never been that multitasking, so I just sank in the sofa and tried my best to look glamorously bored until a gay, tanorexic guy came to pick me up and bring me into a dark room.

Next thing I knew, he was measuring my ass with a tailor's  tape. He told my mom that I had to lose weight on my hips and buttock, if I ever wanted to start modeling.

flipping through a gossip magazine, So it turns out my hips did grow somewhere between age 12 and 16, and  I wish I knew the darn day they hit the right size, 'cuz there must have been one, right?!


- PART 3/

WHERE I FINALLY GET AN AGENT, AND LEARN IMPORTANT STUFF ABOUT MODELING

To make a long story short, I lost some weight and got myself an agency in Milan. My main booker was Ricciarda, an old, skinny lady whose only gods were Skinny, Skinnier and She Should Start Smoking, She'd Lose Some Weight.

She'd only eat bread-crumbs at lunch, so the girls nick named her Roach-arda.

The other booker was Gandhi, a gay guy who'd show us videos of top models to teach us the catwalk. He'd always fast-forward on Claudia Schiffers' part, because she walked like....

- "... a drunken milkmaid at the Oktoberfest."

- "... The Mafia's given her some concrete shoes."

- "... the runway is covered in ants, and she bet with Naomi she can crush'em all."

- "... Catwalk is actually intended for cats."

My modeling career never took off for a few different reasons, and by a few different reasons I mean I invested on a degree instead of a nosejob.

Thirteen years later I am indeed a PhD, my nose grew bigger (but that doesn't cost a penny) and I keep getting modeling jobs out of nowhere!

Back in 1998 nobody saw avant-garde when looking at me, but a chick with deep inset eyes, broad shoulders and an Italian nose.

In 2010 I still have the same face, and on top of this I am kinda old BUT NOW with a half shaved skull and a pair of studded Docs I have unique features, my body is androgynous and f**ck it, let's just face it: my nose will keep growing until I pass.

Nevertheless, I am now getting paid to wear Margiela's!

I'm currently wearing their latest runway collection, which includes 100% latex blouses, floating waistline pants, wolf fur coats and other amenities, and I intend to write a post on the life of us girls at the showroom.

They have a tradition of wild casting, and by wild casting I mean picking up from the street trannies, rockstars, punks and half-eaten bags of Cheesy Poofs.

But most of us are just punks.



(mz)

Proposed by Dandyakuza on Wednesday 05 May 2010 at 02:34 AM · Permalink · Comments (0)