It's odd to be posting after such a long absence - nearly a month and a half - but I felt like I should re-invest myself into this blog before I find myself completely out of the loop. I have thought about why I have lacked any means of motivation to post and I find it is two things: one, the weather has become an obstacle for it does not permit me to layer and thus I have found myself incessantly moping around and about my closet and as a result: two, my personal taste in style has been making a bit of a transition. Finding I can only generally wear one article of clothing at a time, I began acquiring a taste for collared shirts (don't ask me why because I don't know either. Miu Miu Spring 2010 could possibly be the catalyst but as much as I adore the collection I don't believe it had that much of an overwhelming influence in relevance to this 'style transition' I'm currently discussing. Also I feel like reading Virginia Woolf's The Waves had something to do with it but I haven't really discerned this yet and I'm beginning to digress so). Irrelevantly, I've found myself growing fonder of late 19th century and mid 20th century style as of late, a contrast in taste considering my favourite designers consistently challenge the constructs of what we know as fashion through their radical designs (McQueen and Chalayan primarily come to mind for a multitudinous amount of reasons). I'm not implying that I only admire post-modern designs, simply that they attracted my admiration more than collections that derived inspiration from the eras I currently admire with such a simplistic approach. Possibly now I'm just broadening my view rather than completely changing my style. I can't be entirely sure just yet. I'm writing this post with my mind in a rut regarding this topic so I might come off a bit misunderstood. Still trying to put some pieces together. However, I believe I should work on doing that in a different fashion than digressing in an oppressively constant manner on this here blog, don't you think?

So yeah. I've been relentlessly browsing vintage photographs of the past as of late, generally from the Tumblrs I follow or the Google LIFE archives. I've been posting the photographs consistently on my Tumblr so you can frolic over there if you want to see more but for now I'll simply post a few here for a taste.

Teenage girl having nail polish touches added to her sunglasses. Oklahoma, July 1947.

Teenage girl styling her hair. US, December 1948.

The Indian Tribal version of Givenchy Fall '08!

Teenage girl talking on a telephone. Missouri, December 1944. Photograph by Nina Leen.

Victorian era bourgeois sisters I'm presuming. Date unknown.

Young girl blowing a big bubble from a bubble gum. Photograph by Bob Landry, 1946.

"Young Pioneer Palace in Leningrad", year unknown.

St Louis, 1944.

I wore this outfit several weeks ago on a day where the weather finally allowed me to layer without dying if I stepped out into the blistering heat for more than five seconds.

(Pink blouse from Old Navy. All the skirts and the apron are thrifted except for one of the tulle layers which is a tutu from the kid's section as H&M five bucks baby. The socks are from the men's section at Urban Outfitters.)

Basically being in a style limbo plus lacking motivation for doing anything are the catalysts to my infrequent posting. I want to say I'll post again soon but I don't want to lie to you. I'll end this post here with something I wrote a while ago because I have started writing again on a regular basis just recently. Later days dudes.

it is true i attempt to suppress the feeling of indigence that perpetuates whenever memory is rekindled, mentioned in a whisper through the crevices of thought, working it’s way deep into the core of my mind. i blame my present tense by contemplating my recent past, and the actions committed regarding the circumstance. but this suppression is merely that - an attempt, susceptible to a demise like a human heart after death. that potentiality begins to decompose until it is nothing but a canvas marked with blank failures. as i realize this, the contrast of body and emotion begins to wither and they begin to form a link; they are brought together by collision in an objective sphere. my mind focuses on the fluctuation of resentment while my body battles its uncontrollable nature, and for an instance my being is at war with itself. but only for an instance, for one side eventually overpowers the other. in the end, my emotions become a lover’s figure under a silk slip, unsheathed at once, instantaneously.

a thought on La Jetee

if you’re a photography major like me and you ever doubt the credibility of your program and what they make photography out to be, please watch this and trust in everything that lies outside of these educational based contrived claims. tell them that there is beauty in simplistic photographs such as these, those with a raw purity, those bare yet full of expression. a moment stopped in the eye of a lens, immutable, lingering forever through mutable reality - these are the photographs that make hearts feel pleasurable pain, like a warm emptiness realizing these easy moments have come and gone. they are once, always were once, will continue to be once, until death tears us from time and space like life tears a child from its’ mother’s womb. moment after moment after moment, never repeating, never returning. the only manner in which we may return, aside from a subconscious reawakening, is through the photograph. we recall each moment, let it be a tedious one or a dismal one or a glorious one, as a moment of our past caught in the web of present. one of the most beautiful things are these photographs, where a moment you will never relive or be able to replicate is shown to you in all it’s simplistic glory, just as you remembered it.

i get tired of people telling me that photography should be dramatic and salient and obvious and look! at! me! because i don’t think that’s what it necessarily should be. it should be all about moments. naked photographs are just as striking in it’s subtlety.

a moment in an ordinary life. no other kind of photographs matter.

(La jetée, Chris Marker, 1962)

Just really quickly what I wore last night, plus black lipstick I was just trying out from a halloween costume makeup kit I bought for a school project. I think I was going for a Courtney Love/Lydia Deetz integration with a bit of a Miu Miu twist (the bejeweled collar combo). It's a bit too simplistic considering what I normally tend to wear, but regardless I like it a lot.

I have some pictures of my room I took several weeks ago that I'm going to post soon, as well as my idea regarding a zine still in it's rudimentary stages of brainstorming. It's going to be about Dreamers - I don't mean all about the subconscious, I mean about people who approach art and language with a mentality that contradicts reality; they remove themselves from it to create something illusory and pensive that material reality constantly seems to lack. They thrive off the notion of a utopian world yet simultaneously acknowledge that this world we inhabit will always be tainted with imperfections. What immediately comes to mind that falls under this category is everything about Speed Levitch, Alison Scarpulla's photography, Richard Linklater films such as Before Sunset and Waking Life, and Tim Walker's editorials.

I will discuss this more in depth next post when I have my ideas regarding 'Dreamers' have become less hazy.





Sequin collared shirt is vintage. Dress from Forever 21.

Today I've felt a sense of clarity for several reasons:

i) I have realized my Macbook has in fact not shattered internally, the battery just won't charge. I have in fact wasted several (many) hours mourning what I thought was gone forever but as I type this I emit a sigh of relief. Forget my lecture notes and research essays - do you know how many photos of neon hair I have on this thing? Enough to make people with naturally coloured locks genuinely frightened. But no, I'm actually very grateful it isn't trivial, or else I would be stuck on a wonky 1997 Windows PC (can you say D:) for the remainder of the summer. Let's just say things would not be a slice of cherry fucking cheese cake.

ii) I was in New York City for the first 6 days of April and I've decided I'm going to try and move there after I finish school if everything falls into place. I know the typical claim with New York is that it's pleasant to visit and lingering for too long will result in this perpetual overwhelmingly claustrophobia and intense craving to distance yourself away from it's habitual hectic activity. Yet I feel nostalgic whenever anyone mentions it, like I'm missing a limb and they only place I can get it back and use it is when I'm in the city. I mean, when our bus drove over the bridge and that panoramic landscape came into view, the plethora of lights consuming every inch of my vision, I felt my heart float and my eyes water. And I don't care how cheesy I sound! I remember watching a documentary on the philosopher/poet/NYC tourist guide Speed Levitch a year or so ago and being mesmerized by his relationship with the city. After it concluded I recall thinking "my hopes for the extravagance this city has to offer will always be unsurpassable". This is why as I sat in my bus seat on the way down I anticipated disappointment by the inevitable mediocrity of what I was about to experience. I mean, what we're fond of differs with each individual. It's all subjective. So naturally I thought Speed's adoration with this cornucopia of edifices and busy bee individuals on an island was based on his own subjective ideals, completely contradicting my own. Yet over the near week I spent there I discovered the city was all it was built up to be (a result of my own subjective ideals or general objective claims I've still yet to determine). Thus I find myself missing the island more each day. Guys, I would sit on a crammed bus with stale air for 11 hours one way like I did a few weeks ago just so I can see it again for a mere 24 hours. The anticipation for a next visit is killing me. Like it's literally gnawing at me.

....did I rant there? I think I ranted there. I almost forgot about this clip from the Speed Levitch documentary (entitled "The Cruise") I was gonna post back there before I ran off on a WTFHOLYSHIT tangent. Here he talks about his relationship with the city.

Ugh, embedding is disabled. Whatever guys CLICK HERE it's worth it, trust. Here's a quick quote from the beginning though if you suck and don't want to watch:

"New York City is a living organism; It evolves, it devolves, it fluctuates as a living organism. So my relationship with New York City is as vitriolic as the relationship with myself and with any other human being which means that it changes every millisecond, that it's in constant fluctuation."

Moreover, since my mac is back, here's an outfit I wore today. It was so hot out though :c. I need to realize spring is here and I can no longer layer so much D: Whatever I'll pretend like pit stains and profusely sweating is IN.

I started working around the bottom because it made me feel like a mermaid. Thought it would work best if I left out prints and just worked with pastels. And pink. Also I'm not going to lie I've been inclined to never take off this skirt because of the influence the cute little asian girl from two posts ago has had on me (the skirts are slightly similar. You know what that means? never taking it off, ever)

Everything is thrifted except for the pink skirt over top of the blue dress and under the apron, which is from H&M. Oh wait, the white lace blazer is from Courage My Love vintage in Kensington Market. :3

I seriously meant for this post to take only ten minutes, and alas it's taken me FORTY. Now I must get back to watching Annie Hall and drinking hot chocolate and pretending to sort through photographs for a project.

I never know how to start with blog posts when ever I want to write something of consistency and/or with a valid point. Typically I write a post while I'm eating or half asleep or watching 30 Rock or doing all three simultaneously ("if you want a shot, you're going to have to dance for it...") so I don't get my mental gears going like I should. But then when I sit in silence in front of a computer screen with a black text bracket flicking on and off and on and off, I remain stuck in my thoughts and eventually I just write a couple of sentences, upload some pictures and then go off and do something else. And here I am again doing the exact same thing, but now instead of the mundane repetition, I finally admit I want to talk about something legitimate. Or at least something that's been lingering in my mind for the past weeks, months, years. I think I'm just going to go with the flow and see where my mind takes me (you'll probably be in that twisted dark cave from the 1970s Willy Wonka movie by the end of it, just a word of warning).

Fashion is frivolous. I hear and see that in so many different ways, contexts, confused proclamations, concerned glances, condescending laughs - the list goes on. It took me a long time to understand it and even longer to accept it. These days I tend to ignore cynical things that are said and I won't let it get the best of me (I'm talking about things said about fashion, not personal style, because I'm at a point now where I don't really mind what is said about the latter). I've grown to learn that frivolity comes from a hazy subjective lens of a certain individual, ones who can't go "I don't get it but do whatever floats your boat" but instead declare the opposite.

I thought about this a lot after a quick but discerning conversation with a 76 year old architect that constantly comes into the restaurant I work at for coffee. When he asked me about my career path and I told him what my plans were, he congratulated me and wished me luck in whatever I decided to do with my future. 

"Well I'm actually considering something in fashion" I told him after his "good for you!"s and "stay in school!"s. I remember he just raised his eyebrows and asked, "what, like a designer? are you going to design ball gowns like Valentino?"

"Haha, no, I'm interested more in concept." 

"LOL. Fashion isn't concept at all, it's just for girls to look good."

At this point I started asking him if he knew any Japanese designers and he responded that no he didn't because they only became notable in the past few years to which I started mentioning early 80s Paris Yohji and Rei (I thought the architect cred maybe he would know some of them because of their store's minimalist designs? or it's most likely because I'm stubborn and don't let anything go) and it completely escalated to the point where we raised our voices a touch. Even though it was maybe a minute long conversation tops, the fact that this man denied that fashion had any concept at all got me so angry I could have burst right then.

This was last summer. Since then I've come to terms with the fact that someone could have such an opposing mentality, mainly because they don't see the thing you find as meaningful or legitimate to you the same way. I think why I got so offended by his "fashion isn't concept" was because the only reason I liked (and like) fashion is because of concept. It's naive to think that fashion is only just Cosmopolitan and TLC style shows because that is media fashion, not actual fashion. True fashion is it's own breed of art, complete with tinges of what society labels as general art within it - for example, some runway shows can be seen as a performance art (early 2000s McQueen and A/W 98 Chalayan come to mind almost immediately). Fashion is also one of the only arts that adds physical real human form and concept to create an overwhelming feeling in the back of your heart like you know you're staring at something miraculous. Look at the ballet dancers wearing CdG S/S 97 pieces, how they gracefully move their body and the juxtaposing tumour-like shapes the dresses create against the viewer's predetermined notion of form. "Dress meets body, body meets dress". Everything about this is in the concept. It takes a toll on us through visual means but that overwhelming feeling of uncomfortable, radical beauty is in the end a conceptual means.

This entire video is about the Lumps and Bumps collection (it's from a documentary on Rei in Japanese on Youtube, but skip to 4:05 if you want to see them dancing while wearing pieces from it).

A lot of opposition is a repercussion of personal subjective ideologies. But sometimes I just want to show a person a video such as the one I just posted or of other runway shows for them to realize that fashion isn't only that one street style blog they read and that one US Vogue magazine they bought eight months ago. But I don't want to seem uptight and pretentious when it comes to fashion. Maybe I am a bit protective of it like a mother to it's cub, but admiring something so much has also taught me to respect what others admire to (as long as it's not like beating someone up with spatulas or throwing dogs from the Empire State Building). 

I am getting tired (aka I'm not reading this back so if I come off as unintelligible I apologize) but here are some poorly lit pictures of what I wore a few days ago.

Harry Potter shaped-Willy Wonka TV room glasses. Also my hair is fading so fast, but on the bright side it's getting whiter fast which means I can dye it again but this time ANOTHER NEON COLOUR :D

Pinned my cardigan up because it's boring without being pinned.

Hiding behind lights and my fading hair :'c

Everything is thrifted except for the sunglasses and the maxi dress which are from H&M.

P.S. This is the most perfect thing I have ever seen ever EVER. It is my actual aim to look like this in negative 1 month. (Does anyone have a source to this? It would be much appreciated bbs)

*This post has no relevant point or thesis to it. It's just a bunch of random closely related shit placed together.

So firstly let me acknowledge what I wore today. I left my camera back where I originally live and so I'm just resorting to Photobooth. I had a very limited choice of what to wear since all of my stuff was here, where I am now, but yeah, TEXTURES. Mad props to you.

Everything is vintage except for the striped skirt which is from H&M.

I got my nails manicured for the first time in ever at my mom's friend's nail salon and she was a bit thrown off when I asked her to omit two of them from being painted blue and to be done in white instead. I don't know why I have a sly grin on my face in the picture though, especially when all the notes in sharpie pen on my left hand are a series of errands I have to run. That involve spending money. AKA I should look genuinely upset in this picture.

This is a jacket I bought a couple of weeks ago from the Goodwill, when I saw it I immediately ran to a mirror and put it on my back and did the Blue Steel look which seemed to be an unconscious reaction. I suppose when you put on an article of clothing covered with MULTIPLE PICASSO PAINTINGS one inevitably tends to do this. In short it's a bad ass jacket and it's the best 5 bucks I've spent in a while.

This is from that book 'Radical Fashion' I was talking about previously (which I still have to finish, I just read three other books though so I'm leaving this one for the very end). It's only one of my favourite collections of EVER - Hussein Chalayan's "After Words" collection from the Autumn/Winter 2000 season. It's amazing in so so so many ways. I always admired Rei for her association with the design aspect of Comme des Garcons and how she perpetually played an integral role in coming up with the concept and execution of the architectural part of the house (i.e shop interiors, furniture, etc.) So when I first saw this collection and saw how Hussein literally integrated the two, essentially making the design his collection and his collection the design, I couldn't help but obsess over it. It also plays out like an installation (nearly all of his collections do), evoking a conceptual artistry as much as it does a series of clothing. 

Here is the video also, which I do recommend. It was definitely intended to be viewed in motion rather than in stills, and it leaves much more of an impact than the images do.

I'll end this post with an excerpt of something I wrote for a creative response assignment for my literary studies class. It has to do with Baudelaire's flaneur - basically someone with a child-like demeanor and sense of astonishment as they walk through a social place buzzing with life. In this paragraph this flaneur is watching individuals, couples, groups, deep in conversation and laughter as he walks by windows during a stroll through city streets.

Continuously in the bins they go, in between blood clots and stolen names, and I forget of this ridden debate as I glare through the shimmer of invisibility at spoken words my eyes don’t hear. But how glorious these conversations seem! A gap between each seat and life is translated through a different set of lens, and yet they all find joy in conjunctions tied together through seams. Different eateries I make my way past, with the silver of each spoon more dull than another, a chair less comforting than the next. But heads still bob back with gaping mouths escaping the echoes of satire still fresh on their breaths. I feel as though I can touch their hearts as they rise and pace, and the simultaneous lives shared through laughter makes my chest peak and suddenly I am unleashing waves in giggles to nothing, in particular, in the grey of the streets.

I never know how to begin with these things linguistically, which comes as quite of a surprise seeing as I ramble consistently, but yet when I write (or type for that matter) I always end up with this abstract incoherency that is totally irrelevant to said topic. I guess I could start by acknowledging that I started school again this Monday. I'm done every week as of 1130am on Thursday (thasrightnuccas) and I have it, I wouldn't say easy, but definitely much more enjoyable than last semester. I just love that I get to read books and essays of authors that not only can I tolerate but am fond of as well. For example, I just finished a book by Anne Carson entitled The Autobiography of Red and am starting on a short story by Juni'chiro Tanizaki about beauty and aesthetics in Japanese culture (a culture that evokes in my opinion an epitomized sense of allure and perfection). Aside from this, my studio classes include realizing colour through paint and sculpture, an introduction to experimental printmaking, and exploring narrative and sequence through photography. 

So there is no doubt that consuming such a wide variety of art and literature has influenced my "style" in a certain way. I use these scare quotes because I don't think I have determined my literal style yet, and thus I don't believe label my own just yet. All I can say is that the monochromatic prevalence (and I mean prevalence) in my daily wear has reduced substantially. Not to say I've lost all appreciation for it, but as I kept being fed all of these things, it sort of shone a light on this limited notion I had of what fashion is. I realized that black and white clothing can only do so much. It's like if Picasso's Blue period expanded throughout his entire life; of course the works would still be brilliant, but he realized that art is this entire spectrum that needs to be discovered. Picasso constantly translated himself. In terms of fashion, his artistic periods could be depicted as styles or eras, as dissimilar as they may be from one another. They are little pieces that form this finished puzzle that we know generally as fashion today. Some people will be more fond of say the monochromatic combinations of Rick Owens' work, other of the elitist royalty that Valentino gowns exude, some (myself included) of the clothing of Rei Kawakubo which typically are deconstructed and placed back together to create breathtaking compositions, others of the androgynous appeal of Ann Demeulemeester's collections, etc - and that's okay. It's just making it past a self-inflicted limitation in succession is all. Once you come to realize the whole is greater than the sum of its parts, then this naiveté is diminished and you tend to see the bigger picture.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that when I didn't acknowledge variety I was stuck in this little bubble of repetition - wearing the same colour schemes, watching similar films, reading the same types of books, etc. I don't know if it was art school that opened my eyes exactly, but straying away from routine took an extremely positive toll. Although I can safely say Japanese fashion is my favourite out of everything else, I'm afraid that if it wasn't for realizing how multifarious not only fashion really is, but art and literature also, I would still be in my monochromatic bubble on this day.

Don't ostracize me if none of that translated very well - I didn't really write it with an envisioned central point or thesis. Just something I've been thinking about in an abstract set of thoughts that I needed to write down somewhere.

I'm not going to go into details about anything else any further, just that I wore this outfit yesterday with a fur coat on top and that these below are some of my favourite photos from editorials, and that clicking on the photos will send you to my Tumblr from whence they came. By the way I'm addicted to that site and you can blame it for my absence here like I've stated before. 

PS. I don't like buttoning blouses unless they're in the wrong button holes. Asymmetry is my new best friend.

Everything I have on is vintage except for the tights which are white translucent ones over top of thick black ones.

I'm not going to put up the picture of the inside of the outfit as a whole, don't ask me why. There's no mystery behind it to be honest, I just disliked the picture and what it depicted. Or something. Either way I didn't even unzip my jacket so you're seeing the version everyone else saw too. I'm just putting up the picture of the Radiohead shirt because I love it too much not to post it.

I'm going to make the rest of this post in bullet form since I like to be lazy and organized.

- I was reading the recent issue of Dansk Magazine the other day and one of the pages was dedicated to the term 'bahnhof chic'. The description was spot on of what I aspired to dress like just a while ago and semi-currently (I can see tinges of it in this outfit actually), and I'm not even going to try and recite it because I will butcher it entirely. If someone could help me out I'd love them forever. If not I'll probably edit this later as soon as I find out.

- In the same magazine the editor was complaining about the "awful techno beats" at the last Rag & Bone show, which made me laugh; Thom Yorke curated the playlist.

- Holt Renfrew is down the street from where I live and I walked into it several weeks ago (see: Yohji Yamamoto rage toon) but didn't spend much time in it. Recently I decided to go again and investiage further and oh sweet mother of god. I sat and pet Issey Miyake pleats for a good twenty minutes I assure you. And don't even say Balenciaga and Holt Renfrew in the same sentence or I'll probably cry. No wait, currently weeping, make that a definitely.

- I'm extremely jealous of Mary Baskett and her collection of clothing that mainly consists of Yohji, Issey and Rei's wearable art. There's a good interview with her here if you wanna watch.

Off to do some work now. And by work I mean watch Freaks and Geeks.

Leather jacket, Forever 21. Radiohead shirt, W.A.S.T.E. store. Skirt, vintage. Belt, vintage. Scarf, H&M. Tote, local underground vintage store.

I hope this post doesn't sound too pretentious, but here goes. Last night as I lay in my bed, an insomniac succumbing to sleep by force, I realized in full what I eventually want to become in life. 

A civil rights environmentalist who documents everything by photo. That's how I'll get by - taking photos of everything. Eventually I'll begin to see the other side of journalism by writing, but only until I come to grow somewhat content with my photography. My literary journalism is flexible - it can range from politics to fashion, as I have interest in both. But I'll only begin literary journalism with one condition; my language is the polar opposite of conventional journalistic diction. I'd rather write with descriptive poetic language. Well, not entirely poetic but more so than generic journalism nowadays. This would obviously take some sort of credentials in the journalism world since it would be the first of it's kind for some time now. If all that ends up being successful, I'd eventually switch from being a full time photojournalist to juggling both simultaneously, while still playing a part in civil rights. After a while I would slowly distance myself from all three as I adopted or had a child with someone I loved. Or something. I would take care of this child and when I found the time span that has passed suitable enough I would begin to write my first and only novel. When (and if) that gets published, I would have a second child. Possibly a third. At this time I would devote myself entirely to my children, but still somewhat manage to do some journalism (both photo and literary) on the side. 

Note #1: My hobbies throughout my life would include painting, sketching, and collecting mass amounts of vinyl.

Note #2: Even though it hasn't been mentioned, fashion would fit in somewhere and have a major influence on it all, like grains of salt and pepper, the condiments to my life.

To be honest, this is one of many, many lives I wish to live out. Basically for the past several weeks I've felt like Esther Greenwood (essentially Sylvia Plath if you really think about it) trying to pick all of the figs from the tree but due to hesitation and selfishness they all fall sheepishly to the ground.

This is an excerpt from a poem entitled Let it be.

Don't let the light fall on the ever sheer life of war;

weep and you will have wept,

see and you will have seen,

be and you will remain to be

however long your days will last.

Dress, H&M. Tights, homemade.

You guys know what Ragetoons are? Well I made my own depicting exactly what happened today when I encountered a vintage Yohji Yamamoto tuxedo cape in my size at the local Holt Renfrew. The ragetoon explains it all.