GFW 2010: Everything is Holy

The work of Middlesex graduate Liesamarie Schulte, Everything is Holy is a body of work that is memorable in an ephemeral sort of way. Combining two unlikely things, geometric metallics and the fluidity of floorlength tulle, she created exactly what she was going for; looks that inspire landscapes of impossibly lucid dreams. There is something warrior-like about the collection that isn't at all disturbed by the ceremonial type veils and youthful floral appliques. It's absolutely beautiful and reads a lot like a modern day Julia Margaret Cameron photograph, with added square backpacks and delicate cleanliness.

Chapter Four

I heard a high pitched tweet, followed in succession by several low warbles. I opened my eyes to see two birds, the city kind that belong to no particular species outside of science, perched like gregarious kings on a branch that jetted out from a hideously ancient trunk. My tongue was immobilized by the arid climate of my mouth, which tasted salty and stale, like I had slept all night with a saltine cracker pressed against the roof of my mouth, slowing melting its way to a mass of pasty gluten. My neck ached. I had twisted myself into an inhumane sleeping position, curled up like an overgrown toddler trying to seek comfort in returning to the fetal curl.
    I felt a brief seizure of pride that came from my new-found ability to be a legitimized tramp. I thought I deserved a congratulatory laugh from Violet or at least a cigarette. What a low-down, self-deprecating, dirt-crusted, love-blinded fool I still was, even after my night in the park that I shared with what I assumed to be the neighborhood bag lady. She looked completely at ease in her position she had assumed on the bench parallel to mine. As she went about her nightly routine, I noticed the ease of her movements that can only come from a feeling of complete comfort; home. The park was her home. From the corner of my eye I watched her secure her plastic wares in her shopping cart and toddle away, her right foot lagging slightly. I closed my eyes tightly and let out an inaudible moan with a gust of hot air. Heaving my self up, and scraping the sleep crust from the corner of my eye, I decided I needed some direction.
    I patted my left pant pocket, an instinct born from my attachment to technology. There was no phone there, and I suddenly remembered the blonde I had given it to the night before. Either I had asked for her number, or she had asked for mine, but most importantly, I decided giving her my phone was my best chance for escape. My wallet was as lost as my phone, except I couldn’t remember at what point in the previous night it had gone missing. Without any means of communication or any monetary stability, I stood up, arching my back against the smog tinted sunbeams of an early city morning, and began making the fifteen mile trek back to my apartment.
    It would be at least three hours before I would make it back to my refrigerator, which was stocked with newly purchased nothing. Before I even completed my first quarter of a mile, I grew sick of looking at the pavement that I was trotting upon with heavy feet. And then it hit me at a loud, fume saturated intersection five minutes later. I was still in love with Violet and she still didn’t love me. Plus, no one had searched that desperately for me the night before because I woke up in the same bucolic sleeping quarters I had settled into after my stint with the psychic. Now that it was the day after, the sun was shining, and I was going to have to explain myself as every one laughed at my misguided attempts to woo a girl who had no interest in my existence.
    I hated the way the cars lined up behind one another as they waited for the light to turn green. They looked so patient and comfortable sitting there, because they knew eventually the little circular oracle would again turn that instigating shade of green and they would all be free to accelerate and continue traveling. Their little engines were content with sitting idly while the driver assumed that “onward” was the only direction that was possible. I had to gather up the nerve to press the button for the crosswalk because I wanted to melt onto the sidewalk, right there and then just to prevent having to go back to living with the same people that I abandoned. I pressed it though, and it left my fingers smelling metallic. Off the curb I went, joining the masses, traveling by foot, dreading the prospect of the future.

In Which I Rant

“Vegans”
I could go on for days. Let me break it down, real nice and simple.

• If someone were to go on any kind of diet (low sodium, low fat, high fiber, kosher, cannibalistic, etc) it would be incredibly annoying and redundant if that person filled up your Facebook homepage/Twitter feed/Tumblr dashboard/conversation with details on their latest meal and how it’s suited to their dietary needs. What someone eats is their own goddamned business, so therefore, I do not want to hear that you just munched down some vegan snack item, or you are planning a vegan potluck (which usually consists of junk food manufactured and distributed by the same conglomerates who make other products that DO contain animals/animal parts, but just happen to be vegan because they are loaded with artificial preservatives and other space chemicals). I am all for sharing vegan recipes and having genuine conversations about how harmful animal products are to the human body, but if the person I am talking to is eating an Oreo, I won’t be able to focus because I’ll be laughing. Even the occasional, “Oh I just had a delicious vegan (fill in the blank)” or “(name of restaurant) is really fucking tasty” is FINE. But the constant vegan this, vegan that, vegan, vegan, vegan, VEGAN is just obnoxious and makes me want to commit very non-vegan acts of violence.
• Knowing that veganism is a trend right now means that is won’t be a trend in a few years, or however long it takes to die out, because trends by nature, end. Of course there will still be vegans, animal friendly restaurants, and hopefully, new innovations, but the sea of kids that are flocking towards this beacon of “authentic” light are not going to be there to be a part of it. Those who will have moved on will have done so because one of their friends told them they should or they got sick because they didn’t put any effort into maintaining a well balanced diet. Animal consumption will resume because the teenage “revolutionaries” will be tired.
• And because it is a trend, I fear that those who are becoming vegan are doing so for all the wrong, narcissistic reasons. Yeah, vegan restaurants tend to attract some blandly good looking bearded men. However, becoming a vegan so that you may eat at this restaurant and possibly strike up a conversation about animal liberation (you heard some one use this term once, and you aren’t quite sure what it entails, so instead of working it into a logical argument you talk about how cute cows and chickens are) does not count as a valid reason for making a life altering decision.
• I choose not to eat animal flesh because it is terrible for my digestive system, makes me feel tired and gross, and because it’s incredibly taxing on the environment. I also avoid anything with gelatin in it because the idea of anything derived from “hooves” makes me wince. Recently, I’ve abandoned eggs and dairy too due to their high cholesterol levels and their antibiotic/hormone contamination. I’ve been avoiding milk because I’m mildly lactose intolerant, but I’ve still been eating yogurt and cheese. It’s more of an experiment right now, to see if my body prefers to live completely off animal byproducts or if it’s more suited to the occasional smearing of goat cheese (vegetable rennet of course) on freshly baked bread. I spend countless hours joyfully searching out new products and recipes in order to accommodate my dietary decision in a way that is cost effective and beneficial for my whole family. Basically, what I’m trying to say is that I put a lot of thought and effort into my diet. What I choose to eat and where I choose to shop are not choices I take lightly. I enjoy the food that’s in my life because it’s delicious and it makes me feel good (also helped me lose thirty pounds, no big deal). Trendy vegans, “vendies” if you will, typically don’t have a solid reason behind doing what they’re doing. They may say that they love animals, or something vague about the environment but it’s usually obvious that they are abstaining from meat, eggs, and dairy because they are on a hip whim. And they typically don’t abstain for more than a week or two. Maybe three.
• I won’t call myself a vegan because I know that it’s likely I will eat a little bit of cheese, or bake something that requires eggs (cage free, organic) sometime in the distant future. I eat what I want and I don’t brag about it or talk about it unless asked, or in this case, provoked. If others would do the same, I would be less likely to roll my eyes and say of course every time I hear this (cause it totally happens all the time)

“Yeah, so I’m a vegan now.”
“Oh really? For how long?”
“It’s been about four days now I think? I’m getting kind of hungry though. My mom doesn’t know how to make tofu, so I’ve just been stockpiling Oreo cream in a little Ziploc bag in my bedroom. Then some ants got to it and I had to raid those little fuckers. I fucking hate bugs.”
“Aren’t bugs technically animals? Do you ever feel like a hypocrite when you kill one? I mean, I know I would.”
“Huh?”
“Nevermind. So why did you choose to become vegan again?”
“Well my friend got hired at this vegan place and he’s been sneaking us out food for free. But he got fired recently for showing up hungover like ninety percent of his shifts.  That had a great impact on my decision. I liked the free food, so I figured why not? Also, I’ve really been feeling connected to animals lately. I couldn’t bring myself to eat one. It’s  probably because I own a cat.”
“Isn’t your mom always bugging you to feed it though? You told me you hated that thing.”
“Yeah, well she takes a cute picture. So have you ever considered being a vegan? We should do brunch sometime.”
“I have considered it, but right now I just don’t want to risk my health due to bad planning or-“
“You know that is really selfish of you. I’m sorry, but there are animals dying. And you, you are responsible.”
“I don’t know how you’d like me to respond to that.”
“Yeah, whatever. I have to go anyways. My blood sugar is dangerously low and I need some Oreos.”

Spazzmatic fingers are trying to steady themselves in the warm space between here and my low ceiling. I see no calligraphy obsessively scrawling itself out on the invisible parchment I keep in front of me. I hear a shrill harmonica trying to make itself known, but I don't have any extra space in my ear canals.  I do feel the pointed heels of a Harlequin girl standing on my collar bone. She's taking in long drags of what smells to be foreign smoke, laughing while I try to settle into something more serious. Her painted lips don't part, but she's making her presence and her intentions obvious. She's preaching single-mindedness. I wouldn't mind listening to her sermon if it didn't distract me from being a habitual thinker, criss-crossing different optic paths every other day. But she is the only one I find myself talking to; it's a one sided conversation with a silent clown. If I starve myself of her influence, I feel like I used to; a super charged version of a teenage girl who does impossible things. But if I give in to her crooked smile, I am hoisted up into this parallel universe where there is nothing but limited speaking and infinite physical contact. I'm going to let her stay on my shoulder for a while, kicking up her fishnet legs, hissing at intellectual pursuits. I enjoy being purposefully useless, with no dancing calligraphy making it hard to see in front of me. And, it steadies my hands.

Syncopation

Resort 2011: Part One (In which I spend more time discussing my love for a movie about statutory rape)

Jean-Jacques Annaud's The Lover is set in 1929 Indochina, where the streets are trodden upon by hurried shuffles and heavy rain drops. The story is one of forbidden lust between a young, impoverished girl and a wealthy Chinese business man. I've heard this movie compared to soft core porn numerous times, and I've also heard many complain that the actors are nothing but pretty faces. However, despite the sometimes uninteresting plot line, I really liked The Lover; maybe if only for the clothes. The young girl, who is never given a name, wears the same silk dress throughout the movie, along with her man's fedora. Once she is beyond her mother's sight and control, she also smears on red lipstick in a way that is daring, yet sloppy because of her innocence. While she claims she has no love for the man she visits in secret in the Chinese quarter, they develop an attachment to each other that goes beyond their violent passion. While they were becoming attached to each other, I was falling in love with the costume designer. I know that there was not much work to be done to create a singular look for the leading woman, but it's just so GOOD. The silk dress has been patched and re-sewn numerous times, yet still it's the dress' cleanness that makes it so beautiful. It serves its function; to be a useful garment of protection and attraction.

Which brings me to Erin Fetherston Resort 2011












 

The lines vary between crisp and slightly flowy, with a masculine twinge. The collection is effective and mature, yet maintains functionality which is why it reminded me so much of the young girl's outfit and perspective. (Hello added Spring/Summer inspiration)

A Brief Debriefing

One of my contributions to the latest Sweat (link in the sidebar). Click to enlarge and buy a copy!

Last night I partook in high school tradition and went to prom. The first thing I noticed was the gyrating sea of teenagers, overdressed and made up of mostly unfamiliar faces and the DJ who was positioned in front of, what looked like, the gate to hell. But the evening turned out to be a visceral heaven on Earth. I want to relive it. Right now. 

I will be free of educational obligations in two weeks which means more regular posting and the completion of some of my little projects. Somehow I'm going to make outfit postings a more frequent thing too.

Summer; it's practically here. I've seen so many summertime inspiration posts that if I see one more, my frothy/pastel/lacey/sheer/sunray/floweryfield eye glaze will become permanent. Having said that, I still crave more, even though I'm afraid that by mid-July I'll be going through some chunky professor cardigan phase but I'll have to settle for sun dresses and fabric that is barely there.

And, I want to thank every single one of you who take the time to read my stuff. I didn't start this blog with the intention of networking the way I have and I think that's why I enjoy it so much. I've been really lucky to meet and work with some genuinely talented girls who share my passions and obsessions.

Now go listen to Egyptian Shumba by the Tammys and dance your way through the week.

Chapter 3

My right toe felt engorged and as though it had it’s own tiny heart, the painful result of my assault on the brick wall outside the bar. Miraculously, I had found my way into a taxi and as I sat on the vaguely damp leather seat, my mind wandered the streets of the city, looking for Caleb. I was trying to convince myself that I didn’t care about the pale faced boy who had called me two days ago to tell me he missed the way my hair always got stuck in my eyelashes when I slept with mascara on. Two weeks ago I was sure that I didn’t want anything to do with him if it involved lips or hands or anything near my bed. Yet, I kept thinking how desperately I wanted him in the taxi, sober and nowhere near death, with his timid arm curled around my shoulder, my forehead nested against his neck. I had forgotten why it was that I was so supremely confident that he was nothing more than a body with eyes that looked dead half the time. I had a copy of the letter with me that I had dropped in his mailbox fifteen days ago in a dramatic declaration of my undying non-attraction to him. I needed to remind myself, so I uncrumpled the cranberry stained pages and began reading, moving my mouth along with my own words as light from the lamps and signs above throbbed in and out of the back seat of the taxi.


Caleb,

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be me. As I sat in my kitchen tonight, with the oily skin I always have after a day where I’ve been awake longer than six hours, I explained to my brother my latest theory. It’s a doughy, not-even-half-baked type of notion; the kind that the stringy haired kid with a pock marked face who murmurs to himself in the back of the class would come up with.

    “Sometimes, if I think I want something badly enough, and I obsess long enough, the universe gives me exactly what I want. I mean, what I thought I wanted. So, I must control the universe then. My manipulation is that good.”

I was talking about you.

He stared at me for only a split second before we both started laughing. My lips have been cracked since that day you made me walk from my apartment to the drugstore in the cold to buy myself Chapstick because I told you on the phone that my lips were bleeding. That made me feel helpless, which I hated so I threw away the Chapstick as soon as I got home. It hurt me to smile and laugh with my brother.

“What the hell though? Seriously, that’s not good is it?”
“No, it’s not good!”
“I know, I know!”
“We’ve got some bad habits.”
“Yes we do.”

But these bad habits: my delusions, my obsessions, my skill set of manipulation that borders on sociopathism, is that me? I’d like to think it isn’t because that wouldn’t make me anything but a plastic doll reciting predetermined phrases. But I have to make room for these traitorous pieces of darkness that sometimes surface if I’d like to keep this whispering voice of enlightenment within earshot because that is what is driving me to stay alive. It’s the only companion I’ve feared true abandonment from, the positive, proportional counterpart to all that is intrinsically bad about me. The better a person is at finding the precise TV station they are looking for, the worse they are at carrying on a conversation that isn’t centered around the plot line of a grainy daytime drama. With me, it seems like the more I am able to accomplish independently, the worse I am at interacting without becoming something independent of my innermost goodness. I thrive on dimness and living in a self-imposed moral fog, because it’s fun and dangerous and has proven to result in brilliance and disaster. However, I am by no means a person that intentionally seeks out opportunities to hurt people or myself but I’m fucking sure I’m going to hurt you.

So as I was thinking out loud in my kitchen tonight, the tea kettle hissing and my brother still laughing at my ridiculous attempts to explain why I am the way I am, I saw you (figuratively of course). I think that you are the greatest thing that’s resulted from my conniving and my wayward values. When I look at you, I see this innocent person who needs to see the good in me. I know that you’ve convinced yourself it’s there and I hope you’re right. When I want to know what I am or who I am, I think of you because you’re more than a mirror. I dredge myself in these lies and when I see you digest them, absorb them, let them become a part of you, and I see you become the living lie that I’ve been telling myself. I wanted someone to fulfill my self-indulgent fantasies and you were there, vulnerable and in love with the idea of perfection. I lied to you without even speaking a single untruth. I used my eyes; I can make them say whatever I want them to. But your goodness and your decency has kept me attached to the image of your face which is the first thing I see when I wake up. Then, I realize I wish you were actually there to be lonely with me.
What I am trying to say is that I don’t know who I am or what I want. I’m reckless, self-destructive, and observant of everyone but myself. At times, there is nothing more that I want than to be alone with you, in the dark literally and figuratively. Then other times, I see myself dancing my way into some stranger’s life just to feel the rush of someone new. I can’t do that, I tell myself, because it makes me that girl I don’t want to be. But I thought it. And I willed it. I just don’t know how the universe will respond to my latest disturbing inquiry.

What matters, is that I do want it. And because I want it, unabashedly and powerfully, that want is a part of me. I want lust, not love. What I don’t understand is why you want me and all my bad habits.

I do love you though, strange as that may seem. But please, don’t come over for a while.

Violet