Pearl

I've been feeling very uninspired lately. London fashion week flew by me, and I haven't even gone back to look through the shows. I've barely looked at Milan, too. I hate my unimaginative funks. There's not supposed to be snow this week, so maybe that will help. I think when my hair grows out and I dye the bottom of it pink, I'll feel 100 percent. (My reasoning for bleaching my hair to get it to look pink is this: After I grow out my hair and dye it, I'm going to want to chop it all off again. So, I'll just cut off all the hair that's pink! I know my logic is perfectly sound.)

(via fashiongonerogue)

How 'bout stopping eating when I'm full up?

I've been holding onto this post for a while, as it's very, very personal and a really sensitive subject. But, it's an important story to tell.

There are many kinds of eating disorders. You've got anorexia, bulimia, food "problems," etc. Reasons why eating disorders develop are definitely not always the same with each person, but in my opinion, it usually boils down to insecurity.

If anything, I had anorexia in high school. My reasons for wanting to be thinner than I already was (which was thin) were 1) I developed a love for high fashion, and I wanted to wear those beautifully constructed clothes I saw in Vogue; 2) I was unable to afford $2,000 dresses made by Zac Posen or a pair of $700 Louboutins, therefore I would have to be a model. Somehow I had it so ingrained in my mind that I actually thought I could do it, despite knowing about the modeling industry's standards (i.e. at least 5'9", 115 lbs, flawless skin, and brilliant bone structure); and 3) being a high-fashion model would surely universalize the fact of my beauty. (No, I do not deny that I am vain.)

So, I started counting calories. I ate salad with tuna for lunch. I freaked the fuck out when I ate too much, debating whether I should throw up the food that I thought was going to make me gain a million pounds. I never threw up, because I knew that I would seriously have to get help. I didn't want help. I wanted to be at least 5'8" (still only 5'7", a height I am completely content with now) and weigh 105 pounds. Skin and bones, skin and bones. That's what I wanted. I thought that was beautiful. Trust me, it's hard to not think it's beautiful when you're bombarded with photos of models whose legs seem to never end, like roots of a tree. It was a dream, a silly pipe dream. Anyway, I didn't talk about it to anyone. Well, maybe that's not true. I do remember once asking a friend if she'd ever thought about throwing up her food. She gave me an odd look and said no.

My senior year of high school, it reached its peak. I counted calories every day. I obsessed over food. Food was my love and my enemy. Then, one day, it stopped. I had plans to go see this modeling agent in Nashville or something. I told my mom what I was doing, and she gave me a resolute no. (I think that may have had something to do with my sister giving a try at modeling. It didn't go anywhere for her.) After that decisive no, I just gave up. I ate normally again. But that year, I did lose weight. I don't remember how much. I do remember thinking it wasn't enough.

My food obsession lay dormant for a while, due to boys coming into my life and paying me compliments about my body. For the first time, I felt desired and sexy. But I noticed that I tended to eat a lot when I was upset. I remember going to McDonald's around 11 p.m. after a "traumatic" experience and ordering a double quarter pounder meal. I went back home, sat on the chair in front of the tv, and ate it while I cried. I didn't finish the whole thing. I think I was too emotionally drained. Sometime later, food really took on its enemy role. Anytime I messed up, anytime I felt bad about myself, I gorged myself with food.

The spring semester of '10 was particularly bad in terms of food-abuse. Really, it was masochism. It was not rare for me to eat five cookies four or five times a week, in one sitting. It was not rare for me to pig out on junk food. I can't even begin to explain how irrational the cycle is. My logic usually goes something like this: "Shit. I just did that. I really just did that? What the hell is wrong with me? (continued self-punishment in the form of words) I need to eat. Scratch that. I want to eat. I am angry, and I want to hurt myself some more." And ate I did.

My food "problem" still remains, but it's not as bad. I don't think about it as much. But, it's still there. Certain friends can attest to that. I don't actively publicize it, because it's not a part of myself that I particularly like. Er, but here I am actively publicizing it...

What was — and still kind of is — missing in me is self-love. It's what's missing in every person who struggles with eating. And eating disorders are not for women only. Why are men working out every day in the gym? Why are they running 3 miles a day? For some, it's about health. For others, it's about attaining the "beauty" standard for men.

And if there's anyone to blame for eating disorders, it's society. We're bombarded with photoshopped images of celebrities, we're told that we can lose 10 pounds in one week, we're told that we can stay young forever if we just do x, y, and z. In the end, the media is telling us we're not good enough.

Well, darling media, you can fuck off. Does this include me? Should I fuck off? I post pictures of beautiful models. Isn't it ironic, don't you think?

The space between

I live in Indianapolis, a city that's clearly not known as a hub of high fashion. Indiana leans towards not just conservative, but extremely conservative. (On a scale from 1 to 10 - 10 being very conservative, 1 being very liberal - Indiana, as a whole, is an 8.) Because of this, most people who live in Indianapolis don't spend a lot of money on high end clothes. We have a Nordstrom, which really is nice. They carry Burberry, Zac Posen, Donna Karen, Ports, and a few other labels that I can't think of at the moment.

I knew all of this before I popped my fashion show cherry last night (I don't remember what the show's title was, but fashion design students from the Art Institute of Indianapolis were the designers), so I wasn't expecting sophistication or CRAZY-done-in-a-unique-and-good-way.

I was not let down. I'll let the clothes speak for themselves.

WARNING FOR YOUR EYES: I am not a photographer.

The last designer constructed a wedding dress right before our eyes! It was very boring, so I didn't bother snapping a picture. I'm not going to go on and on about what's horrible about these clothes, because I think we can all tell. 

One thing I did notice — and I should have realized this when I went to a photoshoot for a local magazine last weekend — that my eyes are accustomed to designer goods. I was 16 when I took an interest in fashion, and I went straight for the expensive, extremely well designed clothes. It's what I like and what I prefer.

The designers who "make it" in the fashion industry, for the most part, don't try to be daring or whatever adjective they're using for a particular season. They just are. They are daring. They are chic. They are sophisticated. They are beautiful. The above designers are only trying to do what the greats have done. (And, I must say this, fashion has its geniuses just like literature, science, music, and classical art.)

This type of thinking translates to real life. In a perfect world, if I want to do something, I don't try to do it, I do it.

On a whiny note, if I see another pair of Jeffrey Campbell shoes, I think I'm going to vomit. Don't get me wrong, I actually like them, but EVERYONE in the blogosphere has at least one pair. I am just plain sick of seeing them. /rant over

See, they're really cute! But I vow now to never buy a pair! Never! I will save my money and buy these Alexander Wang fall 2011 shoes. Right...? Right.

(style.com)

Move for me, I'll move for you

I have writing fatigue at the moment, so let's look at some photos once again, shall we?

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I think this photo is Valentine's Day appropriate, so Happy Valentine's Day!

 (As always, photos not cited are from fashiongonerogue. Yes, I love me some fashiongonerogue.)

Backward Bill

Signals

When the light is green you go.

When the light is red you stop.

But what do you do

When the light turns blue

With orange and lavender spots?

Backward Bill

Backward Bill, Backward Bill,

He lives way up on Backward Hill,

Which is really a hole in the sandy ground

(But that's a hill turned upside down).

Backward Bill's got a backward shack

With a big front porch that's built out back.

You walk through the window and look out the door

And the cellar is up on the very top floor.

Backward Bill he rides like the wind

Don't know where he's going but sees where he's been.

His spurs they go "neigh" and his horse it goes "clang,"

And his six-gun goes "gnab," it never goes "bang."

Backward Bill's got a backward pup,

They eat their supper when the sun comes up,

And he's got a wife named Backward Lil,

"She's my own true hate," says Backward Bill.

Backward Bill wears his hat on his toes

And puts on his underwear over his clothes.

And come every payday he pays his boss,

And rides off a-smilin' a-carryin' his hoss.

 

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Shel Silverstein's poems are like A.A. Milne's Winnie-the-Pooh stories. So simple, yet incredibly clever. I read both Silverstein and Milne when I was younger, but I definitely did not understand them. I read a few Winnie the Pooh stories again this summer, and I couldn't believe how insightful they were. 

After Pooh ate quite a bit of honey and milk at Rabbit's house...

"he started to climb out of the hole. He pulled with his front paws, and pushed with his back paws, and in a little while his nose was in the open again ... and then his ears ... and then his front paws ... and then his shoulders ... and then-'Oh, help!' said Pooh, 'I'd better go back,' 'Oh bother!' said Pooh, 'I shall have to go on.' 'I can't do either!' said Pooh, 'Oh help and bother!' ...

...Christopher Robin nodded. 'Then there's only one thing to be done,' he said. 'We shall have to wait for you to get thin again.' 'How long does getting thin take?' asked Pooh anxiously. 'About a week I should think.' 'But I can't stay here for a week!' 'You can stay here all right, silly old Bear. It's getting you out which is so difficult.' 'We'll read to you,' said Rabbit cheerfully. 'And I hope it won't snow,' he added. 'And I say, old fellow, you're taking up a good deal of room in my house - do you mind if I use your back legs as a towel-horse? Because, I mean, there they are - doing nothing - and it would be very convenient just to hang the towels on them. 'A Week!' said Pooh gloomily. 'What about meals?' 'I'm afraid no meals,' said Christopher Robin, 'because of getting thin quicker. But we will read to you.' Bear began to sigh, and then found he couldn't because he was so tightly stuck; and a tear rolled down his eye, as he said: 'Then would you read a Sustaining Book, such as would help and comfort a Wedged Bear in Great Tightness?' So for a week Christopher Robin read that sort of book at the North end of Pooh, and Rabbit hung his washing on the South end... and in between Bear felt himself getting slenderer and slenderer. And at the end of the week Christopher Robin said,

'Now!'

So he took hold of Pooh's front paws and Rabbit took hold of Christopher Robin, and all Rabbit's friends and relations took hold of Rabbit, and they all pulled together ... And for a long time Pooh only said 'Ow!' ... And 'Oh!' ... And then, all of a sudden he said 'Pop!' just if a cork were coming out of a bottle. And Christopher Robin and Rabbit and all relations went head-over-heels backwards ...and on top of them came Winnie-the-Pooh free! So with a nod of thanks to his friends, he went on with his walk through the forest, humming proudly to himself. But Christopher Robin looked after him lovingly, and said to himself 'Silly Old Bear!'
(story via here)

This isn't the most clever Pooh story, but it shows how much care they have for one another. And I don't think Milne wrote this to promote starvation.

It's all very vague, but I think I got my Pooh Bear before I read the stories. I think I watched the movies first, and then I wanted my own Pooh. I got him when I was seven, and now I'm 22, so we've been cuddle buddies for 15 years. My Pooh looks a bit less healthy than the Pooh below, unfortunately. I mean, he's gone through the atrocities of me puking, crying, and practically being strangled from anger.

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Oops, I didn't know I couldn't speak my mind.

How interesting is it that "chains and whips excite" Rihanna, that sadomasochism (i.e. sadism: enjoy inflicting pain; masochism: enjoy receiving pain) thrills her, when she has a history of abuse? It really confuses me. Otherwise, I plain dislike this video. The editing is shit, the way it was filmed is annoying (e.g. the beginning), and even her awesome red hair does not make up for the atrocity of this video.



 Before Rihanna's take on BDSM, Madonna, in 1995, released the video for Human Nature.



I love this video. The intricate choreography makes this video so brilliant. Madonna's take on sexuality in this video isn't so obvious, though in the past it has been blatant and shameless (like writhing around on the stage in a wedding dress). Unlike Rihanna, she doesn't have to eat a "banana" to show that she likes sex.

She's written a lot of stupid lyrics, like "Doesn't matter, and if it makes you feel good, then I say do it." (Hedonism as an ethical theory doesn't sit well with me.) But, she's also had some great lines, like "Would it sound better if I were a man?" and "Nothing really matters. Love is all we need."

That last lyric reminds me of Björk's All is Full of Love.

Also, can I please talk about how everyone copies Madonna?

1) Kesha versus Madonna

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2) Rihanna versus Madonna

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3) Lady Gaga versus Madonna

Gaga: Italian. Pop singer who's "breaking" new boundaries. Challenges the status quo. An "artist." Can actually sing.
Madonna: Italian. Pop singer who did and still provokes the norms of society. Can actually dance.

Uncharted

I can't get over this photo of Cindy Crawford. Do you see it? She's so woman here. I guess I was a little surprised to have this sort of reaction to a picture of Cindy Crawford. She's off my radar; I never think of her.

It's quite refreshing to see a woman, and not a 16 year old model, in a spread, no?

(photo via fashiongonerogue)

Of spring and randomness

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(the editing of this video is brilliant!)

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For your reading pleasure, here is an ode to spring I wrote in late February of 2008 (i.e the time in which I was trying to sound intelligent, but ended up sounding like a pretentious asshole):

O Spring, why must you hide!
You play a perpetual game of cat and mouse, enticing those who are easily susceptible to irrationality.
Your sly face appears to tease those who love.
Yet their love ceases when you disappear behind the clouds - for the love of most is fickle, and their faith wears thin.

O Spring, why must you be so cunning!
You emerge before we are ready to bask in your majesty, to immerse our skin in your beautiful light.
We take you for granted, O Spring, because it is your desire that we be so unappreciative.
Yes, O Spring, it is your fault!

Please, O Spring, come back! Return! Mock us with all your glory, we don't mind; just come back.

On a completely unrelated note, Rihanna's new album is atrocious. I don't know what I was expecting.
(photos not credited via fashiongonerogue)