I’m interested less and less in straight-up no-frills outfit posts, preferring now to shoot (my approximation of) fashion editorials. My first love is and always will be telling stories. I was reading and writing by my fourth birthday, too unbearably itchy not to share myself. According to my mother, surges of imagination would put me in a near-trance. Even now, I just plain want to make stuff. Words, art, love, theatrics, war. And I feel like outfits posts are more…regurgitating than making. Now, I can deface a gorgeous dress with drool just like the rest of you, but the bloggers I really look forward to reading are the ones who make their entire world a canvas. The clothes are but one part. In my head, I’m a proud absinthe-swilling louche, my world a goddess-appointed flapper den. I want everything I produce to fall in line with my highly stylized universe. What’s the fun of clothes, really, if you aren’t constantly making them your own?
“When a woman says, ‘I have nothing to wear!’, what she really means is, ‘There’s nothing here for who I’m supposed to be today.”
We’re going through what I sincerely hope will amount to a January thaw. In other words, the temperatures have climbed timidly to almost-freezing. These photos are a paean to the spring that (now Christmas is over) can’t arrive fast enough.
Dress: Goodwill Bracelet & Shoes: Old Gold Necklaces: Accumulated Tights: Gifted