So, um, as you might have noticed, all three of my cameras are currently out of commission. I swear I haven’t lost interest in this blog. Quite the opposite, in fact – I’m slavering to take pictures again. I really miss capturing myself. Every time this happens, I realize how much of my life really is conducted through snapshots. I sort of forget what I look like without outfit pictures. I forget how to live in my body. (And I got a couple of really really awesome new[old] vintage dresses that are crying out for the camera’s eye. That too.)
Luckily, I’m taking the whole lot of them into the shop today, so I should be back up and running within a week. In the meantime, have these shots that Holly took of me back in May, down by the river in the fledgling summer.
You ever feel like certain outfits are just straight-up cursed? They look bangin’ in person, but EVERY. TIME. you try to photograph them, something goes horribly wrong?
Yeah, that would be this dress.
Fed up with how so much of my vintage seems to be simply disintegrating, I’ve invested in a few high-quality reproduction dresses. This one’s from Maggie Tang, and the construction is excellent for its price – excellent period, even. Though several reviews said “perfect for a bridesmaid”, and I had to laugh – you know I’m wearing this sucker out day-to-day, because “absurdly, inappropriately formal” is the name of my game.
The dress arrived a week and a half ago, and I’ve worn it at least five times since then, but I could not for the life of me get a good photo of it. The je ne sais quoi just wasn’t there.
So on Sunday I put my hair in pin curls, I did a full face of makeup, and I zipped myself into the dress. Yeah, bitch, today’s the day.
And then the following happened within 20 minutes:
- I took out my pin curls to find they had not set even a little
- the soles of my shoes came unglued, forcing me to perform a Ministry of Silly Walks goose-step all the way outside
- my camera fell off its *%*(&*($&^* tripod and its metal shell split almost in half
- I got so nervous and frustrated that I started sweating through my makeup
So I grabbed the shots I could and went inside to sulk in front of Netflix like the good Lord intended.
Cursed, I tell you. That’s what I get for buying non-vintage.
Like any counterculture darling, I’ve always been a little jaded about the Fourth of July. As recently as last year, I was all “okay, but do we really need to celebrate ‘Murica?” I would enjoy the barbecue and fireworks, but only couched in a sufficient layer of irony.
Sometime in the past few months, I’ve turned a corner. And I’m liking it. Yes, America is flawed, deeply so. Yes, some of us are much more free than others. But I’m no longer feeling cognitive dissonance between acknowledging these things and shamelessly adoring good-ol’-fashioned kitsch. I still keep my distance from nationalism, but I don’t think engaging with cheesy cultural symbols is a bad thing.
Everything is problematic. Love the things you love, even (especially) if they’re imperfect. Life is too short for ironic joys.
Holly and I are kittening at the Vermont Burlesque Festival in T minus two days. Eep! We get red carpet photos and invitations to the performers’ brunch, which makes me die a little – I get to munch waffles and mimosas with real live performers? People who do this for a living, not a lark? I can’t wait.
The kittens’ colors are navy, purple, gold, and orange. I’m more than a little frustrated that I can’t default to red polka dots, but I do appreciate the opportunity to branch out. Here’s a preview of my Thursday night costume: moon goddess.
In the name of my new tattoo (less than a week away!), I spent last night browsing Etsy for scandalous backless swimsuits. Never too early to start planning beach bonfires and other assorted illegalities. And I happened to find some old modeling shots of me from my days with Owlhurst Loft Vintage. The shop is on something of a hiatus while Erin, its curatrix, prepares to expunge her first kid. Crotchlings are expensive, though, so she could probably use a few extra sales. So, in addition to the smexy shots of swimsuit-clad me, check out some of Owlhurst’s other treasures. Click on each photo for its link.
The bad news is I’ve become a slug, capable mostly of shivering in bed, designing elaborate future tattoos, and eating tortellini. The good news is listlessness breeds inspiration. If you need a little slice of summer to drag you through the last of the hibernation, then ya need a little slice of summer. And nothing channels summer better than the rockabilly beach queen we all deserve to be.
Come March 15th, I’ll have a brand-new tattoo on my right shoulder blade. The appointment’s been booked and the down payment made. Soon comes round three of my endeavor to ink every inch of my skin.
Oh, you thought I was going to tell you what it was? That’s cute. You can wait like goddamn everyone else.
Saturday’s shoot with Brent satisfied a few of the aesthetics I’ve been wanting to realize for a while. In the span of a couple hours, we cycled through several distinct iterations of my artistic vision. From pinup to madonna to wizened thaumaturge, I got to be all my favorite versions of myself. So I’ll be posting the photos in parts, each corresponding to a different theme. In these shots, I’m paying tribute to my girls Bettie, Dita, and Joan. For extra-retro seduction, I’m wearing a blouse hand-sewn by my great-grandmother.