…three years ago, my own ghost came in the form of a bearded, tatted up man with stick legs and Prada boots. A fashion dude. He was a handsome nobody—anonymous and available, occupying but a few short rows of a Google image search query. He traveled the circuit—Milan, Paris, London, New York—sitting side-by-side with those famous fashion bloggers, the It Girls, buyers from Bergdorfs, but nobody cared about him yet. He, like most normal people, slipped under the radar. He emailed me from London the first time he was shot for the Sartorialist, looking solemn and gray in front of a stone wall, blue coat belling around his narrow frame, hands crossed politely in front of him. “Don’t make fun of me,” he begged, as I sent him the choicer of the comments already swiftly developing beneath the image, delighting in the panty-dropping hysteria my sort-of-boyfriend was capable of causing.Click here to read more.
I’ve been wanting to go to Poland for a long time. “Warsaw: Spring Break 2014” just has this unshakable ring to it. Yet despite its seemingly universal appeal—the siren’s call of the Eastern Bloc—I haven’t been able to get anyone over there with me. Everyone’s all, “Let’s go to St. Barths” or “Miami for the weekend, anyone?” and I’m standing here, alone, with a coach class ticket from LOT and tears welling in my eyes. Well, this latest music video from the Motherland featuring supermodel Anja Rubik isn’t likely going to sway any of my friends. Even though it should. Because it is amazing. Amazing in the way MS-DOS was amazing, in the way PAC-MAN was amazing, in the way all of those technological advances of my childhood I could reference right now and date myself horribly—Carmen Sandiego, MYST, a late-model ‘80s Motorola—are amazing.
I write to you from the edge of my twenties, my last week before I hit the big 3-0, Monday, March 24th.
As a kid, I’m not sure what I expected this time to look like, whether I would have been married for six years by now or had kids already wondering what they were going to be when they “grew up,” but I’m absolutely positive I did not imagine this: Sitting at the window of my office, looking out onto the salt-crusted, barren- tree-lined street of my New York neighborhood, employed to talk about things such as the significance of getting older. No, this is not what I imagined at all.
Amy is hovering over me while I flip through the photos on my iPhone, passing tiny cubes of Brooklyn sunsets, Internet screengrabs, and a rather embarrassing number of what I would like to call “meaningful selfies.”
“Whoops, ugh, sorry. That’s totally annoying,” I say, quickly scrolling past the images I took that morning, camera held high above my bed in an attempt to document the groggy aftermath of a pretty big night out — hand wrapped around face, bare leg draped over the bed, blurry and out of focus. You know, uh, art? Because Amy is a good friend she says something to the tune of, “No, I love it! It’s great!” forfeiting an opportunity for game judgment and eyeball rolling.
…it got me thinking about mimicry in love, and the effect of the concept of “permission” in relationships when we get desperate—again—enough. At a certain point, dating feels like walking through a neighborhood Ralph’s, filled with big name brands and bleached white bread when all you want is a real peach off a real tree, some butter churned by hand. But you’re not going to get this in this proverbial Ralph’s, so you look for the next best thing: Some “peach pie” ice cream. That’ll have to do, you think. This is the best it’s going to get. And so you sit down with a spoon and some sticky fingers, never even thinking to just leave the damn store.
Czech model Bara Holotova has one of those faces that you don’t have to do anything to—there’s no need for much maintenance beyond maybe a smear of Chapstick and a flick of Maybelline. Her cheekbones do the talking. I mean, you could keep change in those gorgeous little hollows. Still fresh into her teens, Bara started off in 2007, a pretty little Lolita with a wicked pout and porcelain skin. If Anna Paquin, Behati Prinsloo, and Lara Stone had a baby (if only!), it would be Bara. And so our little supermodel/superactress hybrid has been doing the rounds for the last few years, switching up her hair like most people change their pants. Just because you don’t technically need to do anything with a face like that, doesn’t mean agencies aren’t going to want to bleach, chop, and shred your hair into the 8th dimension on the off chance you might finally book, you know, Prada.
Picklebacks. Bowling balls. Unicorn balloons. Someone over at The Style Con turned thirty this weekend and Brooklyn photographer Drew Innis was there to document the occasion. And for all you kids out there born in the ’90s wondering who’s aging faster than Father Time over here, we’re not telling… no matter how loud you beg.
Back when I lived in Los Angeles and I was absolutely 150% positive I was going to be a famous actress, I did what every other girl who thinks she’s going to famous does: I enrolled in acting class. [Note: A lot of girls who think they’re going to be famous actresses simply stop wearing panties under their knockoff Herve Leger and start doling out BJs. Acting class is technically optional. Do whatever is best for you.] So began my foray into feeling regularly uncomfortable standing up in front of a room of people sitting in the dark, all of whom watched on carefully to see if I was capable of emoting like a Real Live Girl. The results were hit or miss… mostly miss. Although I do recall knocking it out of the goddamn park doing a scene from Gia, where I tell my lesbian ex-girlfriend I am dying of AIDS. I cried more during those ten minutes than I did when my grandma died. (Don’t judge me; she was something between a b-word and a c-word and gave all my inheritance away to my cousin. Thanks, G-ma!).
Canadian model Janice Alida arrived on the scene in 2011 with a solemn stare and a serious pout, the type of face that reminds me of someone’s sad suburban wife, waiting at home for a dude who never answers his phone when he’s on “work trips.” (Alida is, in fact, married, and though I don’t know the details, let’s just assume happily.) Porcelain skinned and blue eyed, Janice was rocking that monochromatic, dishwater look my LA agency gamely stripped me of ten years ago because they didn’t know what they were doing. “Go brunette,” they demanded. “You’ll look more editorial” – which would have been great if I were actually living in a city where you could book Vogue shoots. The type of modeling gigs you get in LA are more along the lines of dancing around a beach in a pink latex bikini singing “Don’t you want a Fanta? Fanta?” Think cheesy. Think lucrative. Think anti-fashion bullshit.*
The following is an excerpt from my piece “Another Oscar Recap That You, Like, Totally Should Read” as seen on The Style Con:
Last night all of America gathered around their flat-screen televisions to participate in that age-old pastime, the Oscars. Yes, it’s a night of glitz and glamour, jewels and gowns. It’s the ultimate opportunity for Hollywood’s elite to twirl on the red carpet, wave at scary fans, relish in the fact they’ve made it — out of all the hundreds of thousands of delusional, striving, starving actors who come to Los Angeles with ten dollars in their pocket and a creepy uncle back home, they’ve beat the odds. And what do we do? Tear them down while stuffing our faces with homemade nachos and various carbs those bitches ain’t had for WEEKS. It’s an evening where we, the unfamous plebeians of the world, can shout our shamefully judgmental and wholly inconsequential commentary from the sidelines. Like it matters.