Ponzi Schemes

“The storyline is that Kanye is on one end of the stage and I’m on the other, and the whole show, we are trying to get to where each other is,” she said. “I want something that he has, which is the fame, and he wants something that I have, which is home, and my humble beginnings. So we battle each other throughout the entire performance to steal each other’s spaces…So I’m essentially on a quest to kill Kanye West to steal his fame."

Fascinating. Just fascinating, Gaga. Have you ever heard of a Ponzi scheme? Yes, like Bernie. Yes, the very kind: enterprises of mismanaged funds, vacuous contents, and overzealous ambitions. Well, Gaga is one. Smokes...mirrors. Costumes..."art"...stop insulting my intelligence. 

Closeted farm kids may find you transgressive, but you seem just like any other boring white girl that co-opts gay culture to your exploitative ruin. Poker face...blah blah blah. I'm bored. Where's Bjork?

Purple Reign

Alice Walker once wrote that perhaps the person upstairs was merely showing off when he/she created the color purple. And y'know, upon further investigation, isn't purple such a lavish color? Isn't it so proud and lush and, well...just gratuitous? RiRi apparently gathers that, as well...and how! Well played though. Off to execute a similar look for Fall/Winter: NARS need be amply supplied. 

CC Coco on this

"One day, they'll kill to dine with us!"

                  --Gabrielle "Coco" Chanel, Coco Avant Chanel

Is it ever difficult to spot a powerful man, no matter the size of the room, the crowd, the man himself? I would have to argue no. There are generally tell-tale signs, like their uncomfortably quiet nature, shrill tone that demands--nay, commands--attention, and more often than not, beautiful female companion who rarely leaves their side. Humility is always encouraged, but never promised. A powerful man never has to comment on his wrath...it has preceded him. But if goaded, if pushed to that point, he'll never let you forget how much he most certainly controls. Books, plays, movies are developed around his legacy. He is immortalized often, to be replicated in another individual. Rinse, repeat: history always repeats itself in the next generation.

   But what of powerful women? There is certainly an archetype, no? She, who gives it all up for the chance at success. And by "all" I do mean love, family, children. She realizes her path, her destiny, her sealed fate (?) early-on but works often to prove it wrong. Yet tragedy strikes and she must adhere to the path of her stars. She succumbs to her talent, and becomes a success. Alone at the top....makes a girl sometimes wish for mediocrity...which is an ill-fate, all in of itself.

   After watching the new Coco Chanel movie last night starring Audrey Tatou and a hypnotizing Alessandro Viola (w-o-w), I thought of how unconventional women so often have to give up on ideas of normalcy in order to simply breathe without restraint, hesitation. You want so badly for life's simplicity to apply to you, but it never does. Just as much as you are celebrated for your unique streak of independence, as much as you are lauded for your fearlessness, and that clever little mouth of yours, you're more often than not, damned for it. You have to compromise at some point, even if that means compromising your future. For Coco, that meant focusing on her brand and her "fortune", and remaining true to herself at all costs (that cost would, of course, be love).

    But as the movie argued, Coco always understood this. She used sex, love, relationships to get her what she wanted, which was ultimately something of her own. She was incredibly progressive and gifted, and after the death of her true love, focused. Something in me immediately responded to that, I don't know why, but I was really fascinated with how she was able to compartmentalize many of her dalliances with men into "business" and "pleasure". I guess she saw the facade in it all..."all" being men and women. Oh, is that bitter of me? Ugh, who cares. It's true. She carved out her own idea of love (for a time) and was happy (for a time), all whilst being creative and herself. For a woman, at that time--nay, at any time--is something to be in awe of.

     What I cannot reconcile, however, is how the legacy of Coco has since been suppressed to make way for the almost inane luxury line we know today. I doubt most women who wear Chanel at present are independent thinking or find themselves in a constant struggle to preserve their id. If that's presumptuous of me, I apologize. But more than likely, I am right. In fact, I know I am. I won't lie, though: I would kill for a Chanel quilted, but I believe the bag has come to stand for things that I'm not comfortable endorsing which is 'sameness' at (literally) any cost. Which kinda sadly dismisses Coco's impact altogether, wouldn't you say? 

                                 

RiRi takes flight...

RiRi spins gold out of hay here...although, i do think the blonde was a mistake.  

"I'm so dope...like red-bottoms

...you gotta' have 'em/you glad you got 'em."

                          -"I Know", Jay-Z

Humungo-crusho!

They call it a "stoner smile", one of those broad grins that begins from one ear and ends at the other. They suggest ease, relaxation, an inside joke you'll never quite get ("you kinda had to be there"), and when attached to the face of Kid Cudi, well..., a stoner smile just seems to be adorable. Ugh, I'm a sucker for the kid's rhymes and his goofy demeanor, which seems to suggest that he doesn't take himself too seriously--or rather has found a way to wrestle with those inner-demons that only a stoner knows too well. He's changing hip-hop, quite literally, by doing something incredibly innovative with his gift...although in this pic, it seems he's just busy breaking my lil' indie heart. Awww.... 

Quick quips...

I don't know if you know this about me, but I suffer from "social reactance", which essentially means that whatever you like, I hate. On principal, on instinct...just because. So when Vogue Enterprise was shoving Gwyneth-Paltrow-as-"style-icon" down my throat for many years, I refused to swallow the pill. I refused to drink that damn kool-aid. By default, by genetic and class happenstance, I believe Ms. Paltrow has had access to "style" rather than being fraught with it. But I don't know now...maybe it was motherhood, maybe it was landing Chris Martin, maybe it was her inexplicable friendship with one, Beyonce Knowles, I don't know. But I've warmed up to the thespian, and her wardrobe has certainly generated some heat with me. Always polished (she went to Spence, for goodness sake), Gwyneth always seems to add a real post-modern read to femininity, which I enjoy. Always working with tones, she'll take a high hem-line, but add it with dark, masculine booties, a tailored blazer, or really ostentatious accessories. Throw in a vintage tee, and you've got the mix that most women are wanting these days: an outfit that generates enough attention, but not leers. Social reactance solved. 

The Men's Section...

"If you notice a lanky, natural, decidedly unfussy-looking beauty in the sole company of men, possibly swilling neat drinks and swearing, albeit soft-spokenly, like a sailor, chances are that woman is a Ram. Being Aries is an attitude: Like some ardent but aloof Hemingway heroine, she freely inhabits decidedly masculine milieus, fraternizing with pals who may easily double as sex partners."--Starsky + Cox's, Sextrology, pg 36.

   

   I grew up under a roof with two brothers and one domineering father. If I wanted to be noticed or taken seriously, I had to catch up; I had to stay on my toes. I had to do my homework on the subjects of politics, sports, movies, music, culture; I had to cross my "t's" and dot my "i's". I could not fret with the silly dalliances and frivolity of "femininity", behavior which resulted in a quick-tongue, an aggressive attitude and will, and a lack of domestic skills. It's made me stick out like a soar thumb amidst my girlier-friends: a slight tomboy whose impulses towards fashion and luxe were both femme and homme. I didn't wear make-up until two years ago, but spent most of my money on clothes, fashion magazines, and the rest. I slip easily out of my Chloe platforms and into my Nike Air Dunks at the end of the day, and shorn all my locks recently (save for one side) much to the chagrin of my mother.

   Although I love sky-high heels, I don't like to be uncomfortable. I don't like bells, whistles, fluff. I need to be able to move freely, unconstrained in my clothing, while pulling off an effortless look of measured cool and sexiness. So maybe that's why recently when I found myself in the J. Crew Men's section, I felt like I had stepped into my closet. Or at least the one in my head. 

   A dear friend of mine works--scratch that, runs--a New York location on the Upper West Side. Although his title is not official, rather more implied, he flits about that two-leveled enterprise with the attitude of a veteran, wielding power he may (or may not actually) possess. However, for unknown reasons, he goes about unregulated. But regardless, I went to visit this dear friend at work, as we mostly conduct little fashion shows, talk smack about his co-workers, and plan meeting up after his shift for more of the same.

    Except on this trip, I was decidedly more distracted by the Fall men's collection. Mmm yes, the Red Wing Irish Setter boots spoke to me as soon as I arrived. The shrunken gray tees, chambray button downs, and flannels all cooed in my ear. Was that a Barbour jacket?! With a drawstring waist, which would instantly give me shape and form?! Was it waxed?! I slammed by bag to the ground and began trying things on, styling as I went. I pulled the arms up on the chambray and rolled them. I figured it would go perfectly with a myriad of titty tanks I have, and my distressed Current Elliott black jeans or my Acne Hex boyfriends in stonewash. I could pair it all with my Red Wing Irish Setter boots, and maybe a red lip to emphasize my play on gender. Jeez, I was like the Naomi Wolff of J.Crew....

     When I looked at myself in the mirror, my very short haircut only emboldened more by my "lumber girl" pastiche, I was so in love. What's up with J.Crew these days?, I muttered to myself. Doing another look around it was obvious that Drexler was trying to sell a lifestyle here with his new collection. A steampunk vision of the future, that resides solely on a post-modern read of the past. Meaning, I really liked those boots and that flannel because it imitated an entirely different, rural world I was unfamiliar with, but had "idealized all out of proportion." Paul Bunyen's world. Or maybe Ernest Hemingway's (ha!). I was supposed to drink whiskey in my loft, while listening to the sounds of '60s folk or a 2009 musical artist's impression of '60s folk. My dog, Walter, sat idly by on a Navajo, paint-spattered rug and responded to the smells in the kitchen, which was most likely something beefy, like a fancy pot-pie, fixed with meat from the butcher. I was professional but creative. Successful but not rich-rich. I enjoyed literature and art. In fact, J. Crew was telling me what art to like.

     Having collaborated with some of the art world's newest and most established guard, J.Crew peeked into the closets and studios of a few. Which was interesting, considering one of those artists, Lucien Smith, I had actually met before at one of J.Crew's rivals: my employer, A.P.C. . All of 20, he's admittedly adorable and apparently taking the art world by storm with his work. I was intrigued. I would love to track this fellow down for an interview for Huffington Post. Maybe he likes the Red Wing Irish Setters too? Although he admitted he didn't have a fashion uniform and was secretly working on two new projects.... Regardless, I found his inclusion in all of this telling, instructive,...deliberate. J. Crew was resisting its rather vanilla roots of loafers with cuffed jeans (although that look is also appealing), and trying to edge in on the turf of Steven Alan, RRL, and Rag & Bone. They build a culture and lifestyle up around you. You buy the clothes, because it represents you, your tastes. And they do it all on a bigger budget, with a smaller price-tag. It is focused, shrewd, detailed. I mean, I fell for it and I am certainly not their target customer.

    Interestingly enough though, Vogue also agrees. I was flipping through October's issue with the lovely Michelle Williams on the cover, and they had a spread so pointedly titled, "Take A Hike" (pg. 180) which mirrored my own fascination with the men's section. I mean, what is it about that section? Who knows, but I'm sold. And so are another pair of Red Wing Irish Setter boots.... 

                                 

                             

I read it for the articles...

After my October 2009 issue of GQ was found peeking out of my Mayle Dioux bag on the train today, with actress Olivia Wilde's lithe frame sprawled across the publication's cover with nothing covering her teeny-tiny bits and pieces but a teeny-weeny, jewel-encrusted two-piece, eyes were upon me. What was I doing with that?! What was I doing with a nudie-rag, a gentleman's quarterly, a men's-mag?, the stares seemed to suggest. I mean, to be quite honest, is there some kind of primordial truth that keeps me from reading a men's magazine? Even if that magazine is GQ? Is that odd to see a stylish woman, be she straight, gay or otherwise, entirely engaged by the scribblings on men's fashion? Or hear her giggling to herself while reading a profile on one of her favorite musical artists, GirlTalk? Can she not catch up on the new happenings in pop culture, or be informed on global politics without someone peeking over shoulder, policing her reading material? 

   I mean, yes, I know that woman is naked on page 180, and usually my feminist-ing self would find such imagery exploitative of the woman-in-question's hoo-hah, but dammit I love GQ. I just do. I hate to say it, but I've given up on ol' Vogue. We don't talk like we used to, y'know. We've grown distant: I've matured, while she's remained static and the same. I want to communicate more openly, freely, honestly, while she's set on staying tight-lipped and unresponsive. So was it really such a surprise when my September-issue this year went un-opened? She knew I only bought it out of habit. How else to explain my near-tattered copy of GQ that was in and out of my purse each time I road the subway, had lunch, or was reading in bed before I slept at night?

    I had found a new companion. One who was friendly, accessible, and still chic. We became intimate over drinks and laughs; we shared a cigarette outside of a crowded metaphorical party, while exchanging dialogue about this cool new band I needed to cop the c.d. of, that cool football player who was more brains than brawn, and this cool movie we planned on seeing together. Now I apologize if this metaphor is being prolonged, but I think you follow: GQ spoke to me, a woman, like I was smart, informed, and witty. Which I am. So why not read material that responds to those needs?, I thought. 

     GQ's EIC, Jim Nelson, is also a breath of fresh air. Quite simply, he's unafraid. He celebrates all men of note, no matter their race or age or field. It is not a P.R. tizzy when Kanye, LeBron, Pharrell, Obama, or Michael Jackson make the cover of this mag because these gentlemen are of color, but because the photo and the accompanying spread and article will most-likely be fantastic. I have always found it dumb-founding to applaud Vogue for deigning to celebrate a woman of color on its cover. I will not congratulate your bigotry, Ms. Wintour. I will not seem thankful for you throwing mere scraps at my perfectly-manicured, designer-oufitted feet. You profile Michelle Obama because she's prolific and a hero--not because it will hopefully write away your magazine's racially homogeonous past. As my mother used to say, "You don't get rewarded for things you're supposed to do."  

     But what is even more bothersome is that men of all colors seem to be able to honor one another in such a form and medium without hesitation, while women quickly scramble to pat a blessed few atop our heads (Michelle, Beyonce, Halle Berry, Jennifer Hudson, Jennifer Lopez). It's demeaning, because Vogue-rs believe, as a woman of color, I'm just that easy, I'm just that silly not to recognize that fatal truth. And maybe that's ultimately why Vogue's brother is getting all my attention these days: they take my intelligence quite seriously. 

      There is of course eye-candy for me, considering GQ is so ambigiously queer and outfits its male subjects in such an enticing way that they not only play with sartorial lines, but those of sexuality. Actor, John Cho's spread in September's issue calls to mind this very truth. He, in fitted double-breasted power suits, situated in the Michigan offices of GM, was so hyper-masculine, he was hyper-feminine. The attention to detail, cut, swag...I admit, it was sexy. In fact, I might just add that to a not-so-clearly defined criterion of "what I'm looking for in a man": a GQ reader.

    But despite all this, the magazine is simply so well-written, it's frightening. It's loose, it's carefree, even. But still is able to articulate and express itself in such a succinct, clear, and sharp way that I often re-read sentences to take cues for my own writing.

    And ultimately, that's what I'm doing anyway...just being inspired. So, yes, I can admit, without hesitation, that I do read men's magazines with the half-naked chick on the cover for the articles--and the articles alone.

Rose-colored (Gl)asses

Is it fair to assume that the humble opinion of Pub. Enemy #1,Kanye West, is all of void and moot at this post-Taylor Swift moment in time? Many would say "yes", but can we stop for a moment to decipher whether Mr. West's style point-of-view is also shrouded in doubt? Although for his Hennessey-fueled VMA disruption he was clad in a leather button down (yeah...I know), he's usually dressed to the nines and goes to painstakingly deep lengths to be on-time for every fashion trend that is occurring, has occurred, or will occur.With countless design collabos, a clothing-line of his own in the works, and an internship with GAP all under his belt, he takes fashion seriously. Or at least he takes the image of him taking fashion seriously, quite seriously. Which is perhaps how he managed to convince ELLE to allow him the chance to style his fembot gf, Amber Rose, in a photoshoot for their October issue. At this point with Ms. Rose, we could assign tropes: bleached buzz cut. catsuit. no underwear. A&T. wrap-around sunglasses. So color me underwhelmed when I got my hands on the issue and the pics. Nothing new, nothing transgressive. Her posterior still ceases to amaze, however.

  When I met the couple a few weeks back, funnily enough the same feeling flooded over me. I gushed for a mere two seconds...then their glow quickly gave way to their dimness. Kanye was not the fashion juggernaut I supposed him to be, but instead a consumer. He consumes for the shear pleasure of "having an item", rather than "loving an item"...which defeats the purpose of personal style or the love of fashion. Amber was...bored. She encouraged, she entertained, but her focus was elsewhere. But the girl does certainly orbit. She's all circles, all space, all odyssey.

   Her talent as a model is meager, but she has a plan. That plan of course resides on the fact that Mr. West holds up his end of the bargain, with his relevancy and cultural capital offering her the same by default. What would prove to be interesting is if her star would rise, while his faded in a total-svengali form. Time will tell....

                                  

Tommy Ton Turns Me ON!

I was perusing the photographic spoils of last week's NY Fashion Week, when style.com directed me to the work of style-photog, Tommy Ton. In truth, I am skeptical of such a profession, considering so many claim the title but rarely ever produce work that is engaging or technical. Save for SCott. We love's Scott (my interview with The Sartorialist is forthcoming, dear readers). But Tommy Ton of blog,Jak & Jill, kind of made me eat my words. His colors, his textures, his images are evoking and thoughtful. "Lush", is the word I would use to describe them, in fact. "Yummy", even. He captures the editors, the models, the fashion-girls "off-duty", which truth be told, is a frame of time that simply does not exist for those who are so consumed my fashion. Even a trip to the bodega takes some deep contemplation for this girl sometimes.... But needless to say, I was inspired and chose a few to share with you. Check out the full portfolio here, and help me figure out how Danish style-blogger,Hanneli, manages to ride a bike ever-so discreetly and gracefully in a to-here leather skirt. I'm stumped....

  

Allow me to re-introduce myself...

What with it being my inaugural post, I thought I would steal a page from Vanity Fair and rummage through “My Stuff” to offer up a greater idea of myself that moves beyond my closet. Intersectional is indeed a blog devoted to style, culture, critique…all the things I consume my free-time with, but heaven knows that the world doesn’t need another “style blog” that doesn’t say anything except what another blog told them to say. Mmm yes, my rants are all my own. So enjoy and get ready for the opinions that I rarely keep to myself.