[Vanessa Mooney necklace + Rag & Bone floppy brim fedora + LNA shoulder cut-out tee, all via Shopbop + Isabel Marant shorts and old Sam Edelman Louie boots.]
I read this article about good ole, wholesome Jane Aldridge in its entirety the other day—a bit of a throwback, but still incredibly fascinating—and have since run out of things I want to disappear into. At least, not without first considering their authenticity.
Man, she was a last frontier for just total fantasy land insanity. Weird shit. Flawless skin and stuff. A morbid curiosity about her reality. Turns out, her reality is fucking weird, you guys. But never mind; we dreamers still have a few things of substance left to fold into: music (the good kind), books (the good kind), and food-excellent-food.
I’ve maxed out on Internet-based force-feeding of inspirational shit I’m supposed to want to turn into. I remember writing a blog post years ago about bloggable moments—noticing them afterwards, or living for them as a potential post—and how atrocious the whole thing felt. I never delved too deep into that brand of staging, but we definitely poked around with it in the early days. It’s sort of like saying you have a really small unnoticeable wart. It’s still a wart, and warts are 3-D and disgusting.
Real talk: Sometimes, I do want to buy the shirt off someone’s back. And I do it. You can do it, too! But I don’t like feeling dirty when I’m doing it. Buying the shirt won’t transport me to the Pont Neuf with robot arms and 18080 Instagram likes. Where’s the dialogue? Where’s the reality?
I propose a general, gentle removal via tried and true things like clever sarcasm, calling people on their shit, and low-key mental detective work on the part of the general public. Something like listening to a voice in your head that says, “Would I really trade my life for it, though?” or “Wait, but it’s not real…” or, “Nope. Not normal.”
There are very few voices out there I want to hear anymore. So I’m trying to at least still like the sound of my own, as long as I’m putting it out there.
To unbloggable moments. To real. To having a conversation, not spooning bullshit into your mouth. And to clothes, because they’re still cool, but not moments created solely for them.
-C.
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