Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Since adolescence I had acquired an obsession for the sixties. Of course it began with Twiggy because that is who America glamorized as a fashion icon. I think she's extraordinary but as I started developing a fashion sense and wearing makeup I understood the Mod heritage. It began in London and globally evolved over to New York. The swinging sixties was born in Carnaby street, London. Or so I was told in a documentary when I was fourteen. The style and shops that paraded the streets of London was where I yearned to be. I had a nostalgic anxiety to be apart of an era that was two decades before my birth. (Two decades after my birth I would be walking on the cobble-stoned pavement to work everyday). Then I discovered Andy Warhol's, Interview magazine, which contributed to art, culture, and fashion all in one. I can admit that I was too young to understand it all but I was very determined to educate myself. I became infatuated within pop culture and magazines was my candy. I begged my dad to buy me magazines and I cut form them and started a series of journals that I continue with today. Shift dresses, mini skirts, false eyelashes with hard but blended lines on the eyes with powder pale lips was all the rage for me. About six years ago I discovered the legacy and allure of Edie Sedgewick. She was indeed Andy's protegee but unquestionably an eccentric female all her own. Everyone did and still vaguely does want to be her. Her departure was tragic and some would frown upon her drug use but her story provides a sympathetic pass for her tribulations. Who is anyone to judge anyways? The movie, Factory Girl, I thought was great but I was optimistic from the beginning of filming. It didn't get great reviews and even Sienna Miller called it a horrible film, which was quite disappointing, but I loved it. It was actually delayed and edited prior to its release because some argued about the negative portrayal it bestowed upon Andy Warhol. I don't doubt that it was true. He glorified celebrity, drugs, and an outlandish sort of beyond borders lifestyle; however, his contribution to the art world is tattooed to American history. He introduced a new kind of obsession: mass marketing over saturated ideals through art. Edie was his muse and his infatuation. She was a trendsetter and a fashion icon, the original Twiggy. We are constantly seeing references to the mod look in makeup ads and on the runway. Typically its a heavy set lash with loads of black and white eyeliner. Sixties shift dresses and a mod mini will never retire from a fashionable year. It's beyond inspirational because it evokes a mood and feeling of a time, similar to the roaring twenties, of freedom and rebellion from conventional beauty. Politically and musically it was the beginning of equality in gender, race and sexuality. Gone was the typical Hollywood beauty of the 1950's and in was the distinct and celebrated zeitgeist of the 1960's.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
We All Bleed for you now...what was...and what could have been...everyday we are reminded of your departure..and our endless despair...heart-wrenching fear...we cannot recover...approaching a year and the hurt...it does not fade...afraid of a simple bath...but we all sink into a watery state of sleep...an asylum since you've gone...a broken dawn...refusing to move on...your friends knew your insides...a never ending and consuming pain...transfixing you each day...we all mirrored one another...everytime you broke down..we shattered...The sex and the drugs...we shadowed, and by the way... we were never better...drowning in our selfless pride...but what were we trying to hide? Just ourselves. The truth is, without you Love, I wouldn't be who I am today...But you leaving seems so deceiving to all our hopes of a brighter dream...and now it's burning inside...just as it always has. We don't question why you had to go because deep down..we know why...your pain was unbearable and your darkness indescribable. I guess we all thought that you would just hold onto what we all knew..we are The Used...but love wasn't enough. It never was. So pure our love for eachother...we all deserved completion and to be cured of our isolation...but tainted lies held the lever over our decisions. So we split because it felt right to take sides...and now we'll never get better, the damage is done. We will go on living our lives silently knowing...we are consumed. Tell me how to find serenity and deal with this inevitable pain? We are one down and tell us how to cope with this tragic accident? When you cried and pleaded and I couldn't take it...was I too busy? Or cowardly and lame? Your dreary text...and her confused reaction...And when you wrote you felt like Dying...and we all sat contemplating...it's terribly haunting. You said goodbye and our hearts still cry in a never ending solitude...without you we see black...and it's not fair. We curse your name in vain because we feel such shame for not being there...we were a piece of you and with your loss..a piece in all of us is gone. We still feel sick with sadness every time a Gwen song serenades us...and we break down. Tearing at the walls..forever taunted by your calls...and now we beg for a sign. Pink balloons..shooting stars...I wish the sky would fall with black broken bolts...and pierce my heart. We know your here but if we could just hear you more clear...We wouldn't mind if you appeared...just as long as you stayed awhile. And when your sister screams for you...we feel it ripping through our souls. We are trying to hold it together for your mother because she sees you in us...we feel obligated to live for you...this obligation transitions into determination to let you shine through us. Through every makeup brush..and reflexed glitter falling on all your pictures...it's what we must do. I feel every smile is contrived and every time I see happiness I'm blinded with self hatred and devastation. We know we live in darkness...we just miss your laugh...so contagious... With every smile you gave...mended our wild and jaded days...The smell of Pink Sugar...all of your fearless endeavors...We love you so much we come undone...always and forever your our nostalgic treasure...more beautiful than ever... .
Thursday, March 12, 2009
My goal in life is to become this great writer who wins a Nobel Peace Prize, works for the UN(promoting equality for humankind), has a role in the film industry; an artistic craving I can't deny, and someone who has made a significant difference in the world. Most importantly, I want to be remembered for the contribution my very existence provided for others. I don't want to be some powerhouse but rather a respected and much referenced microcosm buried somewhere in history's dusty pages. Is that to much to ask?
A craving for recognition or better yet where luck and opportunity collide is like a woman's need for chocolate. (I personally don't love chocolate but I'm one out of a million which makes my preferences irrelevant amongst the masses.) When she gets that milky sweet sensation pulsing through her taste buds and her saliva circulates sending signals to the brain of satisfaction, it is divine; or so I've heard.
That must be what it feels like to finally score your big break. Big break meaning that chance to finally demonstrate the potential that has been obscured by financial woes. It's no secret the rich prosper even further because of their freedom to truly indulge in their desired craft. Internships that pay nothing are an excellent stepping stone if you have your parents paying rent. It's a catch-22 really. I can't quit my job to do what I really love because you have to start at the bottom to get to the top. Now the bottom is not what I'm afraid of, it's an empty stomach and malnourished diet I fear.
All you have is the universal truth that FAITH should be your dearest strength.
I will continue to work hard to achieve my goals and make all of my dreams come true. As a little girl that's all I had were dreams of greatness. I didn't see a white picket fence or a white dress for that matter. I didn't crave fame or an artificial spotlight; I dreamed of books galore in my own library, with a few written by me). A girl can dream.