Saturday, March 10, 2012

purple pants

last fall, when I was grieving after my deceased dark blue skinny jeans, I reluctantly picked up a pair of purple pants for something ridiculous like 5 euros, while shopping for groceries. it was the last pair, just lying there. my size, too. since gray was my new black at the time, I thought the splash of purple would fit in nicely. predictably, that pairing became very boring very soon. here's m. brainstorming for the benefit of her purple pants:

purple pants 5

purple pants 4

purple pants 3

purple pants 2

purple pants 1

oh, did I mention I got a polyvore account?

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

on daring to wear and tear

Ode To My Socks (Pablo Neruda)

Mara Mori brought me
a pair of socks
which she knitted herself
with her sheepherder's hands,
two socks as soft as rabbits.
I slipped my feet into them
as if they were two cases
knitted with threads of twilight and goatskin,
Violent socks,
my feet were two fish made of wool,
two long sharks
sea blue, shot through
by one golden thread,
two immense blackbirds,
two cannons,
my feet were honored in this way
by these heavenly socks.
They were so handsome for the first time
my feet seemed to me unacceptable
like two decrepit firemen,
firemen unworthy of that woven fire,
of those glowing socks.

Nevertheless, I resisted the sharp temptation
to save them somewhere as schoolboys
keep fireflies,
as learned men collect
sacred texts,
I resisted the mad impulse to put them
in a golden cage and each day give them
birdseed and pieces of pink melon.
Like explorers in the jungle
who hand over the very rare green deer
to the spit and eat it with remorse,
I stretched out my feet and pulled on
the magnificent socks and then my shoes.

The moral of my ode is this:
beauty is twice beauty
and what is good is doubly good
when it is a matter of two socks
made of wool in winter.

Sunday, March 4, 2012

Yamamoto RTW f12

Yamamoto nearly always yields himself to my obsessive interpretation of protect-me-fr0m-the world clothes. It's impossible to cover oneself up without revealing. Defenses always give us away. You pull the coat down to your ankles only to leave out the shoulder. Asymmetric capes hang down like worn out membranes or perhaps deformities. The bubble sweater dress is a shelter, but the seam looks like a string of stitches or a scar. The roomy coat is a world in which you're safe, yet, as a black-and-white diptych, it screams of the visible and the invisible.