When my person and I first started communicating back in early February, he wrote me about a "bad episode" he had earlier had on Amazon, during which he made a massive purchase of some fancy All Classic Movies of All Time, which included 100 films on a rolling tray contraption. He obviously spent a lot of money on it, and it was a hilarious story, but I remember thinking, "Why would you do that?" I've always loved shopping, but have never gone and bought shit just to feel better. Well, today I realized the soothing calm that comes from overspending on something you don't really need. I went to Bloomingdale's with my daughter after I got home from my disappointing Athens trip. All I needed was some facial soap, but Rosie insisted we shop. Since I was feeling really blue I decided what the hell, I love to shop, so off into Lenox Mall we went.
Oh the beauty of Lenox! When I first moved to Atlanta after college in the mid-80's, I spent much of my life at this mall, and in fact worked in the men's fragrance counter of Macy's for a while. Being there again made me feel like it was 1986 and I was out with Kris Clower trying on clothes and shoes and buying lots of makeup and stuff getting ready for a Saturday night at Weekend's. It was invigorating. We went to J Crew (ooooooooo!), Coach (aaaaaaaaa!), Kenneth Cole and the Mac store. I don't have a Mac...I don't even like them...but heavens! This store! It's all music and light and pretty people and pretty toys...I decided I need a iPod Touch. It was sooooooo beautiful. And there was some fabulous speaker system thing to go with your iPod Touch that I need too. Rosie and I played with it and searched for the Killers and played "Jenny" and "Andy" and "On Top." Bad choice, cause the Killers always remind me of him, so I got all sad. I bought them both. Egad.
Then back we went to Bloomingdale's. We had moved on to the upstairs level of Lenox by now, so as we entered the store we found ourselves right at the beautiful women's clothes. I perused some swimsuits...lovely...and some skirts...gorgeous...then suddenly I spotted the most beautiful dress I've ever seen. It's white silky (but not shiny) soft material, and tailored just right. It's sleeveless and hugs my waist and makes my bottom look really cute. I bought it. It was $200. Is that bad? I guess not really, but I sure don't have any money right now. But at least I look fabulous.
Men. Who knows what they're ever thinking? I console myself with fashion.
Showing posts with label fashion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fashion. Show all posts
Monday, May 12, 2008
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Speed. Madness. Flying Saucers.
In all my months of having this blog, I have yet to dedicate a post to Edie Sedgwick. Well, today I break that streak.
I stumbled on a blog called "Diary of a Man Out of Time" an odd little page which seems to be dedicated to films, I think. In any event, there is a section devoted to Edie. Reading through it, I found the following spot-on description of Edie's role in Warhol's artistic sensibility, and the whole self-obsessed scene that has trickled down to become our everyday reality:
She was the first true swap-out of Personhood with Presence, of Self with Phenomenon. She had the look. The unflinching stare. The passive face. And at the core of the detachment projected, the relentless chic, the sphinxiness, the affectlessness, there was a hint of incapacity to love or connect or believe, and beneath that something more dangerous to the self: a very profound doubt about the value of life itself. And that is pure Warhol.
The description is perfect - Edie Sedgwick is the embodiment of Warhol's entire pop art ideal. She is The Image, The Face, The Photo Op, the proper noun with no individual behind it. Even in her own words, the clash between image and individual is evident. Edie was aware on some level of her part in the Warhol game. She knew that her role was to detach, to shine, to seem, to appear. The star quality was first and foremost...to hell with what lay beneath. Edie also knew that her position in the Warhol clique was tenuous, I just don't think she realized her fall would come about so quickly.
The problem here is that for all the apparent descent into beauty and pleasure, for all the narcissistic obsession with self and image, there is a person behind the personality, a person who, in the end, keeps us coming back for more. The Boston socialite turned fashion icon with amazing legs and dimples...who was she really? Perhaps because she got too strung out and was cast aside by Warhol, perhaps because she died young and somewhat forgotten, perhaps because of the nature of the game she played, Edie remains a perennial mystery.
Edie the Youthquaker is easily understood. She was an icon who had it all, the trendsetter who lived by her own rules. She was a pawn in Warhol's game, but a willing one. The shimmering Edie in massive earrings and silver hair and unbelieveably long legs shod in black tights is known to us. But Edie the woman remains in the shadows.
Watch this clip in which a 27-year old Edie, spaced out and slurring, looks back on her year (yes, it was only one year) with Warhol. Listen carefully, because the annoying dual voice effect makes it hard to hear what she's saying:
She talks about love, about her inability to recognize her own beauty, about her brothers' suicides..she talks about mental hospitals, about the scam perpretrated in the name of fashion, about loss. This is the Edie we will never know. And that is what haunts us.
I stumbled on a blog called "Diary of a Man Out of Time" an odd little page which seems to be dedicated to films, I think. In any event, there is a section devoted to Edie. Reading through it, I found the following spot-on description of Edie's role in Warhol's artistic sensibility, and the whole self-obsessed scene that has trickled down to become our everyday reality:
She was the first true swap-out of Personhood with Presence, of Self with Phenomenon. She had the look. The unflinching stare. The passive face. And at the core of the detachment projected, the relentless chic, the sphinxiness, the affectlessness, there was a hint of incapacity to love or connect or believe, and beneath that something more dangerous to the self: a very profound doubt about the value of life itself. And that is pure Warhol.
The description is perfect - Edie Sedgwick is the embodiment of Warhol's entire pop art ideal. She is The Image, The Face, The Photo Op, the proper noun with no individual behind it. Even in her own words, the clash between image and individual is evident. Edie was aware on some level of her part in the Warhol game. She knew that her role was to detach, to shine, to seem, to appear. The star quality was first and foremost...to hell with what lay beneath. Edie also knew that her position in the Warhol clique was tenuous, I just don't think she realized her fall would come about so quickly.
The problem here is that for all the apparent descent into beauty and pleasure, for all the narcissistic obsession with self and image, there is a person behind the personality, a person who, in the end, keeps us coming back for more. The Boston socialite turned fashion icon with amazing legs and dimples...who was she really? Perhaps because she got too strung out and was cast aside by Warhol, perhaps because she died young and somewhat forgotten, perhaps because of the nature of the game she played, Edie remains a perennial mystery.
Edie the Youthquaker is easily understood. She was an icon who had it all, the trendsetter who lived by her own rules. She was a pawn in Warhol's game, but a willing one. The shimmering Edie in massive earrings and silver hair and unbelieveably long legs shod in black tights is known to us. But Edie the woman remains in the shadows.
Watch this clip in which a 27-year old Edie, spaced out and slurring, looks back on her year (yes, it was only one year) with Warhol. Listen carefully, because the annoying dual voice effect makes it hard to hear what she's saying:
She talks about love, about her inability to recognize her own beauty, about her brothers' suicides..she talks about mental hospitals, about the scam perpretrated in the name of fashion, about loss. This is the Edie we will never know. And that is what haunts us.
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