Monday, 28 February 2011

Hey everyone,
as I have not found the time, energy, or attention span to catch up on everything Fashion Week, I will have to leave you with examples of my written work for uni. 
Enjoy, or at least I hope you do,

A Midsummer Night’s Drink
We sit in the wheat fields, circled around a small fire on tree stumps, dragging at our Marlboros like infants at a pacifier. Each breath fills our lungs with the grey smog before being released into the mild night’s air.
We talk and drink thirst-quenching beer after beer. As the alcoholic buzz replaces all reasonable intellect with teenage recklessness, we decide to break into a local swimming bath.
After getting our fill of water fights and ridiculous jumps, we retire ourselves back to the fireplace and our remaining beers, warming our adrenaline-revitalised bodies by the pale orange flames and crackling embers.
I see a pale blue on the midnight black horizon. We bathe in the last remaining glory of our night of adolescent mischief and irresponsibleness. For when those first rays of sun appear, they will bring with them the career and university burdens of our post-high school lives. And the spell of being young and careless will be over for good.

Hear Her Howl

Verse: The voice of a Janis Joplin erupts in my ears like a wolf howling at a blue moon, haunting and mesmerising at the same time.

Bridge: The room fills up with the imaginary scent of patchouli and musk getting caught up in a tangled mess of unwashed dreadlocked hair. Janis tries to play it cool in a mumbling deeper-pitched voice.

Chorus: As she erupts in a cry for her baby, her vocal chords crackle in a smoky symphony, singing the pain out of her heroin-toxified heart. With every shriek my eardrums are unsure whether to recoil in response to the atrocious scream or whether to send emotional signals of empathy to my brain.

She ends with one last wail before the 3 minutes and 58 seconds are over. But her imperfections, the slightly askew and off-kilter vocal range, and the soul in her voice all make her live on forever.

A Wedge Of Womanhood
I will endlessly love my black open toe ankle boots. They were my rite of passage. No quinceaƱera for me: my token of womanhood was Givenchy.
Given to me as a graduation present at 19, the supple leather multi-strap wedges are the roaring lion to my shy lamb character. They are strong, uncompromising and ‘melt a candle without lighting the wick’ sexy. In short, my three least likely attributes.
But when I slip my often poorly pedicured feet into them I turn into that woman. Every step filled with effortless confidence and sex appeal. 
They are a truly sadomasochist piece of art. Even though our passionate relationship has often soured after the three-hour mark, with countless blisters and a million squeaky yelps of “Owww” leading to barefoot strolls on the street at two in the morning, I love them anyway. For that day when I tried them on for the first time, I knew it was the perfect fit. Blisters and all.

Paris, I Love You
I walk the cobblestone streets on this January day. Women sitting in a cafe enjoy every rich bite of cheese, every tasteful drag of their cigarettes and every sip of ruby Merlot as if it were their last. The clocks in Paris seem to tick at a slower pace than they do elsewhere.
In true ‘savoir vivre’ form, days are spent strolling along the murky Seine, sipping bowl after bowl of cafe au lait in the historic districts and getting lost among paintings in the Louvre.
On this misty afternoon, I pay the Eiffel Tower a visit. Upon sight, my imaginary life in Paris flashes before my eyes: the shining bronze of antique markets, chain-smoking Gitanes, spending hours with Balenciaga in the Galeries Lafayette and indulging in Bordeaux and Brie until I become as round as a brioche, proceeding to roll down to the Tuileries Garden to witness Haute Couture creations come alive.
Paris holds the key to my heart: wine, cheese and fashion. C’est l’amour.

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