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Posts Tagged ‘imaginary French Vogue photoshoots’

I used to be a much more voracious reader when I was younger than I am today, mostly because I have a laptop that can provide me with ample entertainment (or, you know, work) to do on my daily commute.  So this year my reading list has been rather pathetic for the moment, but I’m hoping that some traveling in the next few months will afford me the opportunity to read uninterrupted for a few hours at a time here and there.

Part of this resistance to read is the fact that I tend to take on more difficult material.  Case in point:  The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie.  I love me some magical realism, but it’s honestly difficult to only give a book like this forty minutes of your attention at a time–it really requires a few good hours of being immersed in it, but it’s difficult to not feel guilty that you’re not doing something more active instead of sitting around on a sunny Saturday afternoon, such as playing tennis or completing wedding planning shit.  So I’ve shelved that book for the moment, with the intention of returning to it post-wedding.

Since then, I’ve been reading Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller, which is a semi-autobiographical recounting of the author bumming around Paris, getting drunk and fucking whores while getting some meager writing jobs here and there in the 1930’s.  The infamous c-word appears at least ten times in the first ten pages, and that’s only the tip of the iceberg, so to speak, of the novel’s vulgarity.

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            The last few days have been rather loathsome, to varying degrees—either the weather has misbehaved, or Daylight Savings Time has kicked in, or my sleep schedule has been off, or I’m still recovering from a whirlwind three weeks with much traveling involved (including an unexpected weekend in beautiful Oak Brook, IL—but more on that later)—actually, it’s a confluence of all of those factors—but this week has not had an auspicious start, at least in reference to my mood.  I’m also surrounded by grad schoolers who are all enjoying splashy spring break vaccaciones, and due to the upcoming wedding, I have absolutely no time to spare to get away myself (save, of course for Italy, but that’s so far away yet), so there’s much self-pitying going on.  Which ultimately leads to me shopping, with a mindset of “oh, that’s going to be perfect in Italy!” as a justification of sorts.

             Perhaps this isn’t the best idea.  Regardless, the next time I venture into New York with Michael (which will be soon), I’m not going to care a whit about shopping and instead focus on taking pictures.  And then I can post them here!  But I digress. 

            As for what I have been buying as of late:  a mixture of high and low, including indulging in one of the few delights of wedding preparation—finding the trousseau.  Plum Sykes wrote an article about this in the July 2006 Vogue on the cusp of her wedding day, and while I’m normally not a fan of her work (Bergdorf Blondes was only good to speculate on exactly who she was profiling based off of society pictures), I was absolutely smitten by her search for lingerie exciting enough to haul along on her honeymoon, and therefore resolved to do the same when the time came for me.  Though I got engaged only a few months later, we took the long-road in planning and only now does it feel remotely appropriate to start scouring.  Though I do not have the resources to venture all the way to Paris to visit the various shops along the Rue Cambon, the glory of the internet (along with some old-fashioned foot stomping through some shops) has allowed me to find a few…interesting pieces.  I tend to be sartorially schizophrenic when it comes to lingerie—I love clean, sporty pieces, albeit in soft fabrics (hence the American Apparel obsession) but I can also veer towards the side of the coquette, mostly when it comes to negligees and nightgowns.

             So what will be packed?  Like I’m going to say!  My fiancé reads this (I think).  But I will mention this—a bra from a Berlin-based lingerie company that finally came in yesterday is a starring piece in a new imaginary French Vogue photoshoot, that includes an escritoire by the living room window (that sadly doesn’t exist…yet), a 1920’s typewriter (that does exist in said living room, thanks to a 20th birthday present) and me perched behind it with smudgy eyeliner (I can’t help it!), hair down and curly, and this bra.  I’d have to listen to Camille’s “Mon petit vieux” and I’d be snubbing out a Djarum Black into my vintage ashtray (currently housing three of my four stolen pool balls).  And yes, I know this is only my second IFVP and once again I am lolling about in my underwear, but can’t you see I have lingerie on the brain?  Besides—Carine would completely understand.  She understands the need for nipples to make a veiled appearance every once in a while.

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            One of my favorite blogs to read on my little blogroll is Things I Bought That I Love, which essentially is a review of recently purchased items, from clothing to dinners out to tazers.  Yes, tazers.  Normally I can’t stand the mindlessness of shopping blogs because I really couldn’t give a fuck what someone bought save for DIY projects and the like.  But when said blog is written and maintained by Mindy Kaling, writer and actress on The Office, well, the exception proves the rule. 

            Ever since the biting slap she gave Michael in the second episode of the series, Mindy has been a force to be reckoned with on the show as the ultra-perky Kelly Kapoor.  Moving quickly from the background to a prominent secondary character, she now embodies the busybody office girl whose interests lie not much farther than celebrity gossip, fashion, and boys, and is completely unashamed of that fact.  With his tongue firmly placed in cheek, her fellow writer listed Kaling’s contribution to the writers’ room on the show as “fashion/on-line shopping,” and Kaling her self has mentioned that Kelly is often just a more extreme version of her personality, but in reading a few entries, you realize that there is much, much more going on in that head of hers than she wants let on, which leads me to her most recent post.

            Its title, “American Apparel Cotton Spandex Jersey Boy Brief,” is highly deceptive, as she launches into a diatribe on two topics that I’ve given some though to, mostly because they actually do kind of go together.  First, she decries the infantillization of women when it comes to grown women wearing little girl clothes.  I can’t say I disagree—though I’m known to occasionally dabble in a miniskirt vaguely reminiscent of a schoolgirl kilt, it’s done with a healthy dose of self-awareness.  The same cannot be said for the cooing being done over the yet-to-be-released Erin Fetherston collection for Target, which is essentially encouraging grown women to dress like six-year-olds.  Alluring, isn’t it?  Regardless, Mindy and I do agree on one thing that is a fun offshoot of this trend, and that’s the proliferation of boyish clothes for girls—she loves the boyshorts at American Apparel, I love boy-sized Lacoste polos, as they are significantly cheaper and better cut for my figure than the “women’s” sized ones which end somewhere above my navel.

             The reason why she mentions these boyshorts at all is because they feature into one of what she calls her “Sunday Morning Fantasies” which essentially involve laying about in cute underwear on a random Sunday morning (easily the dreamiest time of the worst day of the week) in an impossibly cool situation with impossibly cool people, ultimately being a moment when an impossibly cool photographer materializes to capture the moment forever.  I too am struck by these moments, but I would refer to them as my Imaginary French Vogue Photoshoots, and would be set, cast, costumed and have a soundtrack to them.  Oh yes, and they would all be réalisé de Carine Roitfeld.  So in honor of the holiday, I’ll share some of my imaginary dress-up situations:

             One involves me lounging on my bed, in a Hanes old-man tank top and these, with my hair all artfully mussed and my eyes smudged with just a little too much eyeliner, smoking a clove cigarette, pouting as I read Tropic of Cancer.  Another would be me sitting on the floor of a too-small kitchen in a tiny Parisian apartment, eating a platter of lox and bagels, my hair in a low, mussy ponytail, discarded sneakers barely making the frame, all while listening to “The Stars of Track and Field” by Belle and Sebastian while wearing these  and this.

             I’m not sure where this American Apparel fixation came from aside by my wearing their short-shorts all over the house (but not beyond save for an emergency food run downstairs), but right now, they are the starring brand in my IPVPs.  But there are others, featuring things like furs, beautiful dresses, tuxedos and shallow pools. 

I feel like this could be a series…perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. 

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