Clothes are not just clothes; they are colours, fabric and textures, cuts, stiches, and labours of love. Fashion is not just an industry; it is a hobby, a collection, a scavenger hunt and an expression of being. How women dress is the still frame of their interests and personalities; it is what you would see if you could photograph souls. It can show a devotion to their history, or a love of innovation, an expression of pent up post modernism that could not even be quashed during Sunday service, or a simple yet effective “fuck you” to the world.
Even the woman’s simple act of dressing is laden with undertones of spiritualism and sensuality; it is a ritual, conducted by naked limbs and curated by mirrors. She goes through the motions of her daily routine, sparked perhaps the night before by an idea, a persona she saw in a movie or a magazine, or even just an emotion, painstakingly revised and reinvented as her mind is released into gentle sleep. When she wakes, brushing the stray strands of hair and the sticky sleep that lightly dusts the corners of her eyes from her face, she open the wardrobe, and the garments begin to talk to her. The green plaid overcoat warns her about the impending cold front, but the black French lace slip dress promises a little confidence and a lot more fun. She looks to the haphazard collection of shoes strewn about her wardrobe floor, or perhaps lined up in neat little pairs like little children waiting to go to class, arranged from most comfortable to least comfortable, or in least to most beautiful pairs (although really that is the same scale now, isn’t it?), to try and shed some light on her predicament, and although she sees the plain black padded kitten heels with sensible ankle straps that she had decided on the night before, the voice of the slightly worn leather yet timelessly wondrous cowboy boots is louder and more alluring, promising height, adventurous yet classic style and assurance that this time there will not be blisters. In most cases, the daring if not slightly impractical will always win over the sensible yet often demure garments that are once again pushed to the side of the clothes wrack and will not see the light of day until such events as job interviews, eightieth birthday parties or the death of a distant relative. The lucky chosen ones will serve a higher purpose than discretion or even comfort, for these are the garments that make her feel good about her self, able to face another day at work, the ones that tap into Aphrodite's fountain of spiritual womanhood, or are just down right sexy.
But there are of course the other times, mostly during the colder months of winter, when she will tone it down with a cardigan or a hand knitted scarf; it's hard to fully experience the dizzying rush of soaring self esteem when you are freezing your tits off.
This is a piece from the photo exhibition by Lyndal Walker called LA TOILETTE D'UNE FEMME which I went and saw today at the Centre for Contemporary Photography in Fitzroy, and consequently inspired this little tidbit.
This is Tavi, author of thestylerookie and possibly the coolest thirteen year old girl ever.
And of course Pandora, who pretty much owns my dream wardrobe
This adorable bunny ring was bought for me by my lovely from a stall at the Finders Keepers market we went to on Saturday. It was wonderful, so much talent, and so many beautiful things! My only regret was that we didn't get to sample the cupcakes :( But more on that later.