outlandish shoes & other fantasies

via jacques dequeker for wish report at fashiongonerogue; miu miu at late afternoon; acne wedges at because i'm addicted; nicole formachetti for dazed & confused at froufrouu; jay graham at desire to inspire

graceful water and floating chiffon. irrationally drawn to insane platforms covered in whimsical bird prints. desperate for cobalt spacebootwedges. gypsetjewelpiledbohoglobalfantasies.

return to splendor

via knightcat; fashion toast; my friend chrissy; Givenchy couture: style.com; luxirare; because i'm addicted

momentarily distracted.

shiny sparkly glimmering shimmering

shiny sparkly photos via:
monochrome mag; garance dore; fresh vodka latte; fashion toast; vintage lollipops; jak & jil; fashion gone rogue

This afternoon I had to physically remove myself from the corner thrift store before I caved into the fantasy that all my wardrobe has ever needed or wanted or dreamed about is a brilliant violet pailletted Oleg Cassini mini-dress. Huge. Purple. Sequins. With shoulder pads. Most likely pulled from the "Dynasty" archives.

What is it about shiny shiny shiny that is so completely irresistible?

In our fashion hearts, maybe we're really just like the barracudas. And the Joan Collins.

(... or are they one and the same?)

late but not never

photos of Logan Circle via flickr members LaTur, dbking, Mr. T in DC, and NCinDC, respectively.

When I first moved to DC in 2005, the city was everything I imagined it to be. It was adventuresome and exhilarating and historic and monumental. I worked among legends and walked past the White House twice daily on my commute. It was a surreal place where motorcades would zip by when I went outside for lunch, sirens blaring and secret service wielding machine guns out the window; a place where protesters blocked the entrance to my  office building and cab drivers argued with me about government policies and more tourists than I thought possible swarmed the museums each spring.

Then my second year here turned into a third, then a fourth, and then suddenly I wasn't so enamored with the city any longer. D.C.'s quirks became routine. I decided to leave. It was for reasons that can hardly be blamed on DC, admittedly, but I can't say the city's familiarity wasn't a factor. I had a wanderlust for the unknown, for new neighborhoods that can't be traversed in 15 minutes, for neighbors who are neighborly, and people who discuss fashion and design and music and creativity with the enthusiasm that people here talk about senators and the Hill and the importance of standing to the right, walking on the left. 
For bigger, trendier, less humid. 

Twelve days from leaving, a later-than-usual walk home from the office took a leisured turn onto a two-block segment of Vermont Avenue. It was quiet, just birds chirping in rhythm and an idling truck's engine softly humming, the city-sounds of Massachusetts Avenue distant. That's when I spotted one of the city's historic homes -- it was Mary McLeod Bethune's this time, but it could have been Duke Ellington's or Abraham Lincoln's or Frederick Douglass's -- and started pondering the attributes I had always thought made D.C. special. It is a place where we walk past history each day without pausing and it's a place where kindergarten teachers bar-hop with FBI agents and a friend chit-chats with John Kerry about the best spot for eggs benedict while waiting for the allergy doctor.  Those things are unusual and they are fascinating and they are not to be overlooked. 

But what made me realize just what a magnificent city I was leaving had little to do with all that. It was about new energy. It was about a summer that can only occur when the stars align just so in the city-lit sky and suddenly it all seems brand-new and completely undiscovered. When pool parties pop up every Sunday on hotel roofdecks and nights that begin rather ordinary end as secret dance parties in former bank vaults, followed by journeys for sandwiches at 4 a.m., followed by sunrise strolls home through just-waking streets.  When an summer evening BBQ turns out to be mahi-mahi marinated in beer and tossed on a grill in the quasi-industrial backyard of an arts collective, and new friends talk you into going to a bar at 1 a.m. on a Wednesday, even though you have to work in the morning, but it's the night before your 27th birthday and just come to Chi Cha, damnit, there's a great DJ and they project old movies onto the wall. So you go. And your new friend buys you a birthday gin-and-tonic, and it's completely worth Thursday morning's haze.

I miss you already, DC. I'll be back before long.

peace beneath the city

One of my loveliest friends sent these images along recently with the subject

"places to sit when you don't like where you are..."

and I do believe I've never read a subject so perfect.

fall redux

images via Style.com

Yes, yes, yes, I know -- it's Fashion Week, so Spring 2010 is on just about everyone's minds (and blogs). God forbid anyone discuss the season actually about to occur. But outside Bryant Park, Fall's barely begun, and I can't drag my thoughts from cozy, draping jerseys and tailored, structured dresses. Spring= just not. ready. yet. So let's revisit collection perfection from this season, shall we?

Exhibit 1: Haider Ackermann's tough-chic downtown drapeyness.

These make me drooooooool.

Exhibit 2: Bottega Veneta's glam-femme, by way of the '40s.

Ladylike at it's absolute glory, yes?

In my fantasy fashion world I'd ideally alternate between magnificent draped gowns and refined bombshell sophistication every day.

Is it possible to unify these looks into a single cohesive style...?

images via Ying Edge

Absolutely infatuated with the drama of these heartachingly beautiful pieces from Ying Edge, a collection designed by -- get this -- an 18-year-old designer from Baltimore. When I was 18, I was cutting Barbie cakes and serving cardboard-like pizza for birthday parties at a family fun center. Oh, jealousy.

temptations

via shopbop.com

Never thought the day would come when marbled, tie-dye jeans would be so irresistable. But after drooling over Spring's bevy of marble-print tanks, tops and dresses from the likes of Generra, Helmut Lang, Forever 21, et al, denim was a natural evolution. Sadly, these particular babies are J Brand and cost $198. Who wants to buy them for me? Don't all jump at once.

if I lived here I'd be not only home but also thrilled

pics from Domino via Aphasia Design

still obsessed with Jenna Lyons' life/style/home. still crying myself to sleep that I threw out last November's Domino issue without saving the paper tearsheets. but luckily: internet saves the day. Her Brooklyn brownstone is my secret dreamhouse ideal. Chalkboard paint, glorious; zebra accents, even more so.

revival

image via aviewonfashion.com

I've decided that I must, must, must become a perfumer, and I think it's largely due to Tom Ford's Private Blend Coffret Set, which is the grown-up expensive version of those little toy perfume-making kits I always wanted to steal from my childhood friends.

Currently repeatedly and perhaps creepily sniffing at my wrist, which I dabbed with my favorite, Japon Noir. I probably love it because it has "Japon" in the title, and I approve of most anything directly or peripherally related to Japan, but really I'm obsessing because it smells like the ideal blend of my all-time favorite fragrance (Prada Tendre) and my dad's cologne. Love, love.