So last Thursday (yes) was Fashion’s Night Out. What a silly holiday, truly. Of course you know I was excited, however, for to visit only one store.
(I made this picture, please don't sue/kill me)
Well, technically two. PLD and I went to the main CdG boutique and saw the Stephen Jones display, as well as all the Comme des Garçons aficionados. These rad older ladies with impeccable fashion sense, who fearlessly strap these crazy things to themselves. It’s great!
(Suzanne Golden remains a hero)
We had some champagne and ogled the merchandise. I kind of want one of those vintage scarf sleeves.
The legend/marketing arcana of the F/W 2011/12 (“Hybrid Fashion”) collection is that the vintage scarf pieces are all made from scarves from Rei Kawakubo’s collection, which is perhaps a little bit suspect (I mean, how many scarves could she possibly have? Has anyone ever seen her wear one of these nutso scarves? Or for that matter anything besides black menswear-inspired pieces of her own design?) Regardless, all of the scarf pieces are impossibly delicate and one-of-a-kind. And I kind of want one of the sleeves. But I don’t know if even a ladies L would fit me, really. Someone should get one for me and then I can find out. Ms. K was of course not at the party, but hubby Adrian Joffe was. I was definitely too scared to talk to him but it’s cool that he comes to stuff. They had kind of renovated the store, too, which was neat. We had some champagne, then high-tailed it downtown to the other CdG store, the Edited BLACK boutique. They had some snacks there, as well as a new collection (with shirts printed with images of KITTIES which I want SO BAD). We had a drink there, and also some snacks. They took my photo, too, so I (finally) ended up on the BLACK CdG blog, kind of a personal tiny coup for me. I think it’s because I was wearing the F/W Homme Plus pants I bought for my birthday.
From there, we high-tailed it in a cab over to Dixon Place, where Saint Mx. Justin Vivian Bond was celebrating the release of v’s memoir, Tango: My Childhood, Backwards and in High Heels.
It was so cool! It featured readings by Mx. Bond vself, Kate Bornstein, Nao Bustamante and Amos Mac. Nath-Ann Carrera came up at the end to a number with Mx. Thing. Such a nice night! I can’t wait to read the book, and I think you should read it too. You can buy it from the Feminist Press. I have of course always admired Mx. Bond's performances, and have a tremendous amount of love adoration an respect for vs work. But I *also* know that some of vs favorite authors are also some of mine (thinking of: Erica Jong, Joan Didion, Lillian Hellman), so I'm excited to get into vs literary prowess. The sections of the book which they read aloud were fantastic, and thank Goddess I have some lovely long bus rides to look forward to next week, so i can get some reading done!
Speaking of long car trips, I bought a copy of Vogue's September issue to keep me company on a long bus trip to Boston next week, but now I'm thinking, like, this magazine is 69 fucking pounds heavy, and I know that it's all ads, man. Ads for dumb shit. I mean, I'm still gonna read it. it's shiny. But I just want to go on record as saying that I feel conflicted about reading Vogue (conflicted about reading *American* Vogue) and so am doing so deliberately late.
I guess I feel a bit chatty. I wanted to write about some Deep Feelings I have been having, but one layer of the Deep Feeling is that Nothing I Feel, Notice or Do Is Worthwhile. Do you know what I mean? There's been a much bigger lag in between living something and blogging about it, as compared to the past. And this is for a bunch of reasons including:
a) Who reads blogs anymore?
b) I don't know if I want to remember my life or document it or even really be in it, lately?
Maybe this is a Saturn Return thing. I've been pussyfooting around this, but I think I can actually talk about the fact that I am pretty bummed out. Not like actually upset over some real or imagined... anything. Just that, when I get quiet enough, I notice that my base-level feeling is pretty low. I want to blame Saturn Return. i wanted to blame Mecury Retrograde. I wanted to blame the two room mates we just got rid of, who were (not to exaggerate) Actually Abusive and Horrible and Awful. I can't find a good reason. I think maybe I need to go back to therapy or something. Since when did spending an hour and a ton of extra money every week solve anything, though? I just don't know what is up. I mean, there're two levels. On one level, I am working and being productive and present. On some other deeper level, I am profoundly confused. About what I'm supposed to be doing and who I am. I feel like nobody wants to be my friend, or like people only want something from me. There's also something else. I feel like I came to New York with really low-to-nonexistent expectations for myself. And as soon as I started doing, really, anything in New York, I had to eat so much shit from other people about it that it really scared me from doing stuff. And I'm disappointed that I let it scare me. And I'm sad. I sort of tried to make artwork, and the overwhelming response was that I had no right to, and that everyone else could do it better than I could. And I'm not disputing that. It just bums me out. Probably this is just that I am in a bad mood about myself and trying to reconstruct some narrative of how much I suck to arrive at the conclusion. That could be.
Thinking so much and so often about this quote by Kathleen Hanna:
“It can be really painful to have to face how fucked up shit is and how scared people are…of being alive. Scared of things that are amazing. Scared of things that aren’t like television or aren’t dead. A lot of people can’t deal with three-dimensional human beings, they only know how to deal with other products — they see themselves as other products. When the world only treats you like a dot on a marketing scheme, you can learn to treat yourself and other people like that.”I feel like this really resonates with me. I get so bummed out sometimes because I feel like people in my life, even peripherally, are not communicating in the sense of expressing themselves to another person, but are marketing. Like, we want to be bought. We want to be taken home and unwrapped and used and then bought again. We want to be sold. We want our value affirmed or something. Who taught us this? It's like turning the lights on, to notice this. I mean: oh. Right. I might not be a thing that someone has to like and purchase. I might have another use in the world beyond my ability to consume or be appealed to. There are other, I guess, parts of people. Though they kind of escape me now.
I am uncomfortable and I feel uninspired and pretty unhappy.
I think, I guess, then, it's time for lunch.