Black is the new black.

I have been feeling strange lately...I have lived in scrubs for so long that I have began to forget my own sense of style. I spent my free time wearing the same dull outfits that fulfilled a function but have criminally lacked any passion or individuality.

I am an avid shopper. Ravenous fashion fiend. That has not, nor will ever, truly change. And I get easily inspired...the spring and fall couture collections are literally my porn. I love in-depth discussions on colors, profiles on designer inspirations, arguments on which trend will dominate our lives for the next year. You have your sport scores...I have Marc Jacobs and Uncle Karl.

Like any fashionista worth her salt I have my icons. The girls that have, and always will, inspire countless generations to aspire to the level of chic-ness once attained by these ethereal beauties. The danger lies in letting aspiration become imitation. In an effort to change...to evolve...I have sought out bohemian dresses...punk rings...hipster tops...and, God help me, COLOR.
I defied my body shape, my measurements...even my inherent darkness, to create a "festival-living, trust-fund girl on a year sabbatical, living on music and cigarettes" wardrobe...that hangs lifelessly in my closet. Stylish pieces undoubtedly...but not ME. I honestly do not know why this happened. In part, probably because i truly LOVE (nay, live for) fashion and "experimenting" is the name of the game. Partly, I must admit, because at some point the all-black, sleek silhouettes with low cut backs and high slits, leather and cashmere...tattoos and cat eyeliner...get old. Become an imitation of what you thought you were. Become boring...and invite rebellion.
And this constant search for the new...ME? ...became exhausting too. And it made me forget a part of me that I really liked. Does that even make sense??

I went out with some friends the other night... I came running from work, frustrated at not knowing what to wear...confused about the appropriate amount of what to reveal (more on that to come)...I reached for my favorite black skinnies. A black sleeveless cashmere turtleneck. Tousled hair, black eyeliner, a couple rings. Simple, comfortable...like a second skin. As I walked through the square on my way to the restaurant I heard whistles from ages 18-45 and saw jealous glances from my gender. My gait was strong, my eyes lit up, I  ...I felt like myself. (Not that this is the one true measure of an outfit but stated only to give the complete picture. Even if the aforementioned did not happen I would've still felt the same. Moving on. )And I realized that at this stage of the game my style is set. I do not know why I fought my nature when it was never wrong. My fashion sense has never been critiqued...it has always been admired and desired by others. Yet I fought against it because I thought it too basic to suit what I saw my life being.
But when I reached out for it, it was there, like always. My second skin.

Style is not something one should actively think about. It MUST be organic to work. Anything less will look too poised and will never belong to you. It is perfectly and expectedly natural to look at trends and appropriate the major themes. But it is futile to try to emulate every look of one's icon to the tee -- all it will become is a fun-house mirror image of the truth. No one grows up wanting to be a mime, right?

So there it is. I am back to black. Back to reaching out for things that slither...hug every curve...and envelop in luxury. Back to the deviant and slightly obscene. Back to utterly chic and unmistakably dark. That is who I am....and I shall no longer fight it. My style will evolve -- but on its own. There will be more couture, more sophistication...but there will always, ALWAYS, a tiny streak of the dark, for one cannot deny one's nature.

because sometimes I am a joiner

                           

15 things you may not know about Bellatrix (interspersed with pictures of mini fashionistas, because why not- here's your daily dose of chic lilliput realness):

1. when I was 5 I thought it was the greatest idea to tie myself and my giant stuffed dog to my mom's tiny foot in the hopes that she would walk and carry us with her. It never went well.

2. I hate clowns. Terribly, inexplicably and with the entirety of my being. I blame watching "It" when I was a child. I can be covered in blood/emesis/poop or watch "Church of Fudge" (do NOT look that one up. Ever.) and not blink an eye but clowns make me physically ill.

3. There was a time when I wanted to be a cat so much I actually forced myself to sleep in contortionist positions like my kitten hoping that the practice would make me more akin to my favorite creature. Neck cramps happened.

4. I could not/can not eat something sweet on it's own. I have to have meat. Oatmeal? Sausage accompaniment. Cereal? Bacon. Salad? Heresy without protein. :p

5. I can dance straight for 8 hours without a break but if you ask me to run half a mile I will die. My cardio situation is a puzzle.

 6. I often cannot tell the difference between appropriate and not. I do not mean fart jokes or other simpleton fodder...I mean I do not know when laughing at the insignificance of humanity by describing the blood and gore of my job will be appreciated by my audience or met with dismay...and more emesis.

7. I thinks animals can feel. And think, on their own level. They respond...they love...they hurt. And I will never understand people who do not. That said...I am not vegan nor do I trust people who do not eat meat. There is a difference between being a natural killer and a martyr. I am the former.

8. This has been said before but bears repeating because it is integral to who I am. I live to travel. I NEED to travel. If I was forced to live and die in the same city, even if it was New York or Paris...I would slit my wrists immediately. Life is not a life well lived if you have not seen the world. I would crawl...beg, lie and steal to do that. Trust.

9. No matter what I say or do...at my core I truly want to be a descent human. Not perfect or overtly moral...Just a good human that contributed something to the world.

10. I live and die for my friends. What's mine is yours. To Russians friendship is sacred. It must be protected and honored to the last breath. Our friends are our blood...and they know that.

11. My favorite time? A summer dusk as it becomes night. I love sitting outside...barefoot...feeling the hot day melt into a smoldering night...hearing the cicadas chirping as your thoughts run away... I could spend eternity sitting by a fire pit with my glass of wine, looking at the stars...

12. I love black. Black has been my companion for a very long time. And yet, as I have mentioned before, I am also bound by it. I feel trapped in that nothing but black feels normal. Nothing feels like it fits unless it's black. I love the way all black makes anyone look incredibly chic....but I often fear on me it has lost the effect after years of living in it's shadow.

13. I want a fox. I will not live my life without owning a domesticated red fox from a Siberian institute. It is, perhaps, eccentric...unnecessary...silly?...but I need it. This is happening.

14. My favorite book is " The Little Prince." I read it every couple of years and it always reveals nuances missed previously. It is deliciously well written and absolutely fabulous in its simplicity. It has quotes for every situation in your life. And, of course, a fox. Boom.

15. I fear...not finding love. I always find romances...fleeting relationships...brief, exciting affairs. But I am afraid that I will go through this life on my own as I have done thus far. I do "solitary" impeccably...but I do long for a lasting love. A partnership that I have only seen in movies and books...for I have yet to see it in real life.

Ma belle enfant

Spring is coming...and with that many of my friends will become mothers. It is the natural course, I suppose...after all we are all now of the age when child-bearing takes precedence. Careers are in full swing, accomplishments pour in, love...well, for the lucky ones, love blooms. How incredible it must be to create a human being with the one you love most in the world?

I have always known I would have a child. Nay, I have always known I would have a GIRL. It may sound strange but sometimes I imagine what it will be like...to have a mini-me so perfect that each day will be spent marveling at the beauty that my body gave me. To have my entire happiness wrapped up into a single tiny being who thinks of me as the her universe. Her alpha and omega. At least until she grows up and knows better :)

I imagine the trips we will take to the sea...not unlike the ones I have spent with my mother. I remember being held in the powerful tide by a beautiful girl, MY universe as it were, and knowing that I was protected...utterly loved. I felt the sun shinning on my face and I laughed as the water hit us...My mother gave me an unforgettable childhood.

I think of the child I shall have if I am lucky enough. I have often dreamt of her...I had this dream of travelling with a little blond doll..serious and incredibly curious. I struggled in my sleep when she asked me to explain why water and oil could not mix. She sat next to me on our plane and impatiently kicked her tiny foot clad in a mini horse-riding boot while I waxed on the principles of hydrophilicity. Silly, I know.

I imagine dancing while holding her in my arms when we both can't sleep...her days are going to be filled with incredible music. Her life will be spent with iconoclasts and outcasts...she will see more of this world than many dare to dream of...she will always be warm, always safe, always surrounded by quiet luxury. She will be able to pursue whatever passion overtakes her...she will have access to information and culture and privilege. And I know she will make the most of it for she is going to be much more beautiful and intelligent than I.

That is part of the reason why I have worked so hard...why I have bled and fought and sacrificed for what I have achieved. So that when she finally joins me our life will be...perfection. And though I know I cannot protect her from the world (nor would I want to) I will ensure that my little clone is well equipped to make the most of her time on this glorious rock. And if I am able...I shall spend every day trying to make hers just a little bit better than mine.

I believe children wait for us. Wait for us to be ready...chose us if we are worthy. Love us...just because.
She is waiting, I know it.
And I am almost ready. Purr.

shoe game

A girl walks into your periphery...you glance briefly for general assessment/threat potential. You scan the outfit, take note of accessories and critique the facade (i.e hair/make-up). If bland you move on. If interesting, or better yet, actually stylish you hone in on the SHOE GAME.
This is what separates the amateurs from the pros. This is how you tell if she "put on the first thing [she] saw" or wants you to think she did even though each detail has been meticulously planned (caveat: she may be a "top shelf"  whose closet is brimming with amazing-ness thus making any/every choice a killer).

Why do girls obsess over shoes? Many reasons I suppose. They are beautiful, often uncomfortable but oh so sexy, they are an expression of oneself as much as a car or a chic watch can be for a boy...they are art if done right. They make or break the outfit for those who give a shit about fashion.

But most importantly they do not age. Even when the face or body betray you and refuse to grab on to youth as much as you, your feet stay true. They do not gain weight, they do not wrinkle.. and thus a pair  of velvet hunter green wedge booties you knee-capped a girl on the street of Florence for retains it's value and ability to make you feel...beautiful. Shoes become vintage, never old. 

They are little pieces of art that have the strange ability to make you more confident...stronger...sexier...internally taller. They can influence the kind of day you will have, after all, a pair of worn in leather gladiators that feel like slippers have an inherently different undertone than those amazingly painful pumps that make your legs look nine miles long. A proper pair can seduce...can negotiate...can carry you through a disatser of a day. And when you see, nay FEEL, shoe envy of the girls scanning you when you walk into a room...well that's just the cherry.

Men may not understand, nor should they. But they may not judge when your closet consists of jeans, a few tanks and LBDs and one giant wall of shoes.
That's therapy.
That's girl crack.
That's purr-inducing happiness.

I hate cuh-lahs

Colors. ugghhhh...where to start?
When I was little I used to love them. I had oranges and reds, purples and greens. There was even a blue period, a la Picasso, that spanned several years and was saturated with shades of turquoise, cerulean and navy.
When I was a club kid my days were filled with neon pinks and greens...strangely enough my skin did not burn when they touched it.

Somewhere along the way black took over my life. The last decade has been black. True, there were attempts at color which consisted of bronze, olive, mocha, and white. There was exactly one red dress (worn twice).

Black is classic. It is slimming, sophisticated, dark...perhaps a bit intimidating? It's always so easy to pack and mix and match your outfits when everything is black. And believe me, I do mean EVERYTHING. It is Chanel and Maison Martin Margiela and Rick Owens and McQueen...

I like my style...I think it is truly mine, somewhat reflective of certain trends but not overtly "fashion slave."
                                     modern, asymmetric...CLEAN. 
                     Black is the absence of color and is thus as clean as it can get.

I don't exactly know why but lately I have been craving color. Perhaps the changes in my life have heralded a shift in my outlook...perhaps the incessant barrage from Vogue has finally gotten to me.

Aesthetically colors are pleasing. They are wild and loud and elicit happiness...in some people. I, much like a moth to a flame, approach colorful things with apprehension yet without control. I try them on...I yearn to like them...but every time they are in my proximity they make me feel strange. Unnerving perhaps. They do not make me happy, they do not quite look like they did in my mind and they certainly don't integrate with my general appearance.

Last week I decided to grit my teeth and power through my fear and intimidation of this palette and I went on a mission to find COLOR. Countless hours and stores later I am in possession of one blindingly bright neon green jacket, pastel blue skinny jeans, coral nail polish and a cerulean mini skirt. I also managed to find a long forgotten intense violet silk mini-dress that may make the cut.

                                      I can do this. I can do THIS. I want to do this. 
Because people that wear color seem ok...they seem happy, and approachable, and perhaps even, interesting.


I will never and physically cannot abandon black. But at this time I feel a bit oppressed by it...trapped in its' grip - unable to move away from looking like a black cat...

I want to play in the sun with the happy kids...even if I'll end up sarcastically smirking at them from a shadowy corner. Bring on the Dali period...

The most beautiful boy

Meet Andrej. Amazing isn't he?

He was born in Bosnia and lived with his family in a refugee camp before moving to Australia. He is quickly becoming the talk of the fashion world. He recently walked the runway for Jean Paul Gaultier for both male and female shows and has upcoming campaigns with Marc Jacobs, Den Hoven and many many others.

His photo spreads are impeccable, always amazingly stylish and certainly never boring. He is incredibly versatile -- his poses for women's lines are dramatically different from  his male campagnes.

I am sure some may find him controversial...inappropriate...a competition to the female models. But I see him as a glorious addition and a refreshing jolt to the stale faces the industry has shown the last few seasons. 

He is truly beautiful, in any gender, and I would rather admire his gazelle-like limbs and porcelain face than have couture be wasted on yet another man-faced anorexic pre-teen made up to look like the epitome of feminine mystique. 

And his photo shoot with Zombie Boy (another all time favorite)? PUH-LEAZE! Perfection elevated.