qui suis-je?
An extended journal of
LA COUTURIER especially for POP Magazine documenting the musings, ramblings, and advice of a coquettish girl with an potentially unhealthy obsession with bags and cocktail rings, who calls herself
la couturier. Hardly an expert at fashion; simply one who immerses herself in it. It is here where she presents an edgier version of her take on fashion, her dreams, her aspirations, hoping to inspire in some way or another. je m'appelle la couturier. comment ça va?
follow, s.v.p.
let’s talk, darling.
breaking it down…
8
February 4th, 2010
Obsessed, like the rest of the blogosphere.
Abbey Lee Kershaw, Vogue Australia, in Louis Vuitton SS2010.
I usually refrain (read: stay a good distance away, as if the thing were cursed – not that I believe in superstitions or anything) from posting any image I’ve seen on at least two blogs. The blogosphere is a bit incestuous, sharing images, ideas, etc. in such tight-knit community.
But like every rule, there is an exception: this picture is far from the norm of what I typically like: there is something about it that makes me swoon a little inside. I may be biased because I absolutely adore Abbey Lee; regardless, the jade nails, orange lips, neon pink hair have me praising the stylist. The combination was so wrong (only to be seen on the emo/goth/punk girls that moped the halls of high school), but done so right. The palette of neon colors could have been blinding, yet with Proenza’s ingeniusity, looked nothing short of what the most sophisticated of punk-surfer girls would wear.
Lovely indeed. A great breath of fresh air from the ubiquitous Balmain-induced Balmainia trends. (Yah know – studs, rips, spikes, etc.)
7
January 26th, 2010
We’ve got the whole universe in our hands.
Dear American Apparel,
I absolutely, positively a d o r e your double u-back body-con long-sleeved dress in black (I do plan on splurging on a few more in various colors). It’s become my go-to LBD, my signature, my “freakum dress” (as dearest Beyonce would say, or sing, rather).
But take that dress, plus this print of the unknown universe. The stars, the swirls, the colors. The juxtaposition of dark and glimmering light. That would be one hell of a dress, let me tell yah.
Your biggest fan,
La Couturier
6
January 16th, 2010
Oh, where the wild things are.
{ image source: t h e f a s h i o n s p o t }
I suppose it would only be fair to all you lovely non-pareils that I begin with an apology explaining (in great depth) my reasons for this ridiculously long hiatus. I have not neglected this blog no. 2; my absence on La Couturier x POP was due to a combination of a re-prioritization of my aspirations/goals/etc. (if you’re truly curious and have quite a bit of time to kill, the article is on my other blog) and viral attacks that nearly killed my darling laptop. So if you’ve already forgotten who I am (or perhaps are a new reader who has only just stumbled upon here), scroll a few posts down to the first post in which I properly introduce myself.
With that said, happy belated 2010!
Isn’t it lovely that it’s a new year? And an even one, at that? I have a gut feeling 2010 will be quite the eventful year; my only qualms with it are whether or not I should call it “two-thousand ten” or be cool and call it “twenty ten.” Is “oh-ten” a viable candidate in the running, too? Let me know what you think.
But before you question the relevance of the post’s title and the lovely editorial of Abbey Lee Kershaw, I will explain. The end of 2009 began (I’m well aware of the paradoxical statement I have just made) with a bang, really, of which the rather dark film, Where the Wild Things Are, epitomized. The film was nothing I expected, harboring a much deeper and darker message than I had entered the theater expecting. Instead of simply recreating the six-or-so children’s book it was based upon, the movie version ultimately explored and exposed the core of humanity.
We are all children at heart. We are all wild. Animalistic. We dream of our unconscious’ desires, adventures, fantasies. Quite Freudian, sans the vulgarity.
One of my resolutions for the brand, spankin’ new year of 2 0 1 0 , besides the ubiquitous get-fit-lose-weight-and-go-on-diets thing, is to wholly embrace the concept of Carpe Diem-ing. Forget social constraints and norms, and let your imagination roam. Unleash the inner wild child, the free-spirited you, whether she be hipster, hippie bohemian, or whatever. Forgo inhibitions and release all tension within. Tackle the resolutions and aspirations you have laid out. Start new projects. Build something out of nothing. Embark on a spontaneous journey or vacation to wherever that plane/car take you. Embrace, explore, and discover yourself along the way.
It’s 2010.
Where the wild things are.
And when the wild things come out.
bisous,
La C.
5
August 27th, 2009
Unwritten.
{ image source: g a r a n c e d o r é }
Something about the unkempt bed hair and smokey eyes is undeniably alluring; perhaps because it is a standout against a crowd of perfectly coiffed ladies, who spend hours in the morn applying perfectly winged liner and a red lip. That just-rolled-out of bed hair, slightly suggestive of a rather exciting evening, in addition to makeup left on from the night before is simply fascinating. For she alone is proof that a woman can in fact grab her handbag and run out the door in a minute’s time sans the daily routine of dolling up. Because a woman shines most in a state of nonchalance, radiating wild and uninhibited beauty in imperfect perfection.
But her ability to catch all eyes extends far beyond the rumpled hair and bedroom eyes, the blasé loose tank and a chic scarf loosely thrown over (an aside: I must find the perfect leopard print scarf!). It is the glimpse of ink on her side, one that gives a peek of a tattoo that few bystanders catch, but later doubt if they did actually see something. The mysteriousness, the romanticism of tattoo in cursive, inked to her skin in such a demure fashion is unbelievably beautiful. For so long I’ve admired those who embraced tattoos; a rosary on the ankle, a meaningful quote inscribed on their back. On men it gives the undeniably sexy, bad-boy look; on women, it is adds mysteriousness and edginess. Whether or not such effect comes with preconceptions of tattoo-baring people really is irrelevant at this point, because the effect is in fact unique, inimitable by clothing or hairstyle or makeup.
It may come as a surprise to most to hear that I have always (in secret) wanted a tattoo. I loved the idea of being rebellious, of wearing my heart and mind on me (literally), of letting it speak for itself, of being different. After all, a tattoo expresses so much more than clothing or accessories ever could; it takes permanent residence on your physicality, leaving an eternal mark and reminder of whatever was significant to you at the time. I have longed for a simple word or quote, inscribed in black script along the ribcage on the side much like the woman above. Only glimpses of it can be seen with more revealing ensembles, in the bedroom, or at the beach, otherwise covered with modesty.
But I am still in the process of brainstorming that perfect word/phrase. Perhaps something in Latin or French?
bisous,
La C.
