It’s mid-June. What are you looking forward to? The answer should be obvious. Let’s shout it out loud in our best James Franco voices: summer holidayzzz! Planning to go around the world in 80 days, but ending up like The Inbetweeners. Wanting to sleep until noon, but being woken up at 6 by the sun shining right in your face. Forgetting the bikini body bullshit and becoming an amateur ice-cream tester. Looking out for the next song of the summer and hoping it’s better than Call Me Maybe.
You know I don’t buy into the idea of must-haves. I do, however, believe that there are books (and films) that everyone should be familiar with. The required reading list gets longer when you claim to have a passion – yes, “even” if it’s fashion. A true fashionista is not just someone who sports the perfect LBD; she should also know who invented it and why. It’s nice to carry a Lady Dior, but even better to be able to discuss it in terms of Barthes’s mythologies. And every bag instantly becomes cooler if you pop a good book into it.
Here’s Baz Luhrmann’s recipe for an epic blockbuster: take a literary classic, cut out the highbrow parts, stuff it with special effects, add a handful of glitter, stir it in the rhythm of whatever VIVA plays at the moment, and apply lots of dressing (designer, of course.) Killjoys in unfashionable glasses may complain, but audiences will devour your film like a pile of Nutella pancakes.
Friday starts with an F. So does fashion. And fun. And a few other things, but I know your filthy minds have already figured them out. So, what F-things do you fancy today?
After watching a very fashionable film (pictured above) I feel an urgent need for some fuzzy fur (but faux, please!), fetching fascinators and flappers with fringe and feathers.
I sooo wish I could treat my nonexistent devoted followers with a lol-funny review of a cutting-edge recent release. Unfortunately, I spent the entire week procrastinating an essay about art galleries. After a Hamlet-worthy internal monologue and tons of tears and heartbreak, I decided not to make a post about The Curator’s Egg, and skip this weeks’ Monday Review. Consider yourselves spared* and enjoy instead my latest, life-changing discovery (you discover amazing things when you pretend to be working):
I have so many reasons to hate Olympia Le-Tan’s book-bags. On a practical level, I could loathe them for being uncomfortable to carry and too small to fit an actual book. Also, for costing over £1000 each – or, in Ana’s terms, 80 kg of Lindt chocolate, a 17-year subscription to New Statesman or 4 of Mary Katrantzou’s madly expensive pouches. That much for something I could probably make myself, if I weren’t too busy posting about it.
I am an introvert. This book convinced me that the word is not synonymous to loser.