Random reflection on the year so far

Life seems to always be at the halfway point, either halfway to something stupendous or achingly horrendous. One of my feet stands on solid ground; concrete, while the other dangles over a treacherous abyss. I view life through a foggy screen, as if every day the Truman show, and I, Truman. My distorted reality came to be when I moved to the city last year.

Now living in Spanish Harlem and actively participating in its gentrification and demise, I walk to “NYC COFFEE” on 96th and 2nd to sip a $9 espresso. I go to school, mute each day unless I want to discuss some controversy surrounding Kanye West, and then I go home and sit on the phone for 3-5 hours, and then I fall asleep (after copious sleep remedies) to Seinfeld. Sometimes I go to work where I re-prep clothing park avenue princesses throw to the ground of dressing rooms for 8-10 hours at a time. In a single day, I get paid the price of one pair of pants.

I am now in the process of finding meaning in my routine. How my thoughts when I hang clothes, clipping and edging each fabric, may be of value to those other than me.

Why do we fall so hard for consumerism? Stronger than a first love, we buy to salvage heartbreak, self-consciousness, and depression. I include myself in this, for I believe a Vivienne Westwood belt will solve all of my problems.

With the crack of my Manolo Blahnik kitten heel, there was also a crack in my consumerist reality.

New York Nepotism

I can't help but miss the feeling of ignorance and stiff mindful numbness. I live in the most ignorant city in the world; New York City. When you're here, you're not supposed to think of any other place or thing outside the barriers of each borough. You're not supposed to miss the simplicity, however, fall into a new simpleness in that of ignoring the rest of the world. I think it's somewhat of a not-so-secret ego. A natural yet artificial nepotism and superiority. Why does New York make everyone fit a certain NPC robot-like archetype? Why do we shun our faces in crowded subways and hide purple under-eyes below large red umbrellas? Why do we put our Airpods in with no music playing at the site of another? Why do crowded lively streets feel lonely and desolate? Why does the city feel so different when experiencing it with someone for their first time? You see it for the sprinkled cupcakes, yellow lettered playbills, top of the Rockefeller views, and glitter-paved streets near Bryant Park. You smell it for the decadent smells of warm nuts on fifth avenue and hear it for honks of checkered cabs rushing you to the next landmark. You feel it when you put on the velvet purple two-piece skirt set with gold buttons that's been hanging on a hanger back home for weeks. The sensation is, well, sensational. Hotel rooms, uber blacks, dinners at Carbone, shopping at Bergdorf's, trips to the top of the Empire State, Jazz bars every night; unsustainable New York City living. Or is it? How realistically achievable are one's dreams? Is it better to be a fish in a small pool or a big one? If there are men with wives and families who will pay $600 for you to speak to them, shouldn't we be forced to question humanity and all its perceived righteousness? Shouldn't we question the true value of money and good company? What matters more? Self-sustaining material New York City happiness, or true love and companionship in any other part of the world, no matter how small? Will I always view the city through a thick dark fog until a friend comes with their rose-tinted glasses?

Becoming Miss Dior

On the coldest day of the year, Brooklyn looked a little TOO much like Brooklyn. The two black bows secured in her hair only separated the girl more from the typical brooklyn free spirit. Shivering outside the museum in white tights and frilly socks with delicate pearl lacing, she waited a few minutes outside admiring the huge letters stating “CHRISTIAN DIOR: Designer of Dreams.” After scanning her ticket, she waited independently among the aunts and grandmothers in the crowded elevator. It smelled of a mix of Chanel Gabrielle and No. 5, (two older catering luxury fragrances.) There she stood in the corner as a bright red bookmark in a white book amongst the crowd of relic designer handbags held underneath pre-PETA fur coats. As she exited the elevator, voices of new jersey accents pronouncing Yves Saint Laurent as “Ives Saint Lauraunt,” forced a new observation; People who enjoy fashion but choose not to have an immense knowledge on the subject.

(Outside the Brooklyn Museum, 38 degrees)

Beginning with the exploration of Christan Dior’s iconic “New Look,” of the year 1947, the easily recognized rounded shoulders and cinched waist of the silhouette stood illuminated. Often labeled a true turning point in fashion, Dior changed a woman's silhouette forever after designing these looks. She stood and gazed upon the section for a comfortable amount of time, shuffling her hands behind her back. Did she know everything or did she know nothing?

(Defined by its rounded shoulders and cinched waist, set the tone for women's fashion in the 1940s created by Christian Dior)

Taking a few quiet steps she then gazed upon sketches from Christian Dior himself, next to accomplishments leading to his death at the height of his career. With the entire exhibit based on him, it still felt as if it revolved around her and the mystery she gave off. Her coat looked similar to those in the sketches. With pleats reaching all around the waist to the back, her tights were runless and hair was perfectly curled. She forced the perception of “Miss Dior.”

(Hand drawn dating back to the 1940s and 50s, next to newspapers from the same time period withheld in a glass display)

Broken down into creative directors of the past, the exhibit now showcased flashy dresses from designer John Galliano from his time at Dior. A pink and red layered dress with matching headpiece caught the women’s eyes as chatter fluttered throughout the room in a hollow sequence. Glazing past the words, the girl's mystery was threatened by that of the pink dress. The story almost seemed like too much of an effort to read; the action of lowering one’s eyes seemed to be too much, so she walked to the next era of Dior.

(John Galliano held creative director at Dior from 1996-2011, famous for his newspaper designs)

Decorated pillars highlighted bubblegum pink victorian inspired dresses and suit jackets, almost completely distracting from the museum floors. She forgot where she was until she looked down at the zigzag print tiles, and was then taken back to reality. She was reminded that dresses were set up, wallpaper was picked and crown molding was installed. No longer dreaming of her perceived fantasy of crowning herself as “Miss Dior,” she looked closer at the garments in front of her as if trying to find flaw. There were none of course, so her footsteps prevailed.

(Current creative director Maria Grazia Chiuri, 2016-today focuses on hyper-femininity)

A rainbow spectrum presented itself with a crisp black background containing everything from hats and earrings to lampshades and painted portraits. It was labeled “Colorama.” Here she stood for an uncomfortable amount of time. Either over or underwhelmed, she paced from green to purple on opposite sides of the spectrum, making sure she took mental note of each random object in sight.

(“Colorama” display of Dior relics, old and new ranging from red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple)

In spotless glass cases, garments stood still in the process of design. With exposed seams and markings of dimensions, these pieces seemed to be the flawed ones in which she was looking for. While the other women ran past this section, the girl stood, hyper fixated on each detail of the couture pieces still in progress, connecting to them as everyone does to fashion. Is this because they are flawed and unfinished? The most meaningful display yet stood in front of her, and here she finally snapped her first photo.

(Glass case displaying unfinished atelier pieces that never made it to their client, with exposed seams)

Falling golden glitter illuminated the walls of a high ceiling “Enchanted Garden.” A garden of dresses hung in the highest of heights with projections animating them. Now the girl really forgot she was in Brooklyn.

(The Enchanted Garden of Dior, with pieces from Maria Gratzia, John Galliano, Christian Dior, Raf Simmons, Marc Bohan, Yves Saint Laurent and Gianfranco Ferrè)

She sat on a bench watching the themes change from falling glitter to heavenly clouds with sunset backgrounds until she was asked to leave because her time slot was overdue.

(The Enchanted Garden of Dior, with pieces from Maria Gratzia, John Galliano, Christian Dior, Raf Simmons, Marc Bohan, Yves Saint Laurent and Gianfranco Ferrè)

Only to be left with the final quote on the wall as she exited, she looked down at her own coat and frilly socks. The exhibit could make anyone feel as if they were too, Miss Dior.

(Quote from Christian Dior, January 21, 1905-October 24, 1957)