Monday, July 4, 2011
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One fine day I was lounging around in my mint-colored bedroom, occupying whatever space that was not conquered by either haphazardly stacked paper, glossy magazines or clothes that doubled as makeshift rugs. It was by accident that I stumbled upon a bunch of stapled articles-- in which I passionately deliberated on how Alexander Wang's model-off-duty chic was destined to be the modern day staple, on how the Proenza Schouler duo of Jack and Lazaro were gifts from God to the world.. amongst other rambles.
In between the lines my heart recollected an arcane kind of joy. The marriage of what I love the most: fashion (insert eye-roll here) and writing. I did not envision to be the next Cathy Horyn, nor a female version of the infamous Derek Blasberg but my words have always flowed endlessly when it comes to sartorial matters. Writing about pailletés, organzas or (God forbid) clogs felt rather natural. I have yet to decide if it was the estrogen or just me. Here I am, in hopes to revive the love affair I had for decrypting sartorial collections into a carefully-worded personal rant. Hello.
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