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Kim

Kelly Lynae and Nicole Orabona inspired me with yesterday’s post of David Lynchian virgin-cum-vixen silhouettes.

I’m moving to the other side of the world in less than 24 hours, and when I’m stressed out my body tosses weight like cargo off a gangplank. During lean times, when I feel I have the proportions of a praying mantis, I rely on the figure-enhancing magic of 1950s and early ’60s silhouettes—with a modern twist.

 Platonic ideal of a linen jacket: Elizabeth and James (Fancy Pants, Boise)

Bennett chino in poppy and tank top: J. Crew

 Silver cat bracelet: gift

Mulholland Drive, Laura Herring, Fashion, Frivolous Universe

My favorite movie is David Lynch’s Mulholland Drive. I love Mulholland Drive for its low brass, American notes (Winkie’s, Los Feliz nightlight, Club Silencio) contrasted with Naomi Watts and Laura Harring’s agnès b., workaday Parisian wardrobe.

J. Crew, toothpick jean, skinny jean, Elizabeth and James, Donald J. Pliner, Kim Philley, Frivolous Universe, tank top, flats, zebra flats

Zebra flats: Donald J. Pliner

From the rhinestones on Betty’s coral-colored cardigan to the black halter dress Rita wears to Club Silencio, the girl is in the details.

Kim Philley, Frivolous Universe, J, Crew, Elizabeth and James, toothpick jean, Donald J. Pliner, zebra, flats

Photos by Bethany Walter

Screenshots from Mulholland Drive (2001)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Black satin bejeweled purse: Grandma’s

New Year’s Eve shenanigans with the FU Ladies @ Visual Arts Collective, Garden City, Idaho

I woke up as many of you did on New Year’s Day, groping for the switch to the coffeemaker in my darkened kitchen, my ears buzzing from the cilia-flattening effect of dancing to Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” at top decibel the night before. I’m sure people have been waking up in exactly this manner since 1982, but the first morning of a new year somehow feels bathed in a different light. I cinched my robe at the waist and braced myself against the cold as I scuttled down my driveway to retrieve the New York Times.

Vintage 1940s Dress: In Retrospect (Boise)

When I pulled the Week in Review out of the fat middle of the Sunday edition, its headline shouted The Joy of Quiet.” In this nuanced essay, travel writer and novelist Pico Iyer addresses why stillness is essential—perhaps more so in our 3G Age than ever before. I stretched out on the sofa, my knees creaking from a night of how-low-can-you-go dancing, and allowed Iyer’s words to offer me some semblance of ablution:

“We have more and more ways to communicate, as Thoreau noted, but less and less to say. Partly because we’re so busy communicating . . . . All the data in the world cannot teach us how to sift through data; images don’t show us how to process images. The only way to do justice to our onscreen lives is by summoning exactly the emotional and moral clarity that can’t be found on any screen.”

But how do we get there—to clarity—from where we are?

4″ Wedge Heels: B. Makowsky (Marshall’s)

These geometric wedges remind me of a design by a coveted label I can’t afford, Maison Martin Margiela

“Distraction is the only thing that consoles us for our miseries,” the French philosopher Blaise Pascal wrote in the 17th century, “and yet it is itself the greatest of our miseries.” Iyer suggest refusing distraction by learning to sit quietly alone in a room, which, as we all know, is easier said than done. But he also offers practical, travel-writerly advice. The future of travel, Iyer believes, lies not in the multiple Ethernet ports of a business suite at Howard Johnson, but in “black-hole resorts” like the Post Ranch Inn in Big Sur, which charge high prices precisely because you can’t get online in their rooms.

Other tactics? “Forgetting” your cell phone at home, recovering those hours lost to Facebook and Twitter addiction with Freedom software or old-fashioned willpower, and remembering that true joy in life comes from deep concentration: the two-hundredth page of a captivating novel, a languorous dinner with friends, the pleasure of vulnerable conversation that is all eye contact and makes you feel vivid, impossibly alive, and pinned in space to your coffee and chair.

Details, details, details! 

2012. Lord knows it has its naysayers, but I feel like standing up for the promise of this year. And it needn’t be complicated: drink when you’re dry, dance when you feel stagnant, sit still when you feel pulled in all directions; ask yourself, does it matter? If the answer is yes, go for it.

Costume Earrings: Grandma’s

Photos by Bethany Walter

  

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If you’re anything like me, you probably don’t have a lot of disposable income to drop on holiday garb that cost of a bomb. There are two matters of domestic life that seem like a sad waste to me: one of them is not eating off the good china; the other is letting your best dress curdle in its dry cleaning plastic like The Picture of Dorian Gray.

He is twenty-one. He has been twenty-one for almost half a century.

Don’t let this happen to your cocktail dress.

painting of Dorian Gray by Ivan Albright

I call this purple polka-dot number my Barney dress. Even though it’s memorable and inexpensive, I believe a once-worn dress hasn’t done enough to earn its keep.

In January of 2009, my friend Emilia and I were gifted last minute tickets to one of Obama’s inaugural balls. I tried not to panic: I had less than 24 hours to update my jeans-and-long underwear look, which, in anticipation of freezing my butt cheeks off on the National Mall, was all I had schlepped with me to D.C.

We had no time to mess around. All of D.C. and Northern Virginia had already raided the boutiques for their inaugural soirees, and so we headed straight to the biggest designer-discount store of all: Loehmann’s.

Gown: Tibi New York

Canary-yellow clutch: DSW

But I couldn’t believe my eyes when we stepped through those sliding doors. Apparently, a cyclone had hit Loehmann’s and the fabric debris tossed to the floor had been scavenged by wolves. I was about to give up on the grisly evening gown section when I looked up and saw a sole survivor: this purple, 100% silk Tibi dress. The original, slashed-through price was $1,049, but Loehmann’s had democratically marked the frock down to $60. Pinned to a far wall, the dress appeared to be 6-feet long.

Finally, I had the advantage: where the Cinderellas before me had seen a polka-dot Grecian muumuu and rejected it, I saw an advantageous amount of cheap silk yardage for my 5”11 frame. And my friend knew a Vietnamese tailor who was working overtime for the weekend’s many black tie events. Kismet.

Earrings: from the collection of Mercedes Guevara

As luck would have it, the dress was actually too long. I had the tailor not only take it in three sizes, but cut a few extra inches off the hem to fashion a matching elastic belt. I scored a yellow clutch at DSW, and my friend loaned me a pair of her mother’s mod metallic earrings, straight out of early-60s Mexico City. The tailor was making adjustments until the 11th hour, so thank goodness her shop was located in the basement of my friend’s apartment building! Nevertheless, it was worth the wait: when I donned the dress for the American Scholar’s Inaugural Ball at the Four Seasons, my pasty winter skin was sheathed in a much-needed splash of color.

Two and a half years later, I needed a last minute frock for my friends Paulius and Skaiste’s wedding in Lithuania. Getting a garment bag past the Gestapo ticketing attendants on Ryan Air was the hard part—choosing to recycle my favorite $60 dress? Easy like Christmas morning.

Glamorous Lithuanian Bride and Groom: Skaiste & Paulius

 

 

 

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