Rick Owens on beauty and intolerance
“My personal effort has been to oppose intolerance in any way that I can by proposing aesthetics that are not the accepted standards or not the enforced standards. I talk about airport beauty: we’re forced to march through this gauntlet of beauty—the beauty ads, the beauty goods, perfume things—that is exactly the same globally…and it’s narrow, and it can be a little bit cruel…I want to offer something that is not exactly that…
“I want to balance out intolerance by promoting alternatives to what are the standards of beauty. When you can blur the standards of beauty, you can open up minds to think of other things, too.”
Louise Nevelson on raisins
“When I put a raisin in my mouth, I know what I'm doing.”
—Louise Nevelson, on eating them one at a time instead of in handfuls
from Dawns + Dusks: Taped Conversations With Diana MacKown
Rick Owens on cake
“I have plenty of addictions. I mean, I smoke, I drink coffee, I have to have a certain amount of cake a day. So I have my addictions, and I’ve learned to accept them.”
—Rick Owens, when asked about his sobriety
sweetness, i was only joking
Dolce far niente is Italian for “the sweetness of doing nothing” (or, alternately, sweet idleness). Seems very fitting for hot, sweaty late summer.
John William Waterhouse, "Dolce Far Niente," 1880 via Wikipedia
the strange appeal of Walter Skinner
or SKINNER IS ZADDY!!!!!
I’m rewatching The X-Files(spoilers for season 3 below!) and repeatedly find myself thinking, damn, Skinner is hot.
As a teen, I only had eyes for Mulder (and Scully, but I didn’t realize I was queer yet) (how many sapphics owe it all to Dana Scully?!). At 40, I still love Mulder and Scully, but I admire Mitch Pileggi/Skinner in a way I never did before.
Skinner is TIRED. He’s fed up with your bullshit. He’s weary from dealing with bureaucracy and meetings and paperwork all day. He doesn’t get to be out in the field playing with aliens like Mulder and Scully. He has to deal with budgets and the Smoking Man and his wife filing for divorce. It’s way too relatable!
Mulder’s the impulsive youngest child, making a mess, and Scully’s the oldest daughter who has responsibility foisted on her. Skinner’s the parent. The realities of life and adulthood weigh on him. He’s stuck behind a desk all day. Again, RELATABLE. How many of us watched The X-Files in the ’90s and dreamt of being detectives or doctors or whatever, only to grow up and work in a cubicle? Turns out life is way more Office Space than it is Nancy Drew.
Skinner may lack Mulder’s obvious charm and jocularity, but he has a dry, sarcastic wit (and ripped bod hiding under those boring suits). We even get to see his sexy side in season 3. Mulder and Scully may be wish-fulfillment fantasies, but in the episode Avatar, Skinner has to deal with very real relationship problems: pushing away his wife of 17 years, not confiding in her, until she finally asks for a divorce. At the very end of the episode (I TOLD YOU THERE WOULD BE SPOILERS!), as she’s lying in a coma, he whispers to her that she’s kept him going all these years, and that even though he’s witnessed things he can’t explain or make sense of, coming home to her every night is what’s kept him going. 🥹
For the grown-ass viewer, it’s a seductive moment of vulnerability, a peek behind the stoic facade someone has erected around themselves in self-defense. (I would argue that the truly grown-up thing would be go to therapy and figure out how to stay open and vulnerable and confide in your partner BEFORE they’re comatose, and the bar shouldn’t be so low for cishet white men, but I digress.) Skinner’s usually the strong silent type, but for a moment, he gets to be soft. He tells his (still unconscious) wife he wants to stay married, and at the very end of the episode, he gets his wedding ring out of a desk drawer and puts it back on. It’s tender and touching. We know as viewers that Skinner will probably go back to being that grouchy, walls-up guy in the next episode, but this 43-minute slice of character development is a kiss to build a dream on.
P.S. As a feminist, I think your spouse should be more than “that nice person I come home to every night,” but this was 1996 so I’ll give them a little grace.
pagan poetry
(apologies to björk)
I wrote a lot of bad, angsty poems as a teen. I still remember thinking that comparing the moon to a pearl was brilliant. (I was definitely the first to make THAT comparison!!!!!)
In high school, I devoured e.e. cummings and Edna St. Vincent Millay. I watched 10 Things I Hate About You and immediately became a Sylvia Plath fan, along with every other angsty alt girl in the late ’90s.
“Make anyone cry today?” “Sadly, no…but it’s only 4:30.”
Writing (and reading) poetry was a way to channel that quintessential teen feeling of being misunderstood, of having feelings so intense and uncontrollable they had to be funneled into a creative outlet or I would burst.
In college, I still wrote poems, but they were silly and self-deprecating, about wanting to kiss a crush on a fire escape even though he was boring and didn’t know I existed. Things were changing. It wasn’t cool to take yourself and your emotions seriously; it was cool to be sarcastic and flippant.
I also started rejecting anything “feminine” because, in my naive misunderstanding of feminism, I thought anything feminine was inherently weak and pandering to the male gaze. (Learn to cook? I’m no ’50s housewife!) Poetry was both too serious and vulnerable for where I was in life. Like this poem by Joseph Brodsky, which absolutely destroyed me when my English professor read it in class:
I wish you were here, dear,
I wish you were here.
I wish you sat on the sofa
and I sat near.
The handkerchief could be yours,
the tear could be mine, chin-bound.
Though it could be, of course,
the other way around.
I wish you were here, dear,
I wish you were here.
I wish we were in my car
and you'd shift the gear.
We'd find ourselves elsewhere,
on an unknown shore.
Or else we'd repair
to where we've been before.
I wish you were here, dear,
I wish you were here.
I wish I knew no astronomy
when stars appear,
when the moon skims the water
that sighs and shifts in its slumber.
I wish it were still a quarter
to dial your number.
I wish you were here, dear,
in this hemisphere,
as I sit on the porch
sipping a beer.
It's evening, the sun is setting;
boys shout and gulls are crying.
What's the point of forgetting
if it's followed by dying?
(RIGHT!?!??! I apologize for destroying you too.)
I closed off part of myself because I thought poetry was weak and froufrou and Emily Dickinson, and I wanted to be tough and edgy and sullen. 😢 I didn’t like being so sensitive, because I felt so much pain.
Surprise, surprise: dulling my ability to feel pain dulled my ability to appreciate beauty, too. Thankfully, I give fewer fucks now. I cry more freely these days, because I know feelings will pass. Maybe part of it is turning 40 and realizing that I am who I am, I like what I like, and I’m too tired to pretend otherwise. I’m a sensitive marshmallow, and I’m never gonna be Rosa Diaz from Brooklyn 99.
Anyway, reading poems feels like a secret little indulgence. Poems don’t really fit into capitalism. They’re not productive. It’s like watching clouds pass by or something—truly no “value” except the exquisite pleasure of words melting on your tongue. The rhyme and rhythm and alliteration and assonance takes me back to 10th grade English class, and it’s delicious. Plus you learn new words like “munificence” (generosity) or that Shakespeare actually wrote a ton of sonnets to a dude, meaning he was queer or a woman or both (!).
Take it away, Edna:
P.S. OK, I can’t stop…here’s another one from Edna. Or should I say Miss St. Vincent MillSLAY?!?!?
quote of the day
“Listen, I’m a pretty good judge of people. If I wasn’t, I couldn’t sell extension cords.”
—extension cord salesman, Monk, S1E13
postapocalyptic fashion
Blame it on recently watching the 2nd and 3rd Matrix films (both bad, but especially the 3rd, which was downright painful) but I’m strangely attracted to postapocalyptic style right now. Think Tank Girl, Charlize with her head shaved in Mad Max, etc.
I haven’t gone on an internet deep dive yet, but some themes seem to be:
Ripped, destructed, destroyed fabrics - holes galore
Combat boots - you know, the ankle kind with a flat sole and some chunky buckles (NO HEELS. Heels have no place in the dystopia!)
Tight-fitting pants tucked into said boots, or weird drop-crotch/”harem” pants, or cargo pants
Fingerless gloves
Drapey layers, like a tank top under a holey or mesh sweater
Asymmetric or handkerchief hems
Maxi-length dusters/cardigans/trench coats
Lots of black, grays, and muted earth tones
Chunky belts and/or harnesses
Hoods
Over-the-knee socks paired with shorts
Androgyny
It’s a weird combination of practical and sexy. A little flash of skin peeking out of a tattered top, or a sliver of thigh between aforementioned over-the-knee socks and shorts. Nothing impractical or overtly feminine like ruffles, lace, or scoop-necks, but hot all the same! (Maybe because the implication is that this person survived the apocalypse by being scrappy and clever and kicking ass.)
It’s not lost on me that thinness (not to mention whiteness and lack of visible disabilities) seems to be the default in this (as in most aesthetics). Sigh. Also, I HATE that women in this genre magically have time and resources to shave their legs and armpits regularly (and would also choose to wear a push-up bra) even though, you know, THE WORLD HAS ENDED. (Never any period stains, either.) So yeah, this aesthetic certainly isn’t perfect. I do admire, though, that the looks are generally pretty unisex and it’s more acceptable for women to have shaved heads and be less girly. Sure, you can survive the apocalypse with long wavy hair, but at least have the decency to put it in a ponytail!
Ahem. Anyway, post-apocalyptic fashion IMO seems to be related to a few other aesthetics: steampunk, futuristic/cyberpunk, and Western. Steampunk and postapocalyptic both have goggles and a brownish palette, although steampunk is more industrial. Futuristic/cyberpunk is less about dirt and more about shine/leather, I’d wager, but they share the drapey, mesh, and unisex aspects (postapocalyptic is like the Matrix, but rub some dirt on it!). Western style—think Wynonna Earp, not a John Wayne Halloween costume—is also kind of rugged, practical, and boot-centric, but cowboy hats would look ridiculous in postapocalyptic style.
More aspects of postapoc fashion, according to the internet:
Bones or animal skulls used in jewelry/accessories
Shredded fabric
Practical accessories like a water canteen, knife, holster, etc.
A scarf that you can use to block the sand from your nose/mouth (why is there always sand???)
The radiation/danger symbol
Some kind of leather wrist cuff/”bracer” - similar to fingerless gloves, but with more buckles somehow
Army green
Heavy smudgy eyeliner, because obviously makeup is a priority during a complete societal shutdown
Apparently this aesthetic is also called “wasteland,” and Pinterest is trying to introduce me to something related called “solarpunk fashion.” Whaaaat! The more you know.
P.S. Turns out I’m two years late and the kids are calling this “avant apocalypse”!
ellen raskin
Today I learned Ellen Raskin—author of The Westing Game, my fave book as a kid and perhaps an adult too—didn’t write her first novel until she was 42!
What a delight.
unbothered
Maybe he will come out of this
Maybe he won't
Somehow I'm not too bothered either way
Maybe he will come out of this loving me
Maybe he will come out of this
—björk, lionsong
quote of the day
“I don’t mean to be rude, but have you ever been to the Grand Canyon?”
—Sabrina the Teenage Witch, S1E21
(the OG show from the ’90s, not the reboot)