Beautiful madness is delicious...

My favorite fashion designer is the love child of a gay Captain Hook and Peter Pan, who has been raised by a glamorous French courtesan, and endowed with a super human ability to make the weirdness of life both beautiful and luxurious.

And if you haven’t already guessed, I’m talking about John Galliano, with his delightfully naughty little moustache and his chewy caramel voice. Here’s the understated cliché of the year: the man is a genius. He turned the French revolution into a bloody haute couture spectacle in 2006 and I’ve been madly in love ever since.

Now to be true, I do enjoy the work Galliano does with the epic majesty of the Dior house. But his own work, given his own name, is free from the expectations of honoring legacy. Although this season there was a thread of genetic material running through both the couture and ready to wear Dior collections, right into his own Spring 2010 collection, I can’t deny that the latter was what really won my soul.

I first saw still images of the collection on my trusty little iPhone and I couldn’t quite discern if the floating white bubbles were glass or plastic. Then I read the review, and immediately ran to the least often used bathroom in the office where I work and covertly downloaded footage while hiding crouched in a stall next to a (thankfully) clean toilet. And my god, I don’t want to be vulgar, but his gift for the theatrical is positively intellectually aesthetically orgasmic. Floating bubbles filled with smoke, bursting on the runway, surrounding these tall chiffon swathed sirens with yet another layer of ethereal gossamer. It was delicious.

I’ve often thought if I had only a year to live, what would most certainly be at the very top of my bucket list would be to see a Galliano show live. Forgive my morbidity, but I’ve often wondered what a good sob story earns these days, if a well written letter and a multi-syllabic disease could get me a front row seat.

I am sharing the Style.com video of the show (I love that website; it’s like an endless source of free fashion pornography for couture obsessed computer monkeys, thank you Vogue). I hope it tickles your fancy as much as it tickled mine.

The beginning stages of a new shop on Etsy...

I have officially decided to open a second Etsy shop for handmade items. I think a more focused approach will make each shop more successful, especially when it comes to advertising.

I am deeply attached to the “Revolution is Sexy” brand identity. I’ve tried to “own” the phrase as a part of my online presence in as many ways as possible. It’s not easy to find a phrase that is unused as a “user name” on any of the usual websites: Flickr, blogger, deviant art, Etsy, gmail, Myspace, etc…

And I don’t want to lose that brand identity, but I feel I should begin an exploration of the wild untamed jungles of my creative potential. My new Etsy shop should embrace concepts that connect it to the first shop. It should evolve from the same primordial ooze of surrealism, imagination, absurdity, and irreverence.

I have been brainstorming for new shop ideas, but I feel to really ensure that I am as committed to the new brand name as I am to the old one, that I should use a phrase that I already have a relationship to. Three phrases definitely show a lot of potential:

Deus Ex Machina: It means literally “god in the machine” but often translates as “ghost in the machine”. The original term comes from Ancient Greek Theater, but I was introduced to it during my Shakespearean studies. Essentially it is the plot device that differentiates comedies from tragedies. It’s when something (or someone) comes “out of the blue” to make everything better. Although I am personally very attracted to the meaning, I am also fascinated by the mystery and provocation of the phrase itself. Ghost in the machine. What a fabulous juxtaposition of words, and gosh do I love juxtaposition.

The Lunatic and the Swan: This is the only phrase in the running that isn’t borrowed from another source. It was the title of a memoir that I began to write. It is also another delightfully juicy use of juxtaposition. I just like the idea of madness mixed with beauty, incoherent weirdness mixed with loveliness and grace. However this phrase has a similar problem that I have with my first brand identity, Revolution is Sexy. The juxtaposition of the word “revolution” with the word “sexy” is edgy and thought provoking, but is it too edgy and thought provoking? In this case, it is less the action of the juxtaposition as the action of the word lunatic. It definitely aims at a specific customer group, but is its’ aim too specific? Are there enough people out there who are going to be intrigued by my dangerously whimsical frivolity?

Curiouser and Curiouser: This phrase had won the competition in my mind until I discovered a blog on Word Press by the same name. As many of you may already know, “curiouser and curiouser” is a quote from Lewis Caroll’s “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland”. I think it definitely conjures surrealism, whimsy, absurdity, and cultural literacy for a large group of people. But as every choice has its downfalls, so does this one. People may be too familiar with this phrase and its original context to really shift their associations to my brand.

Although I am beginning to lean toward my own personal choice, I am going to try and post a poll to hear from others what they think my new brand name should be.

Feedback is always appreciated!

What does “Revolution is Sexy” mean?

The phrase began as the title to one of my student films, in which beautiful women were dressed as famous male revolutionaries. I played Che Guevera, and although my face was covered in the patchy beard of a guerilla soldier, my legs were still exposed beneath a camouflage mini skirt. Images of these hermaphroditic creatures, half super model, half dirt caked warrior, were layered with text from a manifesto that I had written for a cultural revolution. The initial concept had been inspired by the use of Che Guevera’s face to sell t-shirts to frat boys. Though at first it seemed ridiculous and frustrating, I realized that Che himself had begun his life as a clean cut son of the bourgeoisie. Maybe the recruits for the next cultural revolution are right under our noses.

My personal favorite cultural revolutionaries were the surrealists. They believed that art could be, and should be, created by all. They believed that art could change the world. And if none of that is revolutionary enough for you, they were just plain strange. They were weird and people noticed. And that changed things. Now nearly everyone has become culturally literate in the dream language of surrealism. As Jung might say, our collective unconscious has seen it all.

More than the startling curves of Dali’s surreal moustache, there was Kerouac’s hobo-chic. There was Warhol’s soup cans, and there was MTV. And now there’s this.

This revolution self published its manifestos using library copy machines and sharpie markers. This revolution dressed itself in its grandmother’s hand me downs. This revolution elected a black president with the help of graffiti artists. This revolution blogged, knitted, biked, designed, uploaded, downloaded, forwarded, recycled, repurposed, screen printed, and educated itself into existence.

We made the revolution, now all we have to do is sell it. Maybe all we have to do to change the world is be interesting. Maybe all we have to do is be cool.

And maybe use the internet.

Computers not only made nerds cool, they reinvented everything. The internet gave millions of people access to their 15 minutes of fame. Viral content spreads among us simply by the strength of its own virtues. Some of the richest and most powerful people in this world got to where they are not because they inherited their status from their ancient aristocratic blood lines, but because they had a really good idea and it worked. Bill Gates. Enough Said.

So here I am on the good ol’ world wide web, trying to sell my little piece of the cultural revolution pie. It’s nutritious, delicious, and pretty darn cool. Maybe even a little sexy, too.

Retail therapy at its best.

I am a thrift store junkie. (I am also obsessed with rummage sales, but in my temperate zone, thrift stores are a more reliable fix.) Becoming an avid “thrifter” thoroughly alters a person’s shopping sensibilities. After spending an hour browsing through an almost unimaginably diverse selection of jeans with prices that could be covered by the change some people find in their couch cushions, it’s almost impossible to go to a mall. The shop windows showcase a small variety of “current trends” at prices that would get you garbage bags full of gently used clothing. And I guess there’s something about the thrill of the hunt that gets inside you. With a little extra work, you can find something unique. Something that has already lived one life, and instead of going into a land fill, is going to live a second life with you in your closet. Thrifting enlivens hunter gatherer instincts. It helps the environment. It saves you money.

But just because I love thrifting, doesn’t mean that I haven’t found a few other places to satiate these urges. I have often touted my local Forever 21 store for feeling like a thrift store, with its tightly packed racks of uniquely trendy clothing. But there’s one store in particular that provides the same bliss of a totally satisfying shopping experience. That is Ikea.

When my grandmother and I were walking through the amusement park sized parking lot up to Ikea last week, she made a very telling comment, “I feel like we’re going to have to pay to get in.” It was not the first Ikea visit for either of us, and we were both treating the trip like a special event rather than an errand. A single shopping excursion with a singular purpose can easily take hours, and result in more than a few unplanned purchases.

Firstly and most importantly, Ikea has beautifully designed, environmentally and socially responsible products at almost unbelievably low prices. We saw these pillows (vacuum sealed to save space in your shopping cart) for 99 cents.

This company has discovered a formula for reducing cost as well as environmental impact. Sure, you might have to assemble that shelf yourself, but by shipping things “flat” they can put more products into a truck or plane, and reduce the carbon emissions of transport. I saw lamps that used their own shades as the container, and lamps that use solar power. These Swedes are talented designers, not just for their practical sensibilities, but for their keen aesthetic understanding.

Wandering the store is like browsing an interactive three dimensional catalogue. I am a sucker for their carefully detailed store displays, where you can go up to a kitchen cabinet, and open in to find real Swedish food products available to buy on the ground floor.

And since you’re probably going to spend hours here, it’s a must to have lunch in their cafeteria. The prices were incredibly reasonable, and the food? Delicious and nutritious, as they say.

And even I thought Ikea had outdone themselves when I heard the announcement that there was a wandering magician on the second floor. We made sure to stop and catch a bit of the show (though my experience with magicians from my time in the circus sort of takes the mystery and thrill out of illusions).

In the end I managed to purchase only what I had come for. Though I did take the time to garnish a great deal of inspiration, and take a great deal of photographs. There was an almost poetic repetition of shapes and colors everywhere I turned. It was just like a thrift store, a vast retail landscape beckoning for me to explore and discover.

Maxwell Street Days

As my grand parents and I drove to Maxwell Street Days last Sunday, I realized that I had been attending this event for at least 20 years. Considering I have only been on earth for a mere 24, and have spent none of that time being a morning person, it is more than a little remarkable. For as long as I remember, I have enjoyed rising at dawn to roam a dusty gravel field inhabited by a sprawling temporary metropolis of strange characters selling precious, precious junk.

My grandmother started the tradition but later my mother’s antique business cemented the trek to Cedarburg among our family traditions. Although I admit I cannot say with utter confidence that I have gone every year, I do know I have gone more than once in a Summer, which I believe makes up for the occasional predisposition to sleep late and miss the fun.

It was at these cluttered tables that I really began to learn the fruitful art of haggling. Although hardly adept during my early attempts (no doubt to my childhood budget clashing with my childhood taste for expensive collector Barbies) I quickly grew the skills, and more importantly, the confidence. Now it is an ever present habit to offer less than the initial price, knowing that dealers almost always account for some wiggle room. Last Saturday I only accepted the price once without question: fifty cents for a the orange metal box of a vintage science kit, in perfect condition!

And although I was sore when we’d finally passed by the last booth, we managed to squeeze a few local rummage sales into the schedule. But not until after breakfast at the local George Webb’s (the food at that location being much better than the ones in Milwaukee). I spent my entire budget of $20, but my bounty was plentiful. And some of the items will prove to make excellent etsy merchandise, including a colorful pile of vintage earrings.

Most of the earrings came in bulk, neatly bundled into two Ziploc baggies. However the second purchase I made that day (barely even a few yards into the grounds) was a single pair of vintage earrings for 25 cents, and the haggard looking gypsy woman said with a thick accent, “You are my first customer, you better bring me luck.” Call me superstitious, but I was a bit intimidated to wonder, what happens if I don’t! She fit right in among the dirt kissed old men wearing overalls and chain smoking hand rolled cigarettes. Other kinds of sellers have slipped into the spaces between the stereotypical antique dealers. Some people set up huge cardboard boxes filled with cheap new items like sponges, bright plastic clipboards, and masking tape. Not to mention the food vendors, the florists, and the middle aged middle America lady crafters with all manner of handmade kitsch.

And of course I found a few figurines to add to my collection. In addition to my usual habit of buying Virgin Mary and Saint statues, I also picked up an adorable plastic fawn that reminded me of an apartment/studio I saw on the Etsy video series: “There's no place like here.”

The whole day was absolutely exhausting but thank goodness I had two days of labor day vacation to follow it. That much shopping requires a recovery period!

Bowling for Style

As far as surrealists go, I live a pretty good life. My situation is neither so intense nor so horrible that it warrants an explicitly political revolution. Instead, I work toward undermining the boring and banal. And happily I often find myself surrounded by others with exactly the same intent.

A good friend of mine, Tommy Bang Bang, lives in Portland and came into town this week. In order to celebrate her visit, a large group of us decided to go bowling. Since no one seemed confident about their ball hurling, pin crashing skills the object of the game was changed. Tommy decided to introduce us all to Bowling for Style. Now, a few of us did not fully appreciate what this would entail. We obliged the concept with colorful eye makeup, panty hose, and earrings. I wore two sets of leg warmers on my arms but did not take it much further than that. While a vaguely eccentric group of us waited on a porch, enjoying the new Spring weather and waiting for our friends, we saw a neon colored blob appear on the horizon. Our friend from Portland was coming down the street in the most horrendously bright pair of snow pants that this world has ever seen.


To add to the absurdity of the occasion, our bowling alley of choice was in the basement of the Polish Falcon, a bar and community center for old polish people. This is the kind of place that only accepts cash, has a grand total of six lanes, and don’t even think about computerized scoring. Which was probably better since we weren’t scoring based on the number of pins you struck down. Points were awarded based on the overall absurdity of one’s appearance, as well as the gregariousness (and sometimes the lewdness) of the ball throw.


Did I mention there was a family with three young boys on the other side of the room? Needless to say I think we all forgot about them as we screamed vulgarities and exhibited a great deal of intoxicated behavior. To my credit, I only had one beer.


Props were definitely a great asset to those who brought them. A cabbage patch doll, rainbow feather boa, a straw hat, and a catcher’s mitt were all used to assist in the throw. At one point the cabbage patch doll made it halfway down the lane as well.


Needless to say the scrawny old man behind the counter had to come over and begrudgingly dislodge a neon pink ball from our gutter, complaining loudly about our “fooling around” but we never did get kicked out. Still, with 10 people playing, the place closed just as we finished frame 9. I tied for fourth place with Leo Long, who wore a tuxedo coat with tails and added a lot of drama to her throws. Tommy won, of course, since she was probably the most inspired (inebriated) of the bunch.

Under-Appreciated Ironic Accessories

In order to thrift-shop and rummage-sail effectively, it is generally a good idea to have a starting point. For some, this is a color scheme. As they browse through seemingly endless racks of cardigans and t-shirts, it is useful to the brain and eyes to have specific colors to focus onto. A skilled thrifter’s eyes will also begin to search for certain textures, which can indicate fabric type and the amount of wear and tear. But for me, I reached a point where I didn’t need any more pink cotton vintage dresses or silky soft brown t-shirts. My lust for the hunt was still strong, so I turned to collecting other things. The purses were always picked-over and under-inspiring, and socks were rarely worth the effort. When I started giving the accessories a really good look, suspenders were on the verge of coming back in style. The one person I knew who wore them was like a Fashion Goddess to me, and unsurprisingly teen-agers and hipsters quickly followed her example.


Sometime shortly later, I discovered a colorful fifties apron nestled among pillow cases, bath mats, and curtains. I had a few already, given to me by my mother and grandmothers. One was separate from the costumes, being used for its practical purpose in the kitchen.


And recently I added another forgotten wardrobe element to my list of must-haves: clip-on ties. I usually find these among the children’s accessories, since the people in charge of organizing merchandise seem to think nobody wears these except young kids in Sunday School.


Now, I am just as fond as the next person for Bakelite clip-on earrings and aviator sun glasses. And these days it is difficult to name any decade that isn’t being reinterpreted by current fashion trends. Literally anything goes. In many magazines you can see clear evidence of the bottom-up approach: high culture takes what low culture makes and “legitimizes” it with money. So, let’s see some imagination. Let’s push the boundaries of our hyper modern, multi-media culture. Let’s say “take this!” to the man by investing in some ironic, unnecessary accessories. I think Salvador Dali would be proud.