Tuesday, 20 October 2015

Mood | Thrill

Year: 2020

'Derek, $50 million dollars is on the line here. You were supposed to fix that javascript problem two fucking hours ago. I want it done yesterday. You got it?'
Maya sighed. Voicemail. The sonofabitch didn't even have the courtesy to pick up his phone. Knowing what was at stake, she couldn't help but be pissed. This investment was either going to take them to the next level or leave them benched next to the startups who never made it. Her heart was pounding in her chest with excitement. She got a kick from raising money... and raising hell.  Burning up conference rooms with killer negotiations, a force to be reckoned with in a world full of tech and men.  
Alek observed the young girl ranting into a piece of technology on her wrist in the lounge of the Beverly Wilshire hotel. 25 years old with the mouth of an obnoxious New Yorker. Cladded in a leather skirt with a rather lengthy slit down the middle and a long sleeved turtle neck sweater. The new work attire of the nouveau riche. He sipped slowly on a mug of hot black tea and tried to get back to reading the Monday paper on his smartphone. But his mind couldn't help but wonder back to the girl with the dark eyes and even darker hair. At 37 years old, he swore he was losing the plot. Ambitious 20 somethings were everywhere in LA. Why hadn't he taken notice before? A red-hot desire to draw up a conversation slapped him hard on the chest. 

'What joy does money and materialism bring you?  Don't you want to live out your 20s in coastal islands with little money but all the freedom in the world? Don't you want to fall in love?'

'It's not about the money and you know it. It's about the thrill. The adrenaline rush. The ego boost. The kill.' 

All of which he knew too well. He slowly chuckled at memories of his old self. Best leave that conversation alone. She would soon find out that even the thrill had an expiration date. 

Just as he was about to look back down at his paper, the girl stood up and walked right past him. Smiling as if to suggest she knew what he was thinking. Perhaps people really could read minds. He sure hoped she read his.


Thursday, 15 October 2015

Classe | Ghesquière Girl

*A big part of fashion for me is drawing out the character in me that identifies with a brand. Introducing you to 'classe'. Storytelling in the form of daydreams and my many personas.*

"Are you good at baking?" 
Odd question, one that might even get me demoted from front row elite of a Louis Vuitton show to priority standing. But It's simply the only question I want to ask Nicolas Ghesquière, Louis Vuitton's creative director. 

With baking, quantity matters. Too much or too little of any one ingredient equals the sour death of your highly anticipated red velvet cake. Suddenly what you take out of the oven doesn't resemble the Instagram photo saved on your phone. LE sigh. No easy task. With fashion the same concept remains. Except Nicolas Ghesquière possesses the perfect recipe. Disrupting simple pieces of garments with aggressive prints, mixing fur with leather, creating opulence of the highest order. Where the clothing actually beats the bag. 

Ghesquière Girl

With the aesthetic of a rebellious suburban Parisian girl, I'd wear my hair loosely in a ponytail and a cherry red lip stain. I'd paint my nails navy and wear vaseline on my cheekbones. Clean, sophisticated and just a little grunge. Charismatically reserved with a cup of black coffee in one hand and a gadget in the other. Skipping ballet lessons just to go into the city to people watch.  I don't want to know how to dance. I want to know how to read minds. Communicating with strangers with my eyes only. Nonchalant yet infatuated with those around me. 


Monday, 12 October 2015

Mood | Decadence

Serena stared out of the window of her spacious bedroom, watching the currents of the beach ripple in and out. The moon was still out in all its glowing beauty, the sky shaded a deep red with hints of ultramarine blue. She closed the book on her lap. A lack of concentration. The Winter of our Discontent - a John Steinbeck classic about characters who were neither good nor bad. Predominantly grey, Serena had decided. 

Thoughts whizzed in and out of her mind as she stood up from the stool purposefully placed by her window. It was 5AM and the world was still asleep. She wondered how many other kindred souls were also up at this time: the waking hour of passion. The magnetic buzz of thoughts and ideas that zoomed through her mind were often uncontrollable. Not that she minded insomnia... it had its perks. 

At 23 she still lived at home: painting visions of grey buildings, writing stories with no happy endings, drawing personifications of envy, cooking in ripped denim jeans and often a white turtle neck. She posed no interest in the world that turned art into deceit for money. It made her furious, frustrated even. She wanted more from the world...but didn't know how to get it. 
Letting out a deep sigh, she cozied up into a long camel coat and tiptoed downstairs to pour herself a steamy hot mug of peppermint tea. The frosty air of the beginning of Winter could not be ignored. The sun replaced the moon and yet, another day was about to begin in a world of crafty manipulation.  


Dreams of | Thailand

I want to know what it feels like to be surrounded by tranquility. A peace so sure of itself that even the most alluring distractions are surreptitiously silenced.  A place that holds a fervent source of energy. A place like Thailand. Hiking through rainforests, amongst the company of singing birds. Hidden waterfalls that will take your breath away. Swimming in deep aquamarine oceans. Fresh mangos, pineapples, watermelons in abundance. Vegan thai food because to feed your body is to feed your mind and soul. A feeling of cleanliness. Wet hair, tanned skin and a vitamin D glow like no other. Short shorts, white tank tops, exotic sarongs. Even when night dawns, serenity remains. To live like nothing in the world matters more than nature and nurture. To discover a new part of yourself that you weren't quite sure existed before. Cherishing colourful feelings and memories that will never fade. 

Saturday, 10 October 2015

Mood | Slave to the Rhythm

Img Source: Tumblr

She doesn't belong to anything. She's off in her own world. 
She shimmied into a mid length white body con dress. Aubergine stilettos on her feet. Copper brown hair and ox blood lip stain. Everything clashed, just the way she liked it. She popped a large cigar into an Yves Saint Laurent clutch, maybe she'd smoke it. Maybe she'd put it back into the wooden case she had kept it in for the last 5 years. 
Her first stop was Sunset Boulevard. West Hollywood, it had its charm. Alone, she sauntered past the bouncer at the door of a modern club. One eye on the bar, one eye on the dance floor - all eyes on her. 

Drunk on the attention, the drinks that actually followed, she treated as chasers. She sipped distastefully on an olive martini, knowing the music to come would quench her thirst more than the liquor would. But she used the time to observe the crowd: businessmen who came straight from the office to the club - classy. Film directors in black shirts, secretly searching for the next Angelina J. Music producers dripping in oversized and very overpriced jewellery...All eyes on her.

Her body moved in ways a snake couldn't. Eyes shut, hips swaying, ears alert to the rhythmic beating of her own heart. Music was her drug and right now, she was intoxicated. Detached from her emotions, troubled thoughts vanished into thin air. An electric energy flowed through her bloodstream. Slave to the rhythm, the moment was hers. 


Dreams of | Paris

Img Source: Tumblr

...Always a good idea?
L'Arc de Triomphe from the Champs-Elysées, le palais de versailles, musée d'Orsay. Spare me nothing. 
Meeting writers, poets, artists, and painters in the steamy heat of hot nightclubs. None of them have made it yet but who cares? They are the future. Bodies clammed, music loud, hearts racing under the manipulation of hard liquor. 
Nursing headaches with croissants and macarons from Ladurée. Smoking Marlboros and sipping on sauvignon blanc. Because what is death in the face of fantasy? Luxuriating under large umbrellas and the chicest pair of dark sunnies. Dolce & Gabanna or Chanel next? Maybe, both. Reckless because Paris is a daydream and everything desired, including charming Mr. Handsome must be indulged. 

Friday, 2 October 2015

Life | Disconnect

I watched a Ted Talk by Brene Brown a couple of days ago and it really hit home. It was about vulnerability: letting yourself be vulnerable, showing true emotions when you feel them instead of locking them away, being honest with yourself, and running far away from the concept of perfection. Being raw emotionally, mentally and artistically. 

I want to learn to thrive with imperfections and dismiss this constant feeling of needing to be perfect at everything I do. I've always been hyper-competitive. I like to win and I like to win big, no matter the cost. It's kind of dangerous if you think about it because It means when I fall, I hit the ground hard. There's this part of me that knows that I'm constantly breaking my own heart by being a perfectionist. I become calculative and lose all sense of artistic ability. Because I feel like I am not good enough. Constant thoughts of I'm not doing enough. That my being is not enough for the world. So I strive for better and I push harder without realising that greatness lies in imperfect things, imperfect situations and imperfect pieces of art. 

I started reading old articles on Diamants au chocolat today, mentally shredding some posts into pieces with fierce scrutiny. Picking at it like a bitter and overpriced salad. I don't want to do that anymore. In fact, I won't. I'm going to allow myself to grow day by day. Make plenty of mistakes and live without fear. I know what that entails now - living fearlessly - It is to be your most authentic self, getting rid of that one little hinderance that we all know as ego (or pride) and giving yourself the chance to be real.