Stole

Remember when I was talking about how much I loved that expensive Eugenia Kim fox-stole scarf? Etsy has provided:
Check these adorable knit stoles from Celapiu. The foxes are sort of stuffed animal-looking and have little dangling knobble legs which even I think is pretty cute.
And she also makes these hats that I'm even more excited about, that give you Yulia Tymoshenko hair:

So great. I want one.

LL

Natalia LL is one of those 70s lady performance/conceptualists in the vein of Carolee Schneemann/VALIE EXPORT/etc. Natalia never got too big (she doesn't even have a Wikipedia page, huh?) and she also never really got the ball rolling for women's art in her native Poland the way she wanted to. That sucks, because she's really funny and great -- I saw images the series below -- Consumer Art and Post Consumer Art, from 1974-5 -- at the Centre for Contemporary Art in Warsaw.
Series of girls noshing bananas and porridge give way to this blondie mouthing some white goo:
I love the inflammatory nature of this kind of really up-front dirty feminist art (you just can't be so gross in that way anymore in today's post-post-feminist world), and also the notion of a girl trivializing and playing with cum, blowing bubbles in it. It takes the porno payload shot and turns it into self-entertainment. I also like the fact that the pretty gals in these photos were probably paid models, maybe fashion or maybe sex models, and just like you can pay a girl to take a mouthful of jizz for a smutty magazine you can pay a girl to take a mouthful of jizz for a feminist art project that serves a diametrically opposite purpose. Capitalism is a beautifully counterweighted mechanism.


Natalia's homepage is in English or Polish and you can have (my idea of) a really good time checking out all her other work. Look at these great late-sixties erotica-informed photos:

Joan

I really want some rugged, mannish, improbably tall workboot-style boots, like the kind on our logger friends above.


These Fryes fit the bill and the style is called 'Vienna,' which always makes me think of:

Will this movie just please come out on DVD already so I can watch it over and over and over?

Ass

Don't say I didn't warn you, but this year I'm thankful for www.thecompletebuttinass.tumblr.com.

Hee hee!

Finick

I'm sick of my rotation of red-orange, dark blue or silver and want some more weird nail polish colors for my toes; this set by StrangeBeautiful at LuckyScent is a snooty curated palette inspired by shades of:

"The veins of green mold running through Roquefort, the artist Sean Scully, the rich black olive green color of Loden cloth, aged Armagnac, the dull brown red of Redrope files, the saturated rusty iron color of an Irish bog caused by the reaction between tannin, wood and iron, Raymond Loewy, the belly of a pigeon, and the dreadfully wonderful dirty almond color used on kitchen appliances."

I'm very into its À Rebours -level finick and am now on the lookout for a bottle of lavender-gray, taupe, mauve or teal.

Sweat

I was so impressed by these how affordable and well-designed these sweatshirts at La Garconne are that I only just realized that they come in sizes from 1 to 8 years. Bummer.

Grump

I've gotten too far from the curmudgeonly roots of this blog. Here are four things I'm sick to death of:
I don't know why, but leopard print has always rubbed me the wrong way. I have yet to have an epiphany and realize that it's the greatest thing there ever has been. It's just awful, when it isn't mutton dressed as lamb it's lamb dressed as Zooey Deschanel, and I can't handle it. I'm not gonna change my mind.

Blog posts on 'wedding planning/dreaming' -- you know, the dress, the bouquet, the New England barn you're gonna have it in. Lord knows I love to participate in the free market economy but all this puffed-up daydreaming about that special day when you're gonna spend a million thousand dollars on the world's most perfect color-coordinated party makes me super squirmy and uncomfortable. Whatever happened to being bohemian and living in sin? I like to hear about the shoes but the whole idea of an ultra-expensive shindig micro-designed to enshrine your forever true love and show off your impeccable taste -- I could barf. Please don't get married, and if you do, please don't change both your names to the hyphenated combination form because I will barf. (How lame can you be to think that this is the right way to handle 'the name quandary'? The right way to handle it is to not get married at all or if you do only as a joke to your gay friend and give the finger to the Judeo-Christian patriarchal status-quo establishment, ok? Paris is burning, you guys.)
(However, I love to attend weddings, particularly if I don't know the bride and/or groom very well, because then I'm just getting drunk in my fanciest dress and talking to crazy relatives who aren't mine and who I'll never see again! Please invite me to yours.)
Speaking of barfing, ever since that Sartorialist book came out there have been a million interviews with that guy -- man, what a nightmare he is! He's like the guest seated directly to your left at the endless dinner party in Hell. I can't even say anything else about him because I'm so grossed out.

I keep trying to read fashion blogs that insidiously morph into pages of bourgie Ready Made magazine-esque home decor project ideas. I'm really afraid that someday a special 'nesting' key is gonna turn in my head and I'm going to become intensely focused on home decor and building my own headboard and covering it with vintage fabric and talking intently to near-strangers at parties about my bathroom redesign (I've been on the receiving end of this heinous brutality) and just generally losing my edge. Maybe I need to do more drugs?!