the real, the surreal, and fantasy
Lately I have been blurring the lines. Is it me? Or is this this city?
Regardless. I could elabroate but I think I’ve been doing a bit too much of that lately. So off to other assorted tidbits. Capsule summaries of life, maybe. I went to Gala’s birthday extravaganza in Central Park. That was the bit that seemed unreal. There she was, in her hot pink her hair and betsey johnson dress and extravagant jewlery. Barbie on acid indeed. And there were other bloggers, internet celebrities, maybe, in lavish outfits that seemed more like costumes than clothes. Maybe that was the look they were going for–heaven knows I’ve worn things that did not belong in the realm of every day wear for no reason at all. But being there, in that small island of rocks, with that select group of very fascinating people, it felt more like a dream even as hints of reality seeped through. They were just people, after all. The girl I admired from a blog was a girl with a lot of bravery, a cute Australian accent and some great clothes. And yes, most of them looked incredible from bar off, but standing so close and having conversations I saw beyond the outward beauty and excitement and saw the effort that had to be made for those extrodinary looking photos to show up the way they did. Make up, bright colors, oversized accessories. Everyone had a camera. No joke.
The contradictions. It was remarkable. I think I am too realistic and cynical to proclaim it as an absolutely incredible experience with absolutely fabulous people. It was fun and interesting but I can just imagine, if I hadn’t been there, if I had only read her blog post and saw those pictures, how incredible I would have thought it all was. Instead there is a faint sense of something close to disappointment. Maybe this is why I am not one of those lavish lady bloggers. Reading their blogs I get a sense of familiarity. They are really quite the same. The same advice and flashy style. Admirable up to a point. Smart, too. Excellent marketing skills. But they are selling themselves as a product, a brand, their blog being the company beneath the brand. And the brands have the same premise beneath it all.
Reality. Fantasy. I’m sure I could have interpretated it differently if I wanted to. I could have posted photos (funny how photos can make certain things look so much more magical they are sometimes, isn’t it?) and babbled about how enchanting it all was. But that is not me. Me, yes, I wore a dress with ruffles and a big bow and a sparkly purple vest. Yes I chatted with those bloggers and characters (for they seem far more like characters than people) and complimented their outfits and accessories. Yes I enjoyed the little gathering and wished I had a business card to hand out. And yes I still read iCiNG each day and generally walk away a little happier. But there is something that is not quite the same.
Maybe I just have been slightly more pessimistic lately. Maybe it’s that desensitazation thing. The longer I live in New York the less amazed I will be by my myriad of adventures? Maybe if I had gone my first weekend in New York I would have gushed and gasped and endlessly marveled at the beauty of it all.
Now I look at the photos…
Gala in all her stunning flashy colors. Awfully skinny. Pretty but maybe in an unconventional way. Tattoos are eye catching as her hair. Glitter acid eye make up. Shoes that kill. Literally.
Doe, another blogger I’ve never heard before. Looking very much like a Russian doll. At first looking much younger than she probably is. Hard to not stare at. Adorable. Impeccable. Her make up alone I could have stared at forever. Switching into a pair of sandals very shortly after arriving in purple blocked heels. And whom, if I hadn’t talked to her and found out about her blog and heritage and what not, I may well have had a completely different impression of..
But the girl whom I probably had the most affinity for, as far as clothing choices was concerned, at least, was not a fabulous glammy flashy blogger but a friend of the photographer..
Those were not exotic elements but the simple, classic, and ever so sweet. Her peter pan blouse and simple black skirt, quirky colored tights and mary-jane-ish strapped heels. The subtle little bow clip in her hair. Maybe it was just because it was much more alike something I’d wear and even our purses resembled one another’s…maybe it was just a refreshing change from the excessiveness of every one else around us.
Maybe. Maybe. It’s so easy to think a different way each and every time. These photos could tell a much different story from the reality of is. And it is all too easy for me to disintegrate into discussion about fashion over this paradoxical existence and my constantly shifting perception of things. A billion maybes and what ifs and instances of disbelief. Maybe this is the best spot to leave off–always a spot without a true ending, without a solid conclusion.
And maybe that is why I could never be one of them. And maybe that is why, despite their glamour and boldness and photogenic beauty and enthusiasm, I’d prefer, still, to remain this way.