Red and Fuschia, Fuschia and Red
Winter just got a whole lot mo’colorful. Hat by Tibi, scarf by White & Warren, sweater by Thakoon, sunglasses by Christian Dior.
It’s a stupid silent rule that brights are colors only reserved for warmer days. Without wearing something to blind the people around you, what good is a season, or life, anyway? And look, I’m not trying to suggest that I pioneered any sort of trend that would celebrate an uncharted merge betwixt red and pink, pink and red, a color combination most previously dubbed unwearable, ridiculous, off beat–you know, like brown and black before Prada gave it the big fat go-ahead. But I will say that the notorious bright pink fringed shoes…yes, yes, the ones that look like baby ponies birthing drag queens, may or may not have been combined with anything red my closet retained circa last spring. That said, here’s to wearing colors and winter and wearing colors during winter. Also, I know we’ve been taught by most every authority that things that are good are only good in moderation but that’s not true about layering clothes or mixing loads of color. So go big or go home. Alone.
…Speaking of going home alone, I guess right now, underneath this image of me in my most attractive-to-the-male-eye pose, is as good a time as any to tell you something important. Honesty is the best policy and since you are virtually my best friends ev-or (see what I did just there? I love a good pun,) it’s time to spill the white beans about a certain friend, who is a man. Yes, it’s true. He is a man, he is a friend, he’s a man friend. He contributes to my arm parties, thinks sequins rock and drinks a certain drop crotch kool-aid I may or may not have single-handedly concocted. To put that sentiment into perspective, I offer an anecdote: [scene: girl walks into room draped in white t shirt and mauve colored silk harem pants. Black satin open-toed lace up booties on foot. Suited man notices girl, walks over to her.] “Great pants. Can I buy you a drink?” He says. “That depends, do they serve apple juice here?” She says. And from his pocket, a can of Mott’s emerged. Kidding about that apple juice bit, but you get the point. Look, I’m a fashion writer, not a comedian–stop rolling your eyes, busting my chops. This is the end of the anecdote. I’d tell you more but that’s what books are for! I’ll just note this though: I haven’t had to tuck back no crazy, compromise one single leopard print, foul word, or ounce of glitter. So you see, there’s hope: have your yeti, wear it too. And stay tuned, sucka mothas. All photos by Aram Bedrossian.