I was invited to see some models strut their stuff at Russian Fashion Week.
The irony of the situation - me, invited to tag along to a fashion show - was not lost upon me. I sat there with a bemused look upon my face while right beside me Briullov and the Dash provided each other with intelligent color commentary.
I thought the best part was people watching. Apparently if I had brought a trucker cap and square scarf (or just gone for the all-out Old Western bandit look) I would have looked more fashionable. Also: orange skin has become an accessory. Its shade should match one's apparel.
From the Dash and Briull I heard tales of the famous people who were sitting around us. My favorite was a French fashion critic who also has a sense for the ironic. She sat in what was more or less a burka with the face open, and a belt buckle perched upon one temple. The Dash whispered that she is famous for wearing the same outfit for the past ten years.
Imagine that -- her whole life dedicated to the sea of young women the runway pounding, swimming in the oceantide of bulimia and costume fabric, all the different catalogs from the changing trends and collections and tastes of world fashion's fickle mistress, and she has made the conscious choice to wear one and the same outfit for ten years. Pound though the waves might, the rock will respond only in its most exterior criticisms. The physical appearance, and the internal personality underneath - so it's projected - will never change.
I can't decide if I like it or have already talked about my problem with that thought, that someone might have an objective and fixed viewpoint...
Also: I sometimes lose track of just what I'm referencing in my titles, and I want to give credit. This won't always happen. But anyway. Today's title's brought to you by Timothy Donnelly, from "Fun for the Shut-in:"
Demonstrate to yourself a resistance to feeling
unqualified despair by attempting something like
perfect despair embellished with hand gestures.