Growing Up a Fashion Girl

      

      This is an essay I’ve written about a year ago. Forgot all about it so I decided to put it up here on ze blog! Although I’d love to revise this (this really needs a lot of work haha), I want to preserve my thoughts and feelings at that time. Cheers to fashion!

      Like all teens, I had my friends come over all the time. We would follow the routine—watch a movie, take some photos, have pizza, and maybe even bake. One time, two of my friends were laughing about something, but I just couldn’t catch their drift. Oh well. A little while later after a hearty viewing of Lizzie McGuire The Movie, they were laughing about something they stumbled upon on the internet. I couldn’t relate, and so I just smiled and brushed it off. After a couple more of the same instances wherein I would just nod along to their references, my friend commented:

      “You’ve been living under a rock!” 

      I must confess: I got hurt. I got over it quickly and just let it slide. She’s just kidding, I told myself. Moments after, while we were probably laughing at something on Tumblr or YouTube, my friend found my collection of photos on my desktop. She browsed through them, and her face lit up as if seeing something for the first time. She looked up at me, and said: “You have your own world.”

      This world of mine was sprawling with runway shows with different species of women such as the Balenciaga babe, the Lanvin lady, the D&G ditz, and even a Jean-Paul Gaultier gal. (insert something all continents blah blah) They were all clad in the finest of fabrics and the most glittering of jewels (they had a change of wardrobe of course when Fall/Winter came around). Aside from the bam bam sound of their mighty heels, one could hear the faint laughs of models backstage, and afterwards, the sound of Monsieur Lagerfeld explaining how “Sweatpants are a sign of defeat. You lost control of your life so you bought some sweatpants.” Brimming the halls of these catwalks were the curious street creatures who were just as interesting as the collections themselves. Their colourful layers were quirky and witty, sweet yet snappy. As they pounced the streets, their capes and Celine bags moved boldly, and so did the world we all lived in. It was an overwhelming spectacle. And I’m glad that it was all just a click away. (Thank you, STYLE.com.)

      On the other side of the universe lied a very chill but sometimes crazy, Chatime-fueled planet wherein girls such as my friends banged their heads to The Jonas Brothers. They would snap photos with digicams---side swept bangs hung loose, tongue out, and were all wearing the uniform of choice: denim shorts and tank tops. The glorious voice of Hannah Montana can be heard everywhere because nobody’s perfect and you gotta work it. The Biebs and Breezy were also battling over who could steal more hearts. And curating Facebook albums was a full-time job.

      When my friend took a glimpse into my world, she lifted a screen that revealed a shocking new place for me: reality. It was a reality to be different from everyone else because it just so happened that I was in their world.

      Different. I was different.    

      I was a young fashion girl (just in case you haven’t grasped that yet) caught in between swarming peer pressure and freeing passion. I chose to play it safe and achingly chose to lock up that precious part of me away from everyone to see. And so I wore denim shorts for a while whenever I went out with friends. I also listened to Jason Derulo and to every other artist that told the DJ to drop the beat. My attempts at “blending in” became a routine: go on Tumblr, watch viral YouTube videos, stay updated on the latest #hashtags and slang words, and keep your fashion mouth shut. That was my stream of consciousness, the daily grind in this world. However, the silence maddened me and I caved in.

      Why did I need to repress myself? Why should I hide who I really was? These questions may sound like a coming-of-age film, but that was the truth. Conformity, in all its communal spirit and assurance, was not as comforting as it should have been. If Coco Chanel withdrew from society’s standards of dressing, created a nouveau look, and clearly got away with it, then why can’t I do the same? Why can’t I wear layers of bangles? Why can’t I put a turban atop my head? Printed pants…a little jewelry, perhaps? Throw on a cool jacket in crazy colors, and I’ve gotten myself a revolution.

      Revealing my passion was a careful process, just as a caterpillar undergoes metamorphosis. My cocoon cracked open, bit by bit, and the wing excitedly peeped out from underneath. The first step was to allow my clothing to truly represent me. Goodbye, tank tops! And as I cultivated the art and practice of dressing up, something blossomed out of it: style. Having style just doesn’t involve putting on a little black dress and calling it a day. It’s something innate that runs through the veins, and to be fully aware of such DNA only means that one truly knows one’s self. Next, I became vocal about fashion. (True story: I once tried to hide the fact that I was taking sewing workshops from my friends.) My favourite designer, my favourite collection, and even my favourite models began to be topics of conversation with my peers. I could have been the next Tim Blanks! Through my newfound confidence, I finally shared my passion to the public, posted photos on Instagram of my latest sewing projects and even started a blog to share my thoughts and ideas. Word’s out: I AM A FASHION GIRL.

      The warm rush of happiness, however, was accompanied by a sort of loneliness because I was still living in their world, lest I forget that. I was still different. There they were, and here was I. Bieber and them. Fashion and I. Thus, certain difficulties and challenges came in tow. In the mall, I would feel the stares of people as I pass by them in my moody long skirt and equally androgynous top. Why was she wearing a hat? One person asked my friend. Wooow, dark lipstick! Looking funky today, huh? Aside from the comments, there was also the invisible riff between my friends and me. Now, of course, there was an established mutual respect between us, but they didn’t know who Nicolas Ghesquiere and Raf Simons were. They couldn’t share with me their thoughts on the latest it shoe or bag. Was I the only one who didn’t like Prada’s sandals? No answer.

      Amidst the struggles that came with loving normcore (and watching too many fashion documentaries), one question arose and demanded an answer: Why? Why bother with trends and shows when others don’t appreciate them too? Why wear weirdly proportioned outfits only to be mistaken as a manghuhula? The sneering and the eyes, the judgement and the frowns… I had to make sense of it all. And upon reflection, with my hand on my boxy tee-bearing chest, I realized that this was all out of love. It was as simple as that. I was (and still am) in love with fashion---and not for the reasons people may imply. The glamour and the luxury never held any true power for me. The real power came from the stories behind the clothing. A Dior couture dress, though seemingly simple, is actually designed by Raf Simons after a rigorous process of studying the house’s archives. The artisans then interpret the design, create and shape it with fabric as a sculptor breathes life into clay. There is something magical in transforming inspiration as banal as oil spills or corals, into something wearable and comprehensible by a woman. And I liked that idea---the philosophy, that cracks on the street, the waves of the ocean, and the stitches of a dress can hold a lot of wisdom. I guess I wanted to be a part of that. I wanted to view the world in a different light, and wearing the fashion of the times gave me the spectacles to do so.

      Now, I still believe in the power of fashion. And I don’t think that will ever change. My peers greatly respect my passion and direction, and always encourage me to be as fasyon as I could be. However, there will always be people who judge you based on your outfit in the mall. I don’t have the gizmo to zap everyone’s brains to make them all appreciate the art of clothing. What I do have is the respect for anyone’s opinion, because I won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. It’s also safe to say that I’ve reached the optimal level of sartorial confidence, and I have social media to thank for the democratization of fashion (woohoo bloggers!).  In this journey of living up to who I am, I’ve met a lot of fellow fashion folk along the way whom I proudly call my friends. The Philippine fashion scene, I believe, has found its niche in modern society, and I could only hope to contribute to its growth in the future. But right now, I am simply me, still living under that same old “rock”. The only difference is that I wear my heart on my sleeve…and it’s looking brighter than a Balmain blazer.

(Main image: Photo by Dimitrios Kambouris, Getty Images)

The Table in the Middle

     
     Everyone knows the freshie stereotype: bright-eyed, (initially) over-enthusiastic, and lost most of the time. Admittedly, that was me during the first half of the first semester. Case in point: on the first day of school, I went to Sec B thinking that B-305 referred to that building. I had to run to Berch and was almost late for my first class. I not only had the “I’m a freshie and I’m lost” thing down pat, but I believe I definitely looked the part. Every day I had my Jansport backpack in tow, along with my lunchbox tote bag. This complemented my newbie attempt to look “college”: a cutesy skater skirt, white shoes, and the perennial crop top. I was also sporting a haphazardly cut bob—I was basically that teenage Dora the Explorer that nobody ever noticed.

During the first half of the semester as well, I had trouble finding a hangout place where I could chill to fill in awkward breaks and minutes in between classes. I find people hanging out in the Zen Garden. They have intimate conversations, play music, or sometimes there’s this one person who is shamelessly asleep on the bench. Along the Kostka corridor which is lined with benches that face each other (they now have tables!), people are on their laptops, are wearing headphones, or are trying to take a nap. There should be a Do Not Disturb sign along this place, I swear. And then there’s Gonzaga—filled with barkadas catching up with each other, seniors who don’t give a damn, and other students who are in it for the strong wi-fi signal. Go up to the second floor of this turf, and you’ll find a completely different world. People are less rowdy but are still as spunky as the ones below. In the elevated part of the second floor, you’ll find KFC, Chicks Rule, and The Galley. This is the little haven that I found for myself.   

            It was yet another day. English was my first class, but I still had a lot of time to spare. I head on over to the second floor of Gonzaga, my new place, I had thought to myself. But what was I to do? Was I supposed to just sit there, take a nap, and wait for the bell to ring? Was I supposed to buy food and pretend that I was hungry? Not sure of how to kill the tick-tocks, I resorted to my phone. And boy, was the wi-fi fast! Facebook, Instagram , Twitter—I went through social media like the world would shut down if I didn’t. The bell had finally rung, and I dash off to class in Berch.

            Days had passed and I started to explore this new territory that I had luckily found. I tried out The Galley, ordered the best-selling Lifesaver since I was a first-timer. On one day, I had gotten a French breakfast at Café France—a warm cup of coffee, and a croissant a la Gonzaga. I was vicariously living in Paris, except the music in the background was Journey and throwback OPM songs blasting from a radio nearby. Sandwiches, croissants, more sandwiches, and more double-taps on Instagram. I was a perpetually hungry nomad with nothing but a cellphone as a companion.

            There were times wherein I really needed to save money, and so I would awkwardly whip out my baon from my lunchbox in true freshie style. My food was nothing much: Rebisco crackers, a banana, and probably some leftovers from dinner the night before. I have my yaya to thank for including a stash of tissue. While I eat and mindlessly browse through my social media sphere, I glance at the people around me. There is always at least one couple being sweet to each other, and I can’t help but feel a pang of envy. There was that one couple who always bought from The Galley together; they hold hands. There are groups of people who can’t get over a joke that one said, who rant about their profs and grades, and those who just enjoy each other’s company. There’s that kuya from one of the food stalls who proudly sings every line of the songs played on that radio station.

            The bell rings, and it’s off to English again.

            People always tell me that I look like a junior or a senior (I never got that “sophomore” remark, ever). And it’s probably because I’ve always looked mature for my age. Some even get shocked when I tell them that I’m just a freshman. “It’s because you don’t seem lost,” one orgmate told me. I guess I could attribute this to my ability to easily adapt to my surroundings. If I’m lost, I’ll ask around and find my way. If I feel clueless, I’ll keep my head held high and act normal. I quickly try to feel like I belong, and it actually works. I sometimes find it rather strange when people itch to be in a group 24/7. Some students just have to be with at least one friend all the time, but of course, the more the merrier. Some enjoy being in large crowded spaces with the good noise of chatter and laughter; like the first floor of Gonzaga for example. But some would prefer to have it differently, and I fall under that category.

            Today, I arrived in school around 15 minutes before my first class was to start. “Oh gosh I don’t think I’ll have time,” I think to myself. I climb the stairs and go to the second floor of Gonzaga. My spot has changed since last semester; I now stay by the tables right in front of the Fine Arts Department. I dash to my spot—it’s the table smack dab in the middle—and put my stuff down (they’re there when I come back; no one ever bothers to touch them). As usual, I take a pee break in my favorite CR ever. It’s the one right beside the staircase with the really friendly manang who most probably already knows my face since I believe I am her no. 1 customer. I greet a hearty good morning, do my business, and put on my lipstick for the day. Right after that, I head downstairs to the chapel. Go and do good unto others, be loving and kind. Be thankful for everything that comes your way, the Lord tells me. It’s three minutes before my Math class, so I take off and run.

            And no, I did not have time. I was not able to get into my morning grind of re-reading my favorite Virginia Woolf novel, The Voyage Out. I believe the main character, Rachel Vinrace, misses me dearly. At times, I bring an issue of whatever magazine I find interesting for the month. L’Officiel was the last one I recall, and I was fixated on all the details of every outfit upon every turn of a page. Spring/Summer season is going to be exciting, and I can’t wait to channel my inner Gucci girl that’s been screaming inside! If I’m not reading, then I’m writing. “Note to self: DO SOMETHING WITH LIFE,” “Omg he looked at me,” and “Who am I?” are some lines that my mind peruses onto my journal. I do all this with my coffee tumbler to keep me company. Even with “Faithfully” on full-blast, the pungent smell of grilled whatever, and the girl next to me who is fast asleep, I just carry on and do what I do.

             We all have that need to belong. We all want to feel content, to fill the gaps in our day with hellos and goodbyes, with hugs and kisses. We want to spend every minute assuring ourselves that there is nothing void in our lives. However, I believe that there is something in nothingness, such that there is solace in silence. I look forward to another morning tomorrow in my nook by the FA Department on the second floor of Gonzaga. And maybe I’ll bring Hemingway instead.

(Main image: Illustration by GraphicaArtis/Getty Images; Jorg Greuel/DigitalVision)

6 Cool Spring/Summer 2016 Campaigns

 

   
      Nothing represents a collection more than a great campaign. And probably for those who aren’t really into fashion, these ads are just another marketing strategy to have you coveting and buying the pieces. On the other hand, we fashion girls know that these beautiful images are not just ads—they’re stories meant to convey the kind of life that inspired the collections to begin with. Here are 6 interesting S/S 2016 campaigns to remind us that fashion is more than just clothes cooped up in a store.

1. Chloé

      This French fashion house had “spirited optimism” in mind when they created this season’s very bohemian campaign. Wandering around in flowy blouses, ombré silk dresses, and gorgeous fringed bags, the #chloegirls prove that being carefree can be stylish. 

Photos from chloe.com 

2. Miu Miu
      Featuring four up-and-coming actresses, Miu Miu’s campaign aligns with their rebellious, cool girl aesthetic that aims to defy the norm. Matilda Lutz, India Salvor Menuez, Julia Garner, and Millie Brady are the brands fresh new faces. Lensed by Steven Meisel, each girl’s strong sense of presence commands attention. They’re definitely the ones to watch out for!

Photos from miumiu.com

3. Balmain

      If the names Claudia Schiffer, Cindy Crawford, and Naomi Campbell, don’t get your fangirl-self hyped with excitement, then we don’t know what will. The big three strike it up in sexy dresses and ruffled jumpsuits while flaunting their long legs (ugh, #goals). What a great way to reminisce the era of the supermodel!

Photos from facebook.com/balmainparis and balmain.com

4. Valentino

      Since the collection was inspired by African tribes, it was probably a no-brainer for the campaign to be set in Kenya. The visually arresting images feature models clad in prints and peacock feathers as locals depict their way of life in the background—proving that culture and fashion are intertwined. (Fun fact: the crew braved a dust storm for these images!)

Photos from facebook.com/valentino

5. Gucci
      Nope, these aren’t stills from a Wes Anderson film. And yes, the grandma-chic aesthetic of Alessandro Michele shows no signs of discontinuing. The cinematic photos of Gucci’s campaign make nostalgia as sophisticated as ever with the models enjoying a day out in Berlin (and looking totally nonchalant in those very 70s outfits). Looks like history does repeat itself…

Photos from Gucci.com

6. Dolce & Gabbana 

      There’s only one word that could sum up this season’s Dolce and Gabbana collection: Italy. Domenico Dolce (as the photographer) and Stefano Gabbana (as the creative director) tried to capture the very best of their homeland—family, friendship, food, and a whole lotta good vibes. Aside from the sunny prints, sharp tailoring, and summery Sicilian separates, another thing was put into the spotlight: selfies (to remember those happy moments!). #ItaliaIsLove.

 Photos from dolcegabbana.com and facebook.com/DolceGabbana

To Bae or Not to Bae

I do not have a boyfriend.

But that’s not the reason why I am utterly and wholeheartedly annoyed at the word bae. How can one not cringe when the word is probably as ubiquitous as a Kardashian? It’s sprawling the world, festering every mind of every millennial (and even those above 30), like a virus that its welcoming hosts actually harbor and enjoy. My first encounter with this bug of a word was in Pharrell’s hit single “Come Get It Bae.” I would hear it on the radio, and being unaware of the word, I would sing come get it babe! It was not until a few Instagram encounters that I had a slight grasp of its meaning. Out of nowhere, my pun-addicted classmates began to use this word that I have never heard of. One picture was of this picturesque landscape: “Down by the bae”, was the caption. My cousin posted a photo of herself on vacation, and the accompanying caption read “baesic”. Even the most ordinary photos get the same treatment, whether intended or unintended by the user. Another friend of mine posted a Halloween photo (they donned a Risky Business look), and the fifth comment goes “What a bae”—how unexpected.

The word’s history can be traced back to the 1500s when it was used to refer to sheep sounds. Its rise in popular culture though, began as early as 2005. According to Whitman of Visual Thesaurus, it originated from African American English, in the same way that boo was formed. It found its way into rap songs and later on, into the greatest validation of pop culture success: memes. In 2014, when Pharrell dropped that single featuring Miley Cyrus, everyone wanted to come and get it.      

At present, what does this word exactly mean? How can you clearly explain it to the next tita who asks you for its definition (with its pronunciation being her primary inquiry, of course)? Type in bae on Google and results vary from the obvious internet slang, articles, blog posts, and even a very out of place aerospace company called BAE Systems. The word could even be Bachelor of Agricultural Engineering, if you will it. But alas, one must resort to the ever-reliable Urban Dictionary. The top definition states: “The most fucking annoying way to say girlfriend, boyfriend, crush, or any other sort of significant other”. While others might argue that it’s simply an acronym for “before anyone else”. The last entry described it as the word “used by ghetto people to address their significant other because they have found themselves too lazy to pronounce the entire word "babe".

As simple and straightforward as all the captions, comments, and definitions are, my problem is this: I still don’t know what bae means, and that’s why it makes me cringe. It’s difficult to pinpoint a clear-cut definition mainly because the word’s been thrown at different people, in different settings, and in different contexts.

I try to hack this term’s elusiveness by scouring the web for instances wherein I could probably understand (at least a little bit) why the word is used. I end up at memecenter.com, the “best collection of funny bae pictures”. There are pages full of those badly edited photos of couples, screenshots of text messages to the bae, hundreds of gifs, and even squirrels, cats, and dogs (because apparently, cuddling bae is like cuddling your dog). One recurring theme that I notice though, would be sex. Words associated with sex are explicitly mentioned in most memes, and are only subtly referred to in some—but I am 100% positive that they are talking about sex. Case in point: one post was of a screenshot of texts between one bae to another. “Bae come over :)”, the text read. “I can’t I’m on the rocket to Mars,” bae replies. “Aw, but I’m home alone :(“, the next text says. The screenshot is then followed by a gif of a rocket abruptly landing from the sky. There’s another one of similar innuendos, but instead of bae coming from Mars, bae is just “swimming” but eventually dashes off when he finds out that his bae is home alone. This last one made me crack up the most: A girl texts “Come over,” but unfortunately, bae says he has “gotta watch the house”. A gif of a house being transported upon a large truck implies that bae will get to see bae.

With the majority of the word’s users being the youth, it’s not surprising to discover how sexually aggressive this word can get. I’m only 19, and I can understand how people my age feel when someone hot af passes by, or when your TV show crush pops up on screen. Although infatuation and lust are typically taboo (they’re definitely not things to bring up during a Sunday family lunch), they are definitely universal. And maybe the word bae eases things up a bit. It allows one to express sexuality without being too explicit and R-rated. It even makes sexuality humorous, which is probably what we need in this overwhelming modern society. So does this word dissolve sexual tension? Well, I guess it depends on how well you could cope with “not being able to see bae”.

Another aspect of bae that simply cannot be dismissed (ever!) would be food. Yes, food—that  basic necessity for survival, glorified through hi-res photos of french fries, burgers dripping with cheese, red velvet cupcakes, ice cream, and of course, pizza.  You’re not a millennial unless you have this crazy obsession. Whenever I’m online, there is an 80% chance that I will come across a tweet saying, “Pizza is bae,” or maybe, “This midnight snack is bae huhu.” Apparently, the whole world thinks that food is bae. As I continue this investigation—my hunt for definition—I strike gold. On Instagram, there is this account with the handle @cookingforbae. Since bae is typically associated with feel-good vibes and fluttering hearts, I clicked on the link thinking that the photos would be your usual food porn. However, I was served the exact opposite. What welcomed me were low-res, downright ugly pictures of cooking gone wrong. I could hear Gordon Ramsay screaming in my head. I later on learned that the objective of the account is to represent people’s “hopes and dreams [that] sit at a table [and are] then crushed by the nightmare that is bae’s cooking.”

So, in essence: food is love, and bae is love. Therefore, food is bae.

In relation to pizza being elevated to boyfriend/girlfriend status, I guess I can understand where this is coming from. Humans feel high degrees of emotion every now and then (just imagine the scale of emotions that we, the youth, feels…). We all get excited about everything, and when we do get depressed, it comes down to a level wherein our Twitter feeds sound like the apocalypse is coming. We enjoy verbalizing what we feel, what we stand for, and even the littlest things that we think of—that’s what Snapchat’s for! And so, maybe bae is just like our proliferating world of social media: it allows us to democratize our intense emotions because let’s face it, they can get pretty overwhelming. Pizza is bae. Three words, but it does say a lot.

On the other hand, this whole @cookingforbae movement (they’ve got 147k followers, by the way), could be an inconspicuous representation of how, in modern society, food can be an important aspect of relationships. I hear countless stories of how my cousins and friends randomly receive food from their boyfies. They get uber kilig, and naturally, I get uber jealous. So could this be that food is all the more an expression of love and affection? Well, according to the plethora of memes, bae likes food more than flowers.

“Yeah I would bae, bae it up. She is a legend. You kidding me—‘Hit me baby one more time’. That’s like one of the greatest songs ever written.”

That was Justin Bieber’s response when he was asked about Britney Spears during a game called “To Bae or not to Bae” at an interview with a radio station. He said the same thing about Jennifer Lawrence: “Bae for sure.” The most evident and probably most popular use of the word bae is as a term of endearment. For the lucky young ones and twenty-somethings who are blessed with a significant other, bae is usually used to refer to that special someone. This dating term is interspersed in tweets, Instagram posts, to even the most ordinary conversations IRL. On Instagram, search for #bae, and you’ll be presented with over eight million posts (mostly of girls in provocative clothing, but mostly of dating nonetheless). There are videos of couples going ice skating, beach selfies, and photos of awkward teenagers expressing their love to the whole IG universe. On the other hand, Twitter is prime breeding ground for bae, with Kim Kardashian blazing the trail (thus declaring the word everlasting): “Me & my bae out today…”, one tweet reads.

Though bae puts a stamp on your special someone’s ass (signifying that he/she is your property) just like the words boyfriend/girlfriend, what makes bae unique is its casual and less overwhelming tone. If ever I do have someone special (and hopefully I do), and we were not on the lines of “serious dating”, I would probably settle with the word bae. It does the job without being too terrifying.

Maybe that’s why millennials have become total advocates for the term—because we are still young for things to be taken too seriously. Being young after all can be quite vulnerable. It is a time wherein everything and anything can happen, and probably, there are some people who just don’t want to feel tied down to a single person. This is not to suggest that cheating on your boyfriend or girlfriend is fine. It is also not to suggest that commitment is wrong. However, for those who just want someone special, for those who want to feel kilig but not in a heavy Nicholas Sparks kind of way, then being someone’s bae is the best route. It gives us that option—that in-between longing—because maybe, we as a youth have the tendency to be indecisive, and so we need something that’s just chill. According to baewatch who commented on an article in The American Reader, bae takes that ambivalent side of love that we can’t quite articulate and makes it “kewt and trendy”.

Now, the question is: what’s with bae? Why did it replace that other word, babe?

To be honest, I’m not so sure. Although babe has been memefied in the form of the Rachel McAdams “Hey Babe” meme, the word has never reached bae cult status in terms of popular culture and trends. Pizza is babe. Ian Veneracion is babe. When babe comes home…I guess these permutations just won’t work out because the word hasn’t been used in such contexts. On the other hand, what makes bae extremely popular could be explained by its versatility—even single people like me can use the term and not in the romantic kind of way. Heck, it is also used to refer to a friend; making bae all the more multifaceted since it can be used in the platonic sense. It is amazing to think that this day and age has used this term to make love and affection universal and accessible to anyone and everyone (well, maybe not to your tita).

On the contrary, did bae even replace anything to begin with?

With all the thirst, food porn, lovey-dovey connotations, and its nuances as a term of endearment, maybe bae is something new. It could be that it is simply a word derived from a bunch of other words like babe, boyfriend/girlfriend, or boyfie, and was then given its own genetic spin based on this modern era’s ever-changing preferences (cuz we are erratic af). As a result, it’s this hybrid created by this generation, for this generation. There may not be a singular definition right now, and I’m not so sure that there ever will be, but we’re definitely onto something. So bae it up, if you want to.

REFERENCES 

MAIN PHOTO:
Photo by Hulton Archive/Getty Images
Photo by Oli Kellett/Photonica

Getting Real

I told myself that I would never post another photo of myself here on the blog; that I would dedicate this online space for my writing.

And yet here is this new post with not one, but 6 photos featuring myself, front and center.

I try my best these days not to seem narcissistic (I say seem because in a sense, everything we post on social media does draw attention to ourselves--it's inevitable). Looking back at my past blog posts of blurry camera phone photos and extremely unnatural OOTD poses, I now realize that my approach to blogging then didn't feel right. I guess the whole thing just felt too orchestrated: finding the perfect spot to shoot, catching the best lighting, hustling to take pics before I leave the house, and posing to capture my best angles. Believe me, I think I've taken a photo at every corner of my house. My attempt to put the spotlight on my outfits turned into a daily or weekly photo shoot for a never-ending advertisement starring me.

Well, I'm 19 years old now (a year closer to 20, and still single af)--college freshman and eternal Francophile. Aside from my drive to pursue my writing, my blog epiphany was accompanied by an urge to still share photos. And so my "new life" began with Instagram: my feed was saturated with flatlays, magazines, cute travel pics, outfits (cropped my face out though), and of course, birthday greetings for my besties. As for the blog, I haven't posted an OOTD series in a million years. Turns out, you can post things without putting a postage stamp with your face on it.

Fast forward to the middle of the first semester, I found myself signing up for a series of talks organized by ACOMM (Ateneo Association of Communication Majors). I only attended one leg of the 3-day event because the focal point was F-A-S-H-I-O-N. On the day of the fashion photography and styling talks, I had three hours to spare after my last class (which I spent aimlessly browsing through IG--thank you, Gonzaga wifi). When it was finally time to walk to the building, I was SO EXCITED. I knew that two of my block mates would be there as well, and so I was happy to have bumped into them.

And so, the three of us ascended the stairs--Migs, Enzo, and I.

The Comm studio was tucked in a narrow hallway, as if it were a creative's hole-in-a-wall restaurant. We gathered around a tiny table for registration. Three or four other interested peeps were probably with us. As I entered the high-ceiling room, I was overwhelmed. For some weird reason, I felt that I belonged there. I belonged to the freezing air, the studio lights, the exciting atmosphere that anticipates the birth of something freaking ingenious. "Let's sit in the front row? Or too eager?" I laughed. But they were cool with it (because apparently, we were all equally "eager").

We sat for an hour or so with our jaws dropped and our minds enlightened as we listened to Koji Arboleda and Gelo Arucan. The editorials that were presented to us were amazing--they were well-conceived, cohesive, and downright creative. Each concept was a breath of fresh air that definitely needed to be inhaled like a drug. "That is so cool," we would constantly say during the talk. "I love that so much," one of us would say about a particular photo. To condense our experience into one cliche sentence: It was inspiring. We walked out of that joint just bursting with artistic juices. Although we weren't aware of it yet, it was that crazy energy that would later on bond the three of us together.

From that moment on, our conversations would revolve around anything and everything creative under the sun. We've discussed local photography, art, the "IG Universe" as we like to call it, and other people and places that greatly influence our lives. Soon enough, we attended another talk which was on photography and Instagram (yay!). In a strange turn of events, we impulsively decided to have a photo shoot right there, in the moody staircase of that building. I guess you could say it was the first of (hopefully) many productions to come.

Don't get us wrong--our love for photography is not based on the publicity that IG posts receive when a photo is "well-lit" and "well-angled", and the subject, "well-dressed". In fact, we don't care what others think. In one FBC conversation, we were talking about the brand Sunnies and how we wanted to strut around school wearing a pair. Enzo and I were both afraid of being judged (because a person wearing sunglasses in school is a rare sight). But Migs confidently says, "but then...fuck them."

As a team, we now wish to take on more photo shoots and to produce more concepts that get more interesting with every frame. Retro? Futuristic? Androgynous? The possibilities are infinite; and hey, the styling is fun.

I guess this would be the takeaway: let your aesthetic develop naturally. If OOTD's aren't your thang, then just don't do it. You don't need to conform to how others perceive aesthetics because at its core, art is open to interpretation. And so, have your cake and eat it too. In my case, I guess I like photography to be as honest and as real as possible. I hope that the pictures below--by Miguel Tarrosa--shed some light on that subject.

"Any photograph that tells a story is a great photo." - Miguel Tarrosa

    

"I just really love how one's color palette can reveal so much of his/her personality, influences, and the like." - Enzo Brillantes

Why I Love Fashion

“Who’s Anna Wintour?”

This was the jaw-dropping, Ripley’s Believe It or Not! type of question that people asked me when I dressed up for Career Day in the fourth year of high school. I mean, how could someone possibly not know of the editor-in-chief of Vogue? The situation slowly became intriguing as it was mind-boggling. Was I in some sort of bubble? Did I belong in this parallel universe wherein I, along with its fellow citizens, praised the gods that were Alexander McQueen, Jean-Paul Gaultier, and Diana Vreeland? Was it like a secret door, and upon entrance, one would completely forget about the other side? Fashion--the proverbial lap of luxury that ordinary folk would deem out-of-this-world, is actually as real as pork barrel scams. And it is between these two realms—fantasy and reality---that I am trapped in and unable to escape. But, nonetheless, I love it. 

Picture this: tall, gazelle-like women prance and sway with the ferocity and freedom of sirens. Their volumes of dresses wink at you as the light catches them. One Dior dress with tubular swirls for a skirt and milk maid sleeves is as regal as its yellow color is sweet. Now, here comes a girl who looks as if a fiery dragon named Valentino just breathed red ruffles and silk bows on her. Meanwhile, the lady in Dolce and Gabbana seems to have frolicked in a poppy field for quite a long time, for she was dripping in florals and floating in windswept tulle. And you only wish you could prance with them. This was how I felt when I first got my hands on a fashion magazine. Teen Vogue transported me to another dimension just by its striking fashion editorials. Each editorial told a story, and it was as engaging and exciting as a novel. Every stitch was a letter, every dress was a word, and every outfit was a declarative statement. The great thing about fashion is that it is not limited to runways and magazines---anyone and everyone has the opportunity to write a tale, no matter how unattainable it may seem. It’s a vast and welcoming world that encourages one to dream endlessly, just like how Coco Chanel dreamed of a society wherein women can wear pants and sweaters and straw hats. Any form of fantasy, whether as big as revolutions or as small as looking a little glamorous, can be transformed into reality.

To become fashion is to have style. Now, I always mention this quote whenever I write about this passion of mine, and so I will reiterate what Diana Vreeland once said:  “You gotta have style. It helps you get down the stairs. It helps you get up in the morning. It’s a way of life. Without it, you’re nobody. I’m not talking about lots of clothes.” To be able to embody one’s character well, and to be able to express one’s self with poise, grace, and conviction is a beautiful thing. I believe that clothing, when utilized well, can be extremely empowering.

When I was younger, I was insecure about this interest because it was “different”. It was a time when The Jonas Brothers and the Biebs were what you kept you giggling and gushing in between classes. It was also a time when it was “cool” to wear really short shorts (and I mean short) with tank tops and Chuck Taylors. However, my own sartorial instinct told me to let loose and wear those trendy print-on-print looks I’d been dying to cop. And so, I put on my tie-died pants, my acid-yellow jacket, and piled on accessories like it was the goddamn ‘80s. Finally, I was at ease. I was comfortable. I was myself. I learned that stylizing myself into how I want to dress up, and not by conforming to majority, was very gratifying. Fashion should never be used to mask one’s self, because every one of God’s children is unique in his or her own way. Therefore, to embrace personal identity through style is a completely noble act. So go ahead and wear leather with lace or even polka dots with stripes---just as long as you stay true to who you are.

One might argue that this is all nonsense. This is pure baloney. Surely the world can revolve and nature can continue to oxygenate and photosynthesize without Chanel, right? Well, I beg to differ. For those who think that fashion is frivolous and irrelevant should check up on their facts. Let’s make one thing clear: Fashion is a multi-billion dollar industry made up of intelligent (but very crazy) groups of geniuses who are knowledgeable about worldly things just as much as the next philosopher. Case in point: Philippine brand Aranaz produces handbags made from local textiles and even uses traditional techniques, which are all inspired by the Filipino culture. Rajo Laurel’s recent collection is inspired by math. Joey Samson’s aesthetic explores the taboo concept of gender fluidity. Their works are completely relevant because they express ideas usually left unsaid. They embrace what must be embraced, and produce things that we need (and we don’t even know it yet). Aranaz stood for nationalism in a colonial mentality-drenched society. Rajo translated math in real life. And Joey Samson says that women can dress like men if they wish. In my opinion, the oblivious others just perceive these designers as petty because they don’t see past the media and buzz the collections receive. But behind the seams, there is wisdom, thought, and discourse. Truly, this industry is one of the most important authors of society, for it pens whimsical stories that narrate topics such as equality, politics, pop culture, and art. It promotes dialogue because maybe, just maybe, the movement and lines of fabric speak louder than babbling reporters. It then gives everyone the opportunity to understand and to respond. However, I realize that some may still think of a dress as just a dress. Some may not see past the price tag. And I fully respect the argument that fashion is art for art’s sake. But I also believe that the mere fact that clothing can be considered art is a feat in itself. Isn’t it great that art can be wearable? One can breathe, talk, and walk in it---a living masterpiece.  

Every day, I walk into some sort of realm. Sometimes I shimmy with flappers and their fringe frocks. Sometimes I spread the love and peace out with hippies in Woodstock. Sometimes I drink coffee and chitchat with Filipino millennials in cool menswear suits and stilettos. And yes, I even get to talk to Anna Wintour about why Birkenstocks are a fad. I incessantly pinch myself as a reminder that this is ephemeral, this isn’t real. But, I realize that the line between fantasy and reality can be blurred--erased even--and what remain is simply what we know, who we are, and what we wish to be. Just pick the right pair of shoes.

(Main image from Antonello Trio, Getty Images Entertainment)

Three Things: These Images Will Make You Rethink That Balmain X H&M Splurge

Happy Monday to everyone! Here are a few things to kickstart the week. 

                                   

A thought provoking post I stumbled upon in Facebook. 

Consumption and luxury shopping are not bad (unless done excessively and impulsively). Remember, happiness does not come from material possessions! :) Be kind and be charitable. That will NEVER go out of style. 

Think twice before going on that shopping spree. 

Regina George is actually NICE.

Check out this deleted scene that has gone viral. Can you still hate on her after watching this??

Preview x Happy Skin

Bag these lippies from Happy Skin asap! The set includes the perfect nude and the perfect shade of red. 

Main image: Photo by Justin Sullivan , Getty Images News