Oy (+90s breasts)

Hello blogosphere,

Sorry for the loooong gap in posting. I have been doing art school-ish things and Tor, well Tor's just lazy what with her two jobs and MA. I keep texting her and casually remarking on how sleep is for the weak but she didn't catch the hint. Wuss.

Did you know that I, Rebecca A. Wigmore, am an official Graduate Teaching Assistant in the Creative Writing department of Norwich School of Art & Design? That's right, look mildly impressed. I haven't worked in such a long time blogosphere because of demned illness and I hope I can convey to you with the enthusiasm held only by those new to the workforce, how much I enjoy dressing myself for my rudimentary teaching work.

The formula is: art school + authority + 80s bitch shoulders + (legs out - tits*) + heavy kohl + Chanel lipstick
*tits are gauche and not remotely art school

Authority can be found in a surprising number of garments. These include but are not limited to: an H&M boys blazer with secret skull lining, puffed sleeve black jackets, sexy grey shift dresses, 1940s turquoise chiffon capes, zebra dresses with clashing gold & silver jewellery.

eg.

.

I am well avant garde, me.

Ah, i-d how I miss you. When poverty slackens its choke-hold you are so back on my purchasing roster. I even feel nostalgic for their rough trade male models, which speaks highly of my fondness for the publication as male models are as anathema to me as girl models are to straight men.

My boyfriend is an avowed metrosexual, is highly tolerant of my fashion gush and indeed professes admiration for this Lanvin dress. However, he cannot see his way to approving the model and in his own words is "frightened by her clavicle" and is thus "thoroughly disinclined to tap that boney ass." This is not an unusal position for the heterosexual man. It's been a long time since models were uniformly tappable. How I long for the early 1990s...

Ellen Von Unwerth givin' it great guns w/Schiffer


1993.
This is why POP devoted this quarter's issue to Stephanie Seymour. Don't you miss glamour/blatantS&M? I know I do. Fo' totes.




This is '98 so cheating a bit. But look at her jaw. That's frickin gold right there. Naomi can beat me to death with her Blackberry anytime.

Helena working Barbarella in '89 - read this from Le Style Sauvage, it'll give you a real Paco Rabanne orgasmotron kinda day. I particularly love this picture - enough to send me a-ebayin' for the comic books

It only rekindles my long held love for Brent Spiner. I do like a bit of semi-robotic erotics.

Altogether now: Data, Data, the ultimate vibrator.

Shalom Harlow contributing the obligatory Disney reference for this post.


The blessed and sacred Linda.

Wow. I miss tits in fashion, don't you? I miss being slightly scared of the models. I miss sex. This is an oft-heard complaint I know, but unless we keep crying and throwing our toys around, well, shit ain't gunna get done. This youtube clip has been on many blogs but I thought I'd include it here as a neato piece of contrast. This is Behati Prinsloo, Coco Rocha and Kelly Dawson playing in their hotel room.

It's adorable, sure but it also provided me with some cold hard perspective. These models, who we're instructed to look upon as arbiters of womanhood and all that is fashion, sexy and fabulous, they are adorable but they're also teenagers. Adorable, slightly irritating teenagers. Again, Wigmore makes an obvious point but there is so much in the way of masquerade and glamour on the catwalk that it bears reminding and re-reminding that the women on the catwalk whose bodies and lifestyle we've been conditioned to crave, most of them still travel with beloved plush animals. Nothing wrong with childishness per se - I have a very nice cuddly Snowy dog, but I ain't lugging him to work. I have shoulder pads to live up to.

Your pal,

Becky.