Leandra Medine's Blog, page 687

Pretty Little Things

It’s always GIF season in this house, but as the clock strikes 5 on this November evening after a day that was so cold I’m surprised the sun didn’t crack in half like a dang egg, it officially becomes GIFT season. You can blame Beyoncé for the T if you want.

Gift season is overwhelming — no one has money, no one feels like buying Barbara a present since she usually never returns the favor. The hardest part, of course, is figuring out what to get, because even though no one wants to get Barbara a gift, most of us harbor this weird desire to be THE BEST PRESENT GIVER EVER.

And then we get swallowed whole by such added pressure.

The first thing to remind yourself when playing normal-eared elf (sorry if you have pointy ears) is that it’s the thought that counts ahahahaha just kidding.

The only thing you need to think about when shopping for someone else is: would I want to receive this myself?

If the answer is yes, it’s probably a great gift.

So what if you and Barb have wildly different taste? That’s IDEAL. It means she opens it, goes, “Um…thanks for the…nipple tassels?” And then you get to be like, “Oh girl, don’t be silly. If you don’t like nipple tassels, let me take them off your hands! White-Elephant trade ya for this fresh roll of toilet paper I just received.”

You get nipple tassels, she gets a clean butt, and everyone goes home happy. Win win, chin chin.

…Or you could buy a few pretty little things, disperse as necessary, then call it a day.

For example, what about this grey swing coat from J. Crew? (You can currently take 35% off, bling bling).

Or this set of Stella McCartney days-o-the-week underchampions?

What about this candle that will look awesome (no clue how it smells, but that’s not the point) when paired next to these rose gold shades. COLOR STORY.

Or this hyper-femme top from Tibi, which could be worn under a cardigan or when your apartment/office reaches that fun over-heated state of 150 degrees.

My favorite in this list is a coffee table book called “Bals,” mostly because it looks glamorous and decadent but also because…

“balls.”

That word, man. Gets me every time. At least my gifts are ladylike.

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The iPhone 6+ Is Not a Flatscreen TV

Who would electively decide to forgo a smartphone small enough to fit in the back pocket of a pair of jeans but large enough not to tamper with one’s vision in the name of a flatscreen television with 4G capabilities?

Where would the owner of this gargantuan device place it when they were without pockets?

Would the escalating rumors about a possible link to varying cancers generated by radiation-emission find themselves directly proportionate to the size of the radiation-containers in question?

Could single-hand-typers submit themselves to a life that required two hands to send a text message?

Could the phone be used as a weapon?

Would it bend?

Who would have the bigger phone: Zack Morris or me?

These are the questions I asked myself before I set out to obtain an iPhone 6+. And then I weighed the purported pros and cons.

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Pro: It won’t get lost

Con: But it might get stolen

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Pro: It might serve as a tremendous conversation starter: “Hey! Is that a 6 or 6+?” “It’s actually the 8.” “You’re so funny. I’d like to elect you Queen of the Americas.” “Why thank you.”

Con: There is no royal monarchy in the United States

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Con: It would not fit in my back pocket

Pro: But I could probably swing wearing a Baby Bjorn to hold it

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Con: Because of its striking size, I might feel uncomfortable having it out in public for too long

Pro: Because of its striking size, I might feel uncomfortable having it out in public for too long

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For as long as I have known myself, I have been considered capable. Yet, here I find that menial tasks — determining whether I need a thick coat or a light coat, whether I’m meant to make a left turn or a right turn in order to get to Chambers Street, or how to help tie a tie around my brother’s neck — are requiring third party assistance from applications that are downloaded into my smart phone and programmed to navigate my capabilities for me.

And it’s not just that. Because the device also functions as a human connector, I am invariably expected to stay in touch. So when my mother calls at 11PM and I don’t pick up because I am sleeping, she assumes that I am a) ignoring her b) too good for her c) dead.

In gaining an iPhone 6+, I didn’t expect or want to stop using my phone as much but I hoped that I might earn control over my habit of maniacally checking it. Because, really, I could figure out how thick my coat should be, or whether a right or left is the appropriate direction in which to turn, and my mom should know the 24 hour rule: I’m still alive until a cop shows up at her doorstep. But maybe because my new phone would be so…grand, I would only use it when I absolutely needed to. Not while I was in the middle of dinner or waiting to meet someone, or walking down the street. What I learned was this:

A big screen = the business of the public domain. Whatever you’re doing is subject to scrutiny. Just last Sunday, I was having my hair washed at a salon and tweeted, “There is no moment that makes me feel so female as a room full of women having their hair washed.” The washer looked down and giggled. “Good one,” she said.

Forgo morning scrolls. If you’re used to reaching for your phone when you first wake up, prepare yourself to break the habit of in-bed entertainment unless you’re willing to use both hands while you lay on your side and lose feeling in the arm carrying your bodyweight. You will notice this when your scroll becomes limp. And once it is limp, you can rest assured that the shooting needles of numbness will perpetuate immobility in that arm. It will get better, yes, but why allow it to get bad in the first place?

The bag thing is not a myth. It really doesn’t fit in many handbags and if you, like me, have chosen to live a life hands-free, there is a 100% chance that you will be presented with the question of whether you must abandon your phone every time you resolve to leave home and a 25% chance that you might actually have to. Which, incidentally, is okay, because as humans, we are made to adapt.

So maybe by the rules of evolution, babies of the future will be born with paws, or 6th fingers on their dominant hands. This could also just be a phase: a technological joke-cum-advance running in tandem with fashion’s 90’s redux. Everyone keeps acknowledging the fact that I look like I’m texting on a computer monitor, which I appreciate, but I ask you to consider this: Zack Morris’ phone couldn’t fit in his evening clutch either.

Photographed handbag by Tonya Hawkes from More is Love

Meet Soko: The Musician Who Might Be an Alien

“Did you see Moonrise Kingdom?”

Soko, the French actress and musician on the verge of an American music-scene breakthrough — if she hasn’t broken through already — asks me this while we sit cross-legged in the hallway outside of Man Repeller’s office. She prefers to speak in private and keeps her voice low, like we’re hiding from one of our parents who have just arrived to collect us from a playdate.

I tell her I saw Moonrise Kingdom.

“Remember that quote,” she continues, “when they’re all the way up [on a cliff], and everyone’s looking for them, and the boy goes, ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’ And she says, ‘I don’t know. I just want to go on adventures.’ And he’s like, ‘Me too. I just want to go on adventures.’ I cried at this line. It was like story of my life.”

Soko left home at age 16; she faced several seminal deaths early on, including her father’s, and to cope she projected herself into the adult world before most people that age know how to drive. “It’s all over my music,” she said. “I’m really open about it, and it’s mostly what I write about: childhood trauma, what made me me, all the flaws and all the accidents, mistakes, everything that could seem negative from the outside — it’s what made me vulnerable, hyper-sensitive and highly creative, because that’s my exit.”

When I asked her how she feels comfortable putting herself so far out there, she tells me, “I have no choice.”

Below, a sliver of our conversation.

AD: You write and direct your own music videos — how do you use your videos to further express yourself? Or tell the story of the song?

Soko: Directing videos has been the perfect continuity to further express what I try to express with words. Usually my songs come with a lot of images, and I love pushing the stories even further.

When I wrote “We Might Be Dead by Tomorrow,” it felt like the most important song I ever wrote, because I have a horrible fear of dying alone. Not knowing true love before I die… It’s terrifying. The thought of mortality, and not having felt like you were ever one with someone. So when I directed the video, I wanted to capture the highs of what would be my ideal relationship: laughs, tender moments, soft kisses and dancing and just being a little unit.

AD: Do you have style icons?

Soko: I don’t have style icons. I enjoy photography a lot. I enjoy street photos from the ‘80s. I like black and white, dirty pictures. I guess that’s sort of an inspiration, but not really. I love vintage stores and platform shoes.

AD: And you don’t wear a bra, ever?

Soko: Fuck bras.

AD: What’s your general thought process when getting dressed? Do you have any rules?

Soko: Feeling comfortable. Trying to not look like anyone else. Being punk as fuck. Vintage for days. Musts are: all my jewels, creepers or Mishka platform shoes and messy hair!

AD: How does your style (or the process of dressing) change when you’re on the road?

Soko: It evolves with whatever fits in my suitcase, really. I bought a pair of old, striped suspenders on this tour at a vintage store in Tulsa, and it became the one thing that I wore everyday, with every outfit. I always go thrift shopping on the road and end up with twice as much clothes as I left with. I can never resist printed floral skirts, or any plaid prints and high-waisted acid wash jeans. And you can never go wrong with wearing all-black weirdness. And I’d go for anything with cats on it!

AD: Do you have any advice for MR?

Soko: Don’t be scared to be vulnerable, don’t be scared to show your weaknesses. Don’t be scared to be badass. Don’t be scared to go on adventures, don’t be scared to have too much fun.

AD: What’s the one thing you always want to say but no one ever asks you?

Soko: “Are you an alien?” Yes ma’am!

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Soko is wearing Unif boots, a hat by Gladys Tamez. Her skirt and denim jacket are vintage; her suspenders are from a vintage store in Tulsa, OK.

Her jewelry is a combination of Pamela Love (including this ring), “collected trinkets,” a  bracelet engraved with the name she was born with (Stéphanie Sokolinski), and  the wedding ring her dad gave to her mom, which was given to her when she left home. 

Soko’s new album, “My Dreams Dictate My Reality,” will be released February 17, 2015. For tour dates and more information, visit her website. Follow her on Instagram, too: @sokothecat.

Photos by Charlotte Fassler

The Charcoal Diet

I’ve done many things in the name of vanity that I’m not proud of; I once rubbed Cinco de Mayo’s leftover guac on my face. Last year, I payed $25 for a jar of expeller-pressed coconut oil. I routinely shell out $100 to have a Russian lady aim a laser at my private part’s follicle shafts and I’d be straight up fibbing if I told you I did not Google and subsequently ponder fish pedicure NYC after an episode of Keeping Up with The Kardashians.

I do believe that like a well-trained bloodhound, a good beauty trend smells fear and weeds out those too weak to sustain it. The juice cleanse business is a testament to that. When I heard that charcoal was trending, I committed myself to research. It turns out that the Internet maintains a wealth of knowledge on the benefits of clay and its dirty cousin, the anterior, which is now essentially the beauty equivalent of kale circa 2013.

When activated, charcoal functions as a sponge, absorbing toxins and poisons that may be lining the digestive track. Health stores recommend it for nausea, gas and hangovers. Juice Generation is slated to debut a line of activated charcoal and clay drinks in mid-November. Amazon customer reviews regularly extol the virtues of charcoal for teeth whitening and skin exfoliation.

Three minutes post incipient research, I had $37 dollars worth of charcoal supplements in my cart. Ultimately, I went forward with Nature’s Way Activated Charcoal Supplements, the Konjac Exfoliating Sponge, and inVitamin’s Natural Tooth and Gum Powder. I would commit myself to them for five days, hoping they torch my insides. Here’s what happened:

inVitamin Tooth and Gum Powder

In one click, I had purchased nature’s solution to gingivitis alongside Amy Poehler’s Yes Please. Has ever there been a better paradigm for the dissolution of the Mom and Pop? inVitamin even threw in a packet of “Natural Goat’s Milk Laundry Detergent” for my sampling pleasure.

This powder is looser than a wizard’s sleeve so I suggest you proceed with caution while opening. I put a bit of powder in the palm of my hand, wet my toothbrush (I purchased a designated charcoal brush in preparation because I am committed) and dipped it into the powder. Note that activated charcoal smells of (presumably) organic cleaning products and tastes like tofu.

It does not look like tofu, though. Post-application, my sink resembled an arson crime scene and I, a girl who’d just given a BBQ a blow job.

After rinsing, my teeth retained that immutable red wine “stain” but my mouth felt surprisingly refreshed despite the lack of artificial mint flavoring. I’ll admit that I Colgate(d) prior to brushing with charcoal. I couldn’t bring myself to tar up my teeth first thing each morning. I compromised by brushing solely with charcoal before bed.

Note to first time users: Refrain from explaining your new beauty trick to roommates/boyfriends/husbands. Instead, scare the literal shit out of them by pretending to be horrified by the “BLACK INK THAT IS SQUIRTING FROM MY GUMS!!!! AH!!!!!”

Film reaction accordingly.

The Verdict: In terms of whitening, Crest Strips heed more immediate results, and you can’t deny the feeling after a good Scope gargle. Take consolation in the fact that activated charcoal powder is indisputably a healthier alternative. Also, the powder left me with a clean sensation and didn’t irritate my gums like other pastes and white strips have. Nonetheless, garlic is one of my best friends — right next to onion and individual tuna.

Bottom Line: Give me double mint or give me death.

Konjac Exfoliating Sponge

The small sponge comes with its own mini suction cup and hanger. Contrary to unpopular belief, the charcoal sponge does not in fact, turn your skin grey. In order to “activate” it, you must first wet and massage the sponge in the palms of your hands until it turns soft. You then have the option of dousing it with your cleanser of choice, or you can simply run it over your face cleanser-free.

I chose to combine it with my Dermalogica Special Cleansing Gel. Moving the sponge in circular motions, I made sure to hit the entire surface of my face. Although my skin didn’t “soap-up” as much as it normally does, the effect of the semi-course sponge on my face felt like an epidermal car wash (or in layman terms: amazing).

The Verdict: I had been using the sponge twice a day for three days, when a bystander commented on my “radiant skin.”

And I quote, “You have the best skin, what do you use?”

“Well for one, I rarely do my makeup.” I replied.

And two, the Konjac Exfoliating Sponge!

Bottom Line: An inexpensive, low-maintenance sponge that only needs be replaced every three months makes it a product worth trying and sticking with.

Nature’s Way Activated Charcoal Supplements

Does anyone else hate swallowing? Pills? I’d rather suffer through a caffeine-withdrawal-induced-migraine than swallow an Advil. I believe my aversion to capsules dates back ten years, when, after having taken two Tylenol Extra Strengths on a half-full stomach, I vomited.

I also hate vomiting.

However, the morning after an office happy hour, I felt less-than-sunny. I swallowed two capsules upon waking and waited two hours to have breakfast. The instructions recommend that you take 2 capsules twice a day, and 2 to 3 hours before or after meals.

Again, the beauty of activated charcoal is that it’s believed to have detox properties. I was hoping that the supplements would soak up the alcohol from my blood stream, and dispel of it as they pleased.

Suffice it to say, I spoke too soon. I’ll spare you the gory details, but I will say that my excretory system went into overdrive. I can’t be certain that it was an immediate effect of the pill or a result of too much red wine at dinner the previous night but for the argument’s sake, let’s blame the supplement.

I continued to take the 2 capsules for the next four days and had chiefly positive experiences. I should add that I’d been suffering from another hangover on Day 3. And again, excretory overdrive.

I imagined the charcoal capsules as little black ninjas marching down my digestive track, banishing last night’s tequila in a violent coup d’etat, the likes of which my insides had never seen.

The nausea and bloating that usually accompanies a hangover soon subsided. I gave two capsules to my co-suffering husband, and he swore he felt better in a matter of minutes. I doubted his quick recovery but then again, this is a man who’s seen JFK 45 times and trusts no one.

The Verdict: Since activated charcoal is believed to bind up to unwanted toxins when ingested, it’s recommended that you take them 2 – 3 hours before or after meals so as to ensure that no vital nutrients from food are mistakingly absorbed as well. I’m sure my digestive track is as clean as distilled water, but man was it hard to wait that long in between meals.

Also, don’t be alarmed if your stool is black while ingesting activated charcoal. Web MD promises — with zero liability — that this is normal.

The Bottom Line: Nature’s Way of telling you to stop drinking.

I’m 99% sure that in order to achieve the full benefits of activated charcoal, I’d have to consistently incorporate it into my daily beauty regimen, probably for longer than five days. I do plan on sticking with the Konjac Sponge and I fully intend on displacing the cold shower with Nature’s Way supplements as my go to constipation hangover cure.

That being said, eager as I may be to join the ranks of Amazon reviewers, I’m far too acclimated to my bad chemical ways. I long for the days when being vegan was still enough.

9 AM: Already Jonesing for a Nap? Watch a Quick Movie.

When you haven’t been in relationship for a while, it’s amazing how quickly it is to forget about the little fights.

The little fights are infuriating. They’re often over nothing: what to eat, an implied tone, one person being late, a bit of jealousy. But when resolved and then forgotten with a kiss-and-make-up, those seemingly-insignificant team victories are what strengthen the bond.

One Morning in Italy, a short film by Oscar Boyson (HBO’s Neistat Brothers, Frances Ha) chronicles just that. It’s a “love letter to cliché, gesture, perspective, and the harmony and discord that lies between them.”

The couple’s argument stems from deeper issues brought out by a snap-happy tourist after a night spent menage à trois-gether — TBD on sleeping arrangements, though props are in order for their matching pajamas. But it often takes an outside catalyst in life to shake us up like dormant snow globes who’ve been craving an emotional blizzard. It’s why we get quiet when someone asks, “What’s wrong?” It’s why we start fights.

“Do you really love me?” is far more complicated than the aforementioned little fights; “Why don’t you show it?” is a lot trickier to navigate than, “What Chinese restaurant should we order from tonight?” But a satisfying resolve, regardless of context, is always a step forward. And whether or not the relationship lasts, it’s all part of growing up.

So, if you’re going to fight (couples: you are), at least do it in nice pajamas.

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If you’re not, just wear them to be comfortable. Sleepy Jones’ own Andy Spade said, “How many great ideas do we conceive in a three-piece suit?”

And before we all go on with our days, can I get a team vote on the dude’s hair tucked into his hat?

New man bun?

Nay or yay?

[One Morning in Italy by Oscar Boyson with Andy Spade of Sleepy Jones]

Is It True That Eyelashes Don’t Grow Back?

Science has, as far as I can tell, never tried to prove or disprove this theory on eyelash and brow hair, which really makes me wonder whether the unsubstantiated fear is one that’s been instilled by mothers globally as a cautionary tale against going to sleep without having first washed our faces. Still, the question remains.

And because my trichotillomania may or may not be migrating south for the season — I’ve left my eyebrows alone to reproduce whatever hair I’ve forcibly-though-innocently pulled out but that my eyelashes are safe from nothing — I am especially concerned. So, please, before I potentially erase my human right to blink without tearing, tell me, is it true that if and when eyelashes fall out, they don’t grow back?

Original image shot by Nina Andersson for Swedish Inside Magazine

The Sun Never Sets on a Badass

There are no tumbleweeds in this city. Just plastic Duane Reade bags that get tangled in the wind when gusts of hot subway air blow through the sidewalk grates. When we walk, the theme song to “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly” plays like a tribute to the movie title so rebellious it doesn’t need an Oxford comma. We don’t need one either.

Our boot-spurs from Christopher Street rattle like snakes as we stroll across intersections without looking both ways. We dare traffic cops to ticket us; jaywalking’s the least of our crimes.

They call us Butch Cassidy and the Sunglass Kid. We’re so badass that we haven’t seen a sunset since ’88, except for the time Butch almost refreshed a photo of one on Instagram. (Luckily, Butch saw the caption first, then hit “unfollow” before her reputation could be scarred.) We live in a world of perpetual brightness, repelling thrown-shade faster than Felicia can make an exit, and though we’ve become accustomed to a lights-on atmosphere, we need sunglasses to act as eyeball chaps.

Along with our bandanas and denim slacks so high they tickle armpits, we rarely step foot outside without mirrored lenses — partially because they look cool (Westward Leaning makes the best ones; their Voyager Collection are the rainbow-bright, Cali-made choice for us cowboys of the Wild East), but mostly because our retinas burn without them. Danger may be our middle name, but we’re badasses, not idiots.

For us, the City that Never Sleeps takes on a whole new meaning because the sun never sets. We can go to the park at 3 AM — for us, 3 AM is practically noon on a weekend and we’re just two chicks doing headstands near a picnic blanket.

Afraid of the dark we are not; we laugh in the face of monsters who might live under our beds.

We can walk to the bodega at 4 AM without receiving cashier-judgement side-eye. Two eggs on a roll, please. Breakfast is eternal when the sun only rises.

Outdoor tennis courts become 24-hour operations, you just have to know how to break in. We don’t know how to play but if we could, maybe we would. Maybe we wouldn’t.

We probably would not, to be honest. Seems excessive.

Because it’s always sunny in Philadelphia/everywhere else in our world, shades have become part of our required uniform (like a nurse who wears scrubs or mailman who wears short pants) so people can’t make annoying comments about our indoor-sunglasses. None of this, “Okay, Anna,” or, “Hey, Guy Who Sings ‘Sunglasses at Night.’”

But the best part? No one knows what we’re doing behind our lenses. We could be napping and you’d think we were being stoic, or we could be staring at you kind of creepily, but you’d think we were mysterious.

Or you’d catch your own reflection first and be like, “Please don’t move, I need to use your sunglasses as a mirror.” And we’d oblige, but you might need your own shades to keep you from squinting.

The future’s bright, cowboys, and that rising sun behind you is pretty badass.

In partnership with Westward Leaning

Photography by Charlotte Fassler

New(ish) Indie Mags

North of BuzzFeed and east of W, there’s a whole world of indie magazines where the interviews drop f-bombs and the fashion is new. They’re not free, and some are petty hefty (great for arm toning!) but you can Instagram them next to a latte and a vase of fresh flowers for some intellectual-I-support-the-print-industry-and-I-know-about-avant-garde-things cred. On the real — which is not to say fashion street cred counts for nothing — there’s something to be said for work that doesn’t come out of a giant corporation: it’s somehow freer, riskier, weirder. And as fun as Pinterest is, you gotta spend an afternoon with a pair of scissors making a real, 3D mood board on a rainy Sunday (Monday?) at least once.

Can I get an amen?

If you own more than one shirt with a Peter Pan collar, read Union.

Union Magazine has a dreamy, girly aesthetic reminiscent of early Lula editions. Produced in Japan, Union is chock full of beautiful fashion editorials. It also spotlights some on-the-rise photographers. Even better? It’s hardback, so you can display it along with your perfectly curated selection of coffee table books. Even if your collection is one book. They also have a great “Journal” section on their website. Click and drag to your inspiration folders.

If you’re all about #freethenipple, you’ll probably like Adult.

So you’re down with shirts that show your nipples and you don’t blush easily? Enter Adult: a “magazine of new contemporary erotic experience.” What does that actually mean? The contributors section of the magazine is written in the style of old school want ads (“woman seeking male for frisky fun and literary eroticism…”), and the NSFW (yet totally artful) photos, paintings, collages, non fiction plus just-enough-copy will you intrigued.

If you know the names of all the leading actors in low budget dramas, try So It Goes.

So It Goes comes to us from England and is rife with smart contributors. Like The Gentlewoman (the original English bible of cool), the magazine tackles film, art, travel and music in addition to fashion. In their fourth issue, out now, find a stripped-down Poppy Delevingne, plus interviews — which are the best part — with up-and-coming actors Dane DeHaan and Brit Marling.

If you frequent MoMA PS1 (or at least their Instagram) pick up  Out of Order

Out of Order was started by Dorian Grinspan while he was still at Yale (kids these days), but it’s in no way your typical student magazine run out of the underground computer lab. In fact, it’s downright beautiful. OOO is so hefty you can lift it up and down in place of Soul Cycle weights, and the most recent issue boasts not only a Matthew Barney cover but also contributions from Larry Clark, David LaChapelle, and Prabal Gurung.  

If all of your Pinterest pins are Scandinavian interiors, read Cereal 

Minimalism? Check. Airy Font? Check. Lifestyle coverage? Once more: check. Each issue of Cereal is focused on stories from different cities. You will want to sell everything you own after 20 minutes with its clean, no frills aesthetic. Hopefully your earnings from said garage sale will cover the cost of travel, because Cereal’s bound to give you a serious case of wanderlust.

If people in high school didn’t get your fashion/music/lifestyle choices, look at The Wild 

The Wild is equal parts activist and artist. It’s for that kid from the small town who thrifted Comme des Garçons among a sea of polo shirts. Their “about” section reads like a minimalist poem while portraying the ethos of the magazine. Two highlights from their self-declaration include:

“The WILD supports vanguard creatives pushing boundaries throughout the realms of fashion, art, and music and brings them together to create videos, editorials, and narratives that are anything but status quo.”

“The WILD believes in a world where LGBT and women’s rights are no longer a matter up for debate but a gold standard for equality and tolerance.” Yeah, that’s worthy of a page-turning amen.

—

That should cover it. So, which are you reading?

New York Closets: Aziza Azim

You’ve experienced Claire pair a Christian Dior jumpsuit with white tennis sneakers and last week, you may or may not have doubted the self-inflicted no crop top policy you bequeathed yourself after September 1st in part due to Shiona Turini but today, Aziza Azim, a creative consultant (Sandy Liang, MarloLaz and Hanut Singh) and brand advisor who lives between New York, Moscow and London has a different bone to pick with, or share with (depending on where you stand) you: how much denim is too much denim?

Of course, she provides an answer, too.

And though her solution isn’t particularly surprising (a skinny black pair, another boot-cut, boyfriend style blue pair and one set of frayed wide legs suggest that there is no such thing as too much denim), it is still fairly satisfying. Why? Because your jeans are toast and you can dress them up or down however you want. Observe as the champion of young, international designers brings this point home with five days of looks.

Monday: Good weather Mondays are also good vibe days. Because it was so nice out and the sky was practically pink, I decided to match my skirt to it.

Sandy Liang jacket and shirt, Zara skirt, Saint Laurent shoes

Tuesday: I like to think that this jacket does all the talking, so I paired it with a plaid shirt and black jeans. It has light embellishments on it, which soften it a little bit. The white sneakers are the most comfortable that I have — they get a bonus point for the hidden, magical wedge.

Zara jeans and shirt, Sandy Liang embellished leather jacket, Golden Goose sneakers

Wednesday: When you wake up and you’re listening to The Strokes, this is invariably how you end up leaving your house. It’s as simple as that.

Acne jeans, James Perse shirt, Sandy Liang suede coat, Zara boots (but they want to be Saint Laurent), and unknown fedora

Thursday: Sexy boyfriend jeans these are not. I like to say that these are a woman’s best friend (least sexy but obviously coolest cut and fit) but maybe a guy’s worst enemy. The coat I’m wearing over the jeans is a piece of art. And, the shoes are an accessory that I borrowed from my really good friend from Kansas. Her name is Dorothy and her dog is so annoying.

Gap boyfriend jeans, Prada SS14 Coat and Valentino Shoes

Friday: The only redeeming quality to this cold day is the fact that it is Friday. That and this coat — which is kind of a blanket but also not at all.

Rejina Pyo Coat, Sandy Liang Jeans and Golden Goose sneakers

Pretty: Whatever That Means

On my 13th birthday, I decided I wanted to be pretty. Whatever that means.

I believed that nothing was louder than a blemish and nothing was noisier than an eyelash without mascara. In my attempts to create this new identity of pretty, I spent hours veiling my face with beige and blush and lotions and potions. While my spirit became almost as opaque as my foundation-heavy skin, I entered an era of silence. I believed my powdered cover up would hide my fear of rejection, while my liquid concealer would hush my fear of regret. Unwatched, my verbs switched tense: “I was” swallowed any trace of “I will” or “I am,” and I lived my life in a carousel of sadness. At the age of 13, I was a mastermind at masking who I was. The quiver of self-doubt turned into many painful yet silent shrieks of longing.

I am no longer that girl. I think about her occasionally. Sometimes I even laugh at her silliness. But most of the time when I return to that formative place in my life, my body becomes filled with questions. Was I blending colors on my face to gain a sense of a control? Was I just trying to hide the imperfections? Or was it something grander, like using the disguised physical flaws to also hide some inner flaws? In a weird way, I’m sort of appreciative of this time of darkness. It never fails to spark a potent beam of self-reflection and conscientiousness.

Makeup is striking and empowering and artistic. I am slowly learning that putting on makeup does not always equate to vanity or camouflaging. But by the same token, beauty does not always equate to perfection. I look in the mirror a lot. So what? Every vein tells a story and every freckle articulates a memory. My face serves as an ode to my spirit and my life. I have my father’s full cheeks, my mother’s dark eyes, and my great-grandfather’s dark skin.

I look at my face and I get transported into history, tradition and remembrance. I look at my straight teeth and I see myself sitting in the chair at my orthodontist telling him that I want to be a writer. I look at my left eye and see myself crying in my middle school’s bathroom from getting a D in math class. I look at my discolored skin and see my family making a home in America somewhere between the shattering waves of the Black Sea and the shimmering streets of New York.

I believe that beauty is beyond aesthetics. Something that is beautiful is also intriguing, fascinating, and engaging. To me, there is nothing more interesting than a naked face. I see the poetry of someone’s life inside his or her wrinkles and I hear the rhythm of someone’s soul inside his or her freckles.

Wouldn’t life be a little more interesting if we all just let our faces do the talking?

Written by Jessica Chanchalashvili

Image shot by Guy Bourdn