They’ve become ubiquitous lately, the scrawny girls with giraffe like cheekbones, meta-chic cadence and their pronounced lilts. Seen cozening up in the luminous lounges of ‘Bijoux,’ ‘Soho Grand‘ and other diamond tiara sprinkled trinkets they’ve captured the imagination, inspiration, cache of a public starved of reciprocal attention and delight in their meandering t.v lives.
The reality shows have succumbed to the infatuation of models running across town, pressing wrong door buzzers and even losing portfolios along the way (and let’s hope not too much else…). It’s become a rush for the star lights of impending ‘uber-dom’, comfort, louche veneered cabanas, Marlboro lights and the fast application of text messaging promising extended cover repose, Dianne von Furstenburg fashion shows and the ultimate Calvin Klein underwear propose
We pass them every day, pretend not to give them the up and down (even though they know we are secretly watching they’re every pose, gesture, or cigarette explode), wondering, extending them the fusion of ultra exclusiveness, the ultra exclusiveness we’ve all become trained to expect, detect and transcend to. This is all courtesy of the extended times at hand, the online shows, magazine flows, the heightened desire and fascination for anyone good looking enough to try or be told.
Yet little is said of the night mares endured, the transgressions inured, the cigarettes smoked, the high heels that collide, the cat calls of Italian and French riviera princes, the diets that implode, the debts that grow, the loneliness that endures, the long fragile silhouettes that sow. But this is the life of the rich and famous, or trying to be rich and famous.
” Strut, pout, that’s right,turn to the left, clout, it’s what cheekbones are about,” and from there it’s the cell phone to contend to, “what they didn’t book me, but don’t they know I want to be famous…..(private thought)or at the least maybe feel famous?” Kiss the photographer good-bye, swivel to the asphalt runway and make her way to the next iron, tin, zinc, goldmine acclaim. Pass the newest billboard model hero on the boulevard, the personal neurosis to contend to, the high heels that chafe, the burning desire to maintain.
“Never mind,” she thinks “I’m better than that.” Times Square enticing, runway photographers clicking, streetlights colliding, appetites draining, hopes rising, egos fluctuating, turn to the right, “a goldmine to erect,” turn to the left, “a heart to resurrect,” she is the desired icon of our collective conscious and she wants so much to get there yet not nearly as much as the passer by vanquishing her ‘uber’ image on the above bill board.
What of the designers? They like the magazines that cover them, eschew them, glorify them, also have a product, a dream to sell, a sensibility, vitriol to become. It’s a glorifying one, a painful one; where to find the investors, the show rooms that will cater to them, the department stores that will hopefully court them, the espressos that will ignite them, and the public which will ultimately, in infinity, or at least this very season adore them, and patronize them?
This was impossible to read. This is horrible writing.