The good Lord blessed me with a 5’2 frame; thus the milestone of putting on my mother’s sky-high stilettos at a young age was purely practice for the destined. The accompaniment to my heels, my style/clothes, developed at a later stage. I have come to consider my fashion as merely an extension of my skin. Just as every bodily physique is different in the naked form, the differences between each of our protruding bone, each scandalized curve, each pulsing vein need to be distinguished and a story coaxed out. My clothes act as a raconteur, telling stories of contradiction, stories of disorder, stories of my past. The concoction of haphazard elements of socks and heels, lace and chains, leather and pearls, may not give a direct depiction, yet the shock and awe value leaves something alluring. So from behind my Guy Laroche vintage sunglasses, I applaud those who are courageous enough to embrace this art, in the form of tasteful deviance. The price of being fashionable mandates the discovery of self, the ultimate anchor.
This is the scent of obsession. No, I won’t be sleeping tonight.