library day.

'Bonjour, s kuh vou parley angley?' i read the permanently inked and wrongly spelt phrase on the back of my hand with my hull tones still seeping through. o.
'Non.'
Shit. The conversation just got ten times harder.
With my cheek presses against the door buzzer i try and explain as best i can that i'm here for my appointment i made earlier in the week. A mans voice tells me that Museé Galleria is closed for two years and then it sounds off. I stand still thinking he's pulling my leg. The french have a funny sense of humor, its a bit creepy. I stood and waited thinking he could probably see me through a camera or something so slapped a smile on. the door stayed shut.

It was raining too. Not men, nor golden opportunities or scrunched up fivers. Just plain cold, february droplets and i stood outside with my scarf wrapped around my head like a loon not really knowing what to do. It was probably the rain thing that got me rattled but i pressed the buzzer again and spoke full-on fast northern language. The man behind the buzzer didn't have a clue and soon the door swung open. That old trick always works.



I'd been sent by Vanessa to research some very particular archive collections, which i have to keep hush about because its her ideas for her next shoot and yeah. sworn secrets and all that crossed my heart and hope to die lark. The Parisian libraries are very different to the ones in London. They are all strictly appointment only and they prepare everything you want to look at for when you arrive. London libraries should take note.

The building itself stood tall and was empty of anyone, the only sound was the rain pelting down and clip clops as i tottered down the marble corridors. I want to get married in a library, maybe even that one. It is so secretive and has a trillion doors that lead to god knows where all with individual antique handles. It was set out in a dreamy circle, with one huge glass window full of panes that where fighting the rain. Inside it just got better too.
The helves were so high they had wooden ladders to get to the tops, stools around everywhere and a huge oak table in the middle for the likes of me to work on. What a pleasure.

The place is very close to what my paradise looks like, only it was missing music. It needed Belle and Sebastian's boy-girl melodies echoing through the walls. If it was mine and i would love to have my own library i'd take away all the clocks so anyone who came was instantly able to loose themselves. And the smell, of tough old paperbacks that had made it from all those years ago, all the times their pages had been turned over and here they where. Lined up, tucked away all neatly in alhabetic and date order just waiting to be aired again. Issues of The Face, I.D, Harpers, Vogues that were ever made under this one roof.

I stayed for three hours and it seemed like ten minutes. I got what i'd gone for though, stuff assigned to me to find by Vanessa to add to the visuals i am presenting to her next week. I've got some really cool stuff, mostly focusing on the early nineties which i've pulled with the intention of doing a shoot of my own when i get back to london. which will be mid-march now, fresh from Paris fashion week and straight to grey shoreditch again. I'll be working for Vanessa from London on stuff for POP magazine. Need to start arranging my london hello's with the girls really. i miss them a real lot but one of the bestest ones, Amiee, is coming to join me for Fashion Week in paris so i get my fix soon. Not sure if Paris is quite ready but i know i am.

A Single Man.

I always read the back page of the book before i buy it. I haven't read the 1964 novel by Christopher Isherwood so i had to go with the last lines that fade out Tom Ford's film adaption. It's honest and it's simple. A harrowing story of a man who hurt too much. It will silence you in a way that makes you question what our brief existence in this world really is all about. Get your tissues out and go see for yourself.

'A few times in my life I've had moments of absolute clarity, when for a few brief seconds the silence drowns out the noise and I can feel rather than think, and things seem so sharp and the world seems so fresh. I can never make these moments last. I cling to them, but like everything, they fade. I have lived my life on these moments. They pull me back to the present, and I realize that everything is exactly the way it was meant to be.'

a pretty ditty.

If I want to walk in the rain with no socks I will do just that,
Just because the French don’t.
If I don’t care about the hole in my brogue and the black smears around my eyes,
Why do the French?
I am never going to be chic,
Like the French.

So I walk straight through the puddles with absolutely no grace,
Rub my eyes dry and push my hair off my face.
I speak their words the best my northern tones can,
I weigh my fruit like they ask and give change to that young homeless man.

I look and stare and watch people pass me by,
Imagine them a story in my head about where they’re going and why.
Who they’ll marry and when they’ll die,
If they’re honest or if they lie.
What they sound like and where they’d rather be,
Whether they look anything like me.

A thin girl stood all hunched up and cold,
Looks like a girl too soon grown old.
Her eyes are dull, like she’s not even there,
The sleeve of her jacket is split with a nasty little tear.
I think she’ll be called Hannah or something equally as plain,
She’s blowing cloudy puffs of smoke at me, like she’s steadily going insane.

What would she do if my thoughts were actually said,
If she knew what I was thinking up there in my head.
It’s then that I catch her cigarette stare,
I didn’t even realise she knew I was there.

I feel her eyes decoding my gladrags,
My thousand antique rings, the soggy spines of my mags.
She clocks the hole in my worn away shoe,
I look at hers and she has one too.
I smile inside and realise she’s just playing my game,
Us French and English girls are really just the same.

A french kiss.

I haven't had time to go to a museum in donkeys years. I went to Jeu de Paume today and it really made me think about how much i hate my picture being taken. i think it's just one of those things i aren't very good at. I must only have like three pictures i like and thats because of who i am with in them.
Lisette Model is a really key figure in photography and i happily wandered around the exhibition of her work which made me think about what it is i do like in a photograph. I hate anything that is too obvious, too tweeked and over styled. It has to be real for me too, a moment or a face that has something hidden behind it. I like Lisette Model, her real name Elise Amélie Félicie Stern which i absolutely love and am going to call her by forever.

Anyway, her snaps really left me feeling like she had some kind of trick up her sleeve, something about the way she used the camera almost as a kind of detection device. Her images seem to speak aloud and she made it possible to see what habit often hides. The distinctive style was picked up from having no real technical training, which gave me a pang of hope. Maybe i need to snap more. I always seem to get carried away watching things go by that i don't think to capture it for other people. Wise words of hers were painted on the wall and read 'Never photograph anything you are not passionately interested in.' That hit the nail right on the head for me. Selective photography starts tomorrow so sit tight and see how i get on with that if you will.

She caught the attention of Harper's Bazaar, who as her first commission, published Coney island Bather, a portrait of a fleshy, jovial swimmer at the seaside. This now stands as one of her most famous photographs and she recieved the recognition she so deserved for the moments she managed to cleverly capture on her film.

This is the snap i got stuck on. Looks like a romantic daydream. I bought the postcard of it but no ways am i sending it, it's a keepsake.


The exhibition is running until 6 june, 2010 at Jeu de Paume, Concorde and it'll only set you back five euros admission.
jeudepaume.org

look mum. i'm tidy now.

pleased with paris.

I am so happy right now. Paris seems to be the city of eternal possibilities. I have only one enemy and she’s called time. I just seem to be constantly fighting it, so big sorrys for not being very hot with the blog this week but it’s been a blurry one full of hats, hoods and wind slapped faces.



I’ve been burning the candle at both ends and all I am left with is a misty Sunday, a messy bed and a hole in my pocket. My keys have been in that keyhole before the man in the sky has switched the big light on and I’ve not been able to leave till well after dark. The lines of street cafés have lead my way, or maybe more astray into the nights.

It’s hard to pin down where time has actually gone but it’s way been my best week so far. I’ve had tears, tickling and total potty times with new friends that have shown me the real Paris and I am falling hard in love with the city. I’ve tried my hand at being a DJ in some old wine cellar club, which I pretty much just stood crowd-watching instead of concentrating on what I was meant to be doing. Met The XX there too, they’d had gig in Paris that night and had come to let their haird down and lark about. I had no idea who they were but they’re pretty easy on the ears, they’ll be getting a play in the office this week.

I’m holding the fort this week because Annie and Vanessa are in Milan shooting the new Missoni campaigns. I’m a bit scared if I’m honest, I got a hefty list of things I have to have done by the end of the week when they return. I think I’m going to have to be methodical and keep my socks pulled up. I think there will be a few late nights in the office this week though.



I feel like I need a months beauty sleep but that’s not about to happen. My eyes have some nasty circles underneath and my feet feel like they’re almost worn out but maybe that’s just my boots. I think with interns and probably with any job in fashion, you’ve just got to push yourself that extra little bit no matter how knackered you are.
And coffee by the hour. This week is set to be even madder and I’ve signed the dotted line to stay a little longer here so I need to find myself a new flat cause this one runs out in March. Paris has stolen me and I couldn’t be more pleased.


p.s i got a ride on the back of a vespa down the Champs-Élysées on friday night and didn't want to get off, like ever.

meal for one please.

VOGUE to start
BAZAAR for mains
POP to wash it all down.
Bon Appétit.
x



five editorials by Vanessa Reid in this issue of POP to overdose on too! Go V!!!

rag and bone. rag and bone. rag and bone.

Rag & Bone Spring 2010 Runway Show at Bryant Park, New York. Picture this.

Kings of Leon frontman Caleb Followill sat up front watching his girl, model Lily Aldridge walk. The venue was dimly lit by oversized lanterns, the brick-walled Soho loft conversion could have been purposely build for Rag & Bone. David Neville and Marcus Wainwright deserve a big pat on the back for their very first stand-alone womenswear runway show. Fall 2010 is set to be a cosy one. Rag & Bone lead the way, with a heavy heap of style from Vanessa Reid.

Clap, Clap.

I’ve been following religiously from my mac, wishing I was there in NY with Vanessa to see it all myself. She consults for Rag and Bone you see, so she’s the one who bulked up all those snug layers, clad with the super cozy knits, camouflage anoraks and chose the palette full of plaids. Pouches on belts slouched low, bolo ties over button up shirts were mixed with knee-high socks, mittens and scarves really hitting the nail on the head with accessorize. The collection was sent down the runway to the catchy mixings of Thom Yorke and the front row was lined for the runway stunners like Sasha Pivovarova, Kasia Struss and Sigrid Agren along with newer faces like Lisanna De Jong and Keke Lindgard to strut to. Their messy hair tucked into their scarves made me promise myself I am not cutting my hair anytime soon. I swear on Rag & Bone.

I think I would sell my dog to get my hands on a pair of the stack-heel hiking boots or maybe just turn up for work bare-foot next week and hope for the best?

Vogue Queen Anna Wintour and Grace Coddington sat up front, smiling. Seeing things like this make me proud to be Vanessa’s intern, she’s standing out at the forefront of styling right now and just like me was an intern beforehand.

Vanessa assisted Marie-Amelie Sauve, who is a regular contributor to American, French and Italian Vogue. Wit woo. Marie-Amelie also consults for several fashion houses including Balenciaga and has shot with photographers like Mario Testino, Steven Meisel and David Sims. So Vanessa knows what she’s doing alright and is now storming ahead alone. Fingers crossed I can take a leaf out of her book but i'm set to stay another month here in Paris, so need to pull my socks up and get my creative
I think I might actually want to be a stylist. Scary. Oh god, better call my mum and wave hello to a lot more hard work.

more fleas, please!

I woke up super early today because I hadn’t had the definite go-ahead to have the day off. Luck must have been on my side though, cause a text came through telling me I’d be needed Sunday instead. So I spent the morning with Paris, aching for some newbie pieces to put my wardrobe in good stead for next week’s appointments. It’s hard to be able to afford all my frocks for work, so I headed for the thrift stores and a flea market over the river. I had twenty euros in my purse, a croissant stuffed in my pocket and about a million layers on under my trench.



I arrived super early and it was like a vintage ghost town, just beyond the gate at Clingnancourt. Just me and jack frost ready to take on the treasure hunt of these tiny lanes and make-shift stalls. Grannies wrapped up in fur sat with their papers and coffees outside their stands offering smiles and tempting me into their caves of vintage. I promised myself I would go steady and had to stick to things I needed. Some new boots and maybies another coat. Problem. I came away with a polka-dot vintage two-piece, two silver beauties and some sheepskin mittens but it’s all pretty special and cost almost nothing. I controlled myself on the crockery stalls, teacups are my sweetest downfall but today I managed to come away with just one. When I have a house of my very own, my cupboards will be full of mixed up china, the cups won’t match the saucers and the spoons will never be the same and you’ll get what your given.

On an interns salary, which is near nothing really, your imagination becomes worth more than the pennies in your purse. The trick of an intern is to do things on the cheap and still turn out like a show pony day in day out. With five years of fashion debt behind me and now my rent in Paris to scramble together, i try to change things little and often. After all, we need to save some spends for after-work drinks to do all that networking lark in this never ending story of interning.
I’ve got a pink-rinse on the go at the moment, my silvery crop takes a dose of it every two weeks and it varies from pinks to lilacs to blues, depending on how long I leave the stuff on for. It’s pretty candyfloss at the moment, maybe I need to calm it?

Accessorise are a blessing too, they can instantly put a new spin on a frock and I’ve got a box full of necklaces, rings, brooches and hair slides I play dress up with. There’s so much hidden away in flea markets, jumble sales and even in the back of my mums wardrobe, that it’s just a case of injecting a dose of your imagination, mixing a little bit of new with the old and making it something that’s yours. For me it’s a case of doing what I can with what I’ve got and right now I haven’t got two pennies to rub together so will be a regular Saturday morning girl at the French fleas from now on. Voila.

i'm selling ten dots a dime.

polka dot, polka dot, give me the best you've got.


my new best friends.

McQueen of Broken Hearts.

The tragic loss of Lee Alexander McQueen has broken the heart of fashion. A shocking end to his fairy-tale life has saddened and sobered us all to a standstill feeling of tragic loss. A man who gave such an outstanding contribution of his soul to his talented work has left the fashion capitals New York, Paris, London and Milan with an irreplaceable void.

I found myself treasuring an old April 1998 issue of The Face on my desk today, the McQueen cover staring straight at me as a bleak reminder of what a talented and inspirational man we have lost to such unexplainable reasons.

But after reading the reasons why McQueen was on the cover of The Face, I realized why he never could nor ever will be replaced. So take youself away, the same as I did this afternoon, into The Face and back in the year of 1998. The peak. I think myself lucky to have lived and breathed the same air as the supposed bad-boy of fashion, I really do. So here I stand, with these reasons alone and join the mass by saying ‘the man was a genius’. It was almost as though he had a direct line to God all along.


* 10 REASONS WHY MCQUEEN IS ON THE COVER OF THE FACE.

1. Because he leans over and kisses his mother, Joyce, when he’s taking his bows on the catwalk.

2. Because everyone else did All Saints.

3. Because when he trained at Savile Row, he sewed a label inside a jacket designed for the Prince of Wales saying ‘I am a ‘c**t’.

4. Or was it ‘McQueen was here’?

5. Because in interviews he would always say things like ‘I don’t know whether I can survive in fashion without murdering somebody’.

6. Because Suzy Menkes, one of the few fashion journalists who knows what she’s talking about, wrote that he’s ‘not just a fine tailor with a soaring imagination, but one of those rare designers who catches the spirit of the times’.

7. Because ‘it’s unlikely that a Briton would achieve what he has, but for a pupil from an all-male comprehensive in deepest Newham it is incredible’ (his headmaster Richard Jarman, Rokeby Comprehensive)

8. Because he turned up in Milan on a whim, with nowhere to stay and hardly any money, and blagged a job with Romeo Gigli.

9. Because he puts art in fashion and takes fashion’s head out of it’s arse.

10. Just because, okay?

My thoughts go out to his father and close friends, there is nothing harder than being left by someone you love. Rest in Peace Lee.

*The Face. April 1998 Issue.

eye-spy.

these are the sunnies i found today looking uncared for and unappreciated in a run-down shop behind where i work. just what i need to cover up my tired looking intern eyes. so i took them home for something like seven english pounds. steal.
i'm preying for that nasty kind of sun in the morning, the blinding kind.


if your craving: Topshop have some similar looking ones in tortoise shell for near enough fifteen smackers but if your in the monies, Karen Walker is your girl.

topshop.com
karenwalkereyewear.com

my year.

i have been trawling through old collections of designers today, looking for some very specific things and keeping my eyes and mind open at the same time to find new inspirations. I've made a huge file on my mac that i've got to go and get printed first thing tomorrow and then make into a big, fat file. I've had a constant cup of coffee and eaten my way through the bakery which is underneath our building. I have got so much done though, it's been worth getting goggly mac eyes.

I have this kind of tradition where whoever i am researching, i always have a gander at their collection of the year i was born. 1988. Today i had a peek at what Gaultier was getting up to when i was teeny. I love how the photography from the shows back then were taken from such a low level, every press person would get their own individual snap and that was that. I'd have liked a go at that game.

i
spy
with
my
little
eye
some
pale
faces
this
spring
summer.
i'm
up
for
that.
are
you?

xx

a poem tape.

I think it's rare to find a muse. It's a word that is too easily used and often confused with the 'it girls' lurking around. In my eyes, a muse inspires is someone that inspires in a way that you can't ever quite pin down. And you never should try to hard to understand it, or it's ruined. They're usually lost souls in their own little worlds, busy being themselves and our muse.
They just 'are'. It's a state of being.

see for yourself on:

Découvrez “ Le bel été ” avec Lou Doillon et Gonzales.
Discover the film “ Le bel été ” with Lou Doillon and Gonzales.
http://www.vanessabruno.com

Lou Doillon is one of those muses. She’s Parisienne. She’s absolutely beautiful. A creative soul doing her own thing, and in this instance, the camera catches her, follows her, and lets us in on some intimate freestyling. This short piece is a new 'video poem' for the designer Vanessa Bruno. Tap into Lou's world for a few moments and you'll feel like your a tooth-fairy in her new collection.
xoxo

i need to shut my eyes.

I am worn out. I just got in and am putting myself to bed early tonight. My cleaner changed my bed sheets while I was out today and she is such a sweetheart. She gave me blue Elle sheets. They’re pretty gross but it was a nice thought all the same and made me smile at the end of another long day at work. My legs feel like they aren't mine anymore.

I have had a full on day of researching galleries that I’m going to go back to this week. Vanessa needs to be in the know of what’s going on in the city whether it’s art, fashion or music as it all gets trickled down into styling. I get the jammy job of going to see it all, taking snaps and reporting back which is always good. I’ve made a big list of art exhibitions I think will be interesting and I’m going to go whiz around them all before the weeks out. They're are all open in the evenings so I’ll probably do some late-night runs when it’s quietest.

I found this tiny shoe-makers today, just near where I work and the little old man makes them all with his own nifty hands. I'm a little bit in love with the fella. Vanessa used some for a shoot last week and now i'm hooked on the place. He has them all stuffed with paper to keep their shape and he lines them all up like a proud father to each and every pair. The smell of leather always reminds me of when I used to clean my ponies tack, i spent hours trying to get it half as soft as these shoes. If i have time, i'm going to try and go back to squeeze my boat feet in a pair and call them my Paris keepsake shoes.

My eyes are dropping now. I need to be fresh as a daisy for tomorrow cause i've got a mega hectic day. There honestly are not enough hours in the day anymore. I thought only mums said that but it's true. I need Bernard's watch.
If you squint your eyes to the far left window of the old building below you can see where i spend my days. My beautiful old office building with the killer stairs i told you about. It's like a round yard with the statue of the horse and my road is called Rue D'aboukir which i still can't say.
i wanna sit on that horse though.


x

falling for paris.

people watching is a game i never don't wanna play.

Let them eat cake.

A love a good myth and because this one has French roots it is pretty spot for me right now. ‘Let them eat cake’ was a blasé remark by Queen Marie Antoinette when she was told her subjects were starving. Poor souls. It wound up with the uprising of peasants, or so I’m told. It’s just a myth after all but I think it’s a symbolises the ignorance of the elite and the catalyst for a new beginning. And what better industry to use this expression than fashion. So I took those words personally, ordered a gigantic slab of chocolate cake and crossed my fingers that the uprising would begin, for the sake of the interns!

It was my first afternoon off since I’ve been in Paris, so thought I’d better do something good to give myself a proper break. I went counting steps up the Eiffel Tower with Isabel. I got up to three hundred and sixteen and then gave up. I blame bad maths and good views but I soon lost count. I stood for ages at the top, just looking and not quite believing that I can call this home for a little while. J’adore Paris, I really do. It was pretty nippy up there and I way hadn’t worn enough clothes so we headed to a teeny café that’s fast becoming my new favourite. The waitresses wear little frilly aprons and all have combs in their hair and smiles painted on. The china is all vintage and it reminds me of a place in London down Columbia Road I used to go too. You can sit for ages in that place and they don’t shoo you out, it’s got a real homely feel to it because it’s family run and you can tell they take a lot of pride in making it the way it is. I ordered a hot chocolate and consumed more calories in ten minutes than I have all week but my tummy felt warm so that’s all that mattered really.

After that, I left Issy to go for a little shop and we arranged to meet later at some resteraunt she’d been dying to take me, called La Coq which was right near the Arc de Triomphe. That wasn’t till half eight though so I thought I’d better go and get myself something pretty to wear. I am in Paris after all and haven’t treated myself at all yet so it was about time.

I ended up in the Isobel Marant store flirting madly with those teasing mannequins. I think I actually ached for about half of the shop and had to leave pretty swiftly with my hands held together tight behind my back. The only way. Clap that please.
Next I went Chanel but for an actual purpose. I needed mascara so I can do away with my daddy long leg lashes. Their mascara is my savior and I literally layer the stuff on thick and fast with big tarantula legs in mind. I am over the falsies now, they’re too hard work and I can’t be bothered trying anymore. All I need is a little help from Chanel and I clump it up, lump it on and soon my eyes are all blacked out, just the way I like them.


bonjour.

I met up with Issy again outside my blue door. It was half eight and we were late for our table reservation for dinner. Whoopseydaisy, totally my fault. I knew she’d take me somewhere posh but was not ready for this place at all. Inside it was like some kind of cave with changing ice-lights and a bar made out of what looked like crystals and something Swarovski would have done. Out. Of. This. World. Of. Mine. Issy is a lawyer and she never even lets me chip in for anything, she insists on treating me and showing me the very best, in her doughy eyes, of Paris. She is so pretty she looks like a model and men are constantly trying to catch her eye but she seems oblivious, which makes me like her even more. I didn’t check my clock and time ran away with us. I had the best time though and am glad I have Issy around. She’s just like one of the girls back home and I do miss those lot.

Playtime is over and it’s back to work tomorrow. Alarm is set for seven so I’d best get my beauty sleep.
Tarah. xx

♥ what i am ♥

Un petit rien.
A little nothing.
♥

♥ is my mother ready for this ♥

Really big pearly raindrops fell today, all day, non-stop. Even rain in paris is pretty. I dragged myself out of bed, pinked up my cheeks and skipped to the metro for 8.30am to go and do my book drop-off. All set and almost there then the bb is off on one already. Ring-a-ling-an-early-morning-ding. It was Vanessa. She told me to get some breakfast (her treat) and that she’d be late. Annie had already emailed me telling me this, from London so i knew i was in for a wait from the word go. That girl is so on it, I don’t know how she can be so constantly switched on but Annie should have been an angel. I hope i end up as good at my job as she is and that they end up wanting to keep me here in Paris forever.

I sat for an hour and waited in a café nearby, just off Rue de Rivoli, which is like the longest, straightest road in Paris. Or that’s how I remember it anyway. I wrote postcards to a few people I miss (my grandad) and then knocked on her door, books in hand just before eleven. Vanessa always looks almost as though she hasn't tried, in a good, effortless way. You can tell she loves each and every piece she wears and she absolutely nails her individual personal style.

No sooner than i am in the door, two credit cards with post-it notes with scribbled on pins are in my hand and I’m out again. Bank run. I have to pay Thomas the rent for the office on Monday, so need to go pick it up. I get all the little admin jobs added on to my day to save those two time, like banking, post, expenses etc. Let me tell you about Thomas though cause thats way more interesting than stamps and notes. He's the Creative Director of a French men’s magazine called Paradis which we share our office with. It’s a really good substance men's mag, a big notch above the average and cause it’s only published twice a year it's has a really heavy focus on the quality of everything that goes in it. The photography is what stood out to me most, they’ve done some really cool shoots by really big dog photographers. J'adore their gritty nude shoot with London girl, Daisy Lowe . Brave. Girl.

♥ ♥

Anyway, i pecked Vanessa a goodbye, handed her the schedule for the shows I’d put together last night and right now she’ll be somewhere in the sky on her way to NYC, which kicks off on Thursday. I wish I was going but hopefully I’ll be covering Paris early March which I’m stoked about. Fashion week is better than christmas. fact.

This afternoon I have spent at my own apartment, for once, cause it was empty and still raining heavy outside. I pulled together some more designer archives from Comme, Hussein Chalayan and Yohji Yamamoto, which all go into inspiration files for Vanessa to see next week. It’s a real time consuming job and sometimes I feel like banging my head against the wall but it’s so satisfying when it’s done and the images are printed, filed and stashed away. The shows are always a really good point of reference with styling and it’s mega important to know what is going on here, there and everywhere, right from the first ever shows through to this seasons. It's the same as knowing your friends phone numbers off by heart, but with clothes instead and about a million more to learn.

I’m not sure if it’s because I’m in Paris, a city where hands are held and hearts are stolen easily but it really is just so romantic. Almost sickeningly sometimes. I have never seen so many happy couples and I seem to be constantly dreaming about my happy ever after with some imaginary French lover. Thing is, I have got a bit of a long-time fashion crush on veils. I always have something in my hair whether it's ribbon, clips, flowers or a new hair rinse but right now all I want is some kind of veil, a net even. ♥ I used to love playing dress up with my mum’s wedding gown and veil and I used to make her take pictures of me in it to see whether I was growing into it. It hasn’t been on for years now mind but veils are something i really do love. So, when I stumbled across Comme des Garcons Spring 05 collection this avo, I nearly stopped breathing.
So see for yourself, I will not write words because I nothing I say can do them justice, they are actual beauty.

♥ ♥


I am sold. Head over heels, totally in love with them all. I honestly dread the day I decide to get married, my mum should probably shoot herself now or start ordering lace samples asap because I want the laciest, longest, most beautiful hand-stitched vintage veil to walk down to my French fiancé in.
God, I sound like such a girl.

♥

http://www.paradismagazine.com/

my tools

salute these unpaid lifeless pins.