A Fashionista

I am prone, perhaps as much as anyone, to the effects and allure that advertising holds over us. If given a pleasing image, my eye takes it in ravenously, devouring the message into my subconscious because the mere image- which, more often than not- has little to do with the actual message.

Lately I have been drawn to fashion magazines. I am not merely talking your typical "Elle" or "Marie Clarie" but the true blue artsy ones like "i-D" and "Nylon". (Though, I do admit, the last is not as servere as the first two as it contains stuff to read, not merely photos of art.)

I have nearly become a slave to these magazines. I pour for hours over the photographs they contain, sucking it in as a sponge. Now, contrary to most, I do not use these for the sake of basing my personal style- i admire them for their value as art. I am an avid fantasy reader, and I have a wild imagination. These photos often idolize that in their beauty. They blend humans within costumes and situations of fantasy, of wild hair and clothing that would -never- appear beyond the confines of a photo or runway, and still you find yourself wondering how they are so dearly beautiful.

I have always been fascinated by talent, and while they may be emaciated models sporting clothing worth more than my house, I am in love. It inspires me, and I have little doubt that the pages from these books will soon adorn my walls as though they were wallpaper.

While I look down on the conditions of modeling, the size 00 body and all other restrictions, I admit that, like my counterparts in society, I am drawn to this odd facsination of starvation and beauty. More often than not, I am drawn to the fashion, to the creation a photographer has made and granted to be shown in the thin glossy pages of my magazines.