from the mouths of males

I've had a love/hate relationship with these Balenciaga booties since they first came down the runway... At first I thought "hideous generalus!", but they grew on me after a few months, and now I'm at the point where I sketch little Balenciaga hooves next to my notes in class, and dream of what trips to the grocery store would be like if I had 5 inches of solid Ghesquière beneath me... The fact that these boots would cost more than one month's rent in Paris (and are therefore ludicrously unattainable) only fuels the fantasy fire, so it is at times like this when a man's brutal honesty can be refreshing:

"Let me be completely honest here, those shoes, when not placed on a woman’s foot, are structurally and aesthetically sexy (maybe it’s the S&M and not the H&M in me). But when said shoe is placed on an actual foot, that woman begins to resemble a goat. A female goat, yes, but a goat none-the-less"

Wrong perhaps, but refreshing.

See, a random fact that I didn't include in the "sixes" post is that we used to have a goat farm. I loved our goats very much but don't want to look like one. I don't really want to look like Mary-Kate Olsen either (this would actually be impossible so I'm more worried about the goat bit) however these boots have me in high smit, and I am interested in your verdict...

The Balenciaga bootie...
	Goatlike?
	Gorgeous?
	Undecided.

via NYCydney

strangeness in sixes

I've been tagged by two beautiful bloggers to write 6 strange things about myself. This is a lazy Sunday (and I dare not disturb the cat lying across my outstretched legs) so here goes...

When I was 17 and contemplating what to take in university, I had the choices narrowed down to Fashion Communication or Forensic Science. The latter seemed less scary (I was more squeamish about lip gloss than entrails) and I interned at a morgue to gain some practical knowledge. I loved it. The forensic pathologists who worked there were the most gracious and respectful people I had ever met, and I learned more from what they shared during autopsies and toxicology tests than I have from any university professor. Despite my constant interest in this field, the smell of formaldehyde was too much for me and I decided to pursue the arts instead.

Anyone who knows me or who has read my profile may have noted that I am a bootaholic (yes, even at the height of summer in Australia, I was the girl in leather boots). This is actually the only kind of footwear I really own. I often fantasize about pumps and peeptoes (there a few pairs from Paris sitting prettily on my closet floor), but they never find a way onto my feet. This could be because those feet are size 41-42 and just don't look as graceful in delicate shoes as a petite femme's might. Whatever the reason, I'm sticking with knee high Miu Mius and sturdy Demeulemeesters.

Graffiti is one of my favourite art forms:
You can see a lot of it around my apartment and I obsessively hunt street art (rather like Yvan hunts street style) with my camera wherever I am in the world.

I prefer men's magazines to women's magazines as the articles cover a broader range of subjects, however I also love perusing style manuals in languages I don't speak. Essentially I am just admiring the styling and photography, but I get very excited when a phrase is similar enough to English or French that I can (sort of) understand what is being said. Or not, in all probability. Swedish and Italian are particular favourites.

My brother and I were born at home. We were raised in an androgynous fashion with matching short hair cuts, overalls, shoes- the lot. There was no TV (except Star Trek), no piercings allowed, and typical "boy/girl" toys were out of the question. This was, in theory, a great idea and like homeschooling, I couldn't have wished for a better way to grow up, but androgyny was forcibly thrown out the widow around age 6. Much to my mother's amusement, I started to draw dresses and added frilly trim to my clothing. I couldn't have rapunzel hair, so I always wore a scarf tied around my head in a bow. The tops of my ears were pierced with a syringe from her midwifery kit, and I stole barbie dolls from daycare to play with at home. The list could go on but you get the idea. I'm not sure what this says about biological determinism but it makes me feel like I'm in the right field.

My mother lived in India, and Bollywood culture has always been of huge interest to me. I hennaed my hands like an Indian bride and wore a bindi through a few teenage years, stopping short of a sari only because wherever we were, it was generally too cold for one. There are still a few salwar kameezs in my closet however, and I google Aishwarya Rai every so often just to see what she is wearing.

Mutti and her cow in the early '80s (pre moi :)

Six is quite enough...

Care to share any of your eccentricities or unique life experiences? I would love to hear.

moon girl

I'm obsessed. These metallic booties (among other Pierre Hardy designs) are still haunting my dreams at night. They have been included in sleek magazine's street issue where a few of the world's finest shoe creators are asked "pertinent and impertinent" questions about how they make our feet "so damned alluring". PH says his shoes are the elite of the street. If only the pricetag was plebeian...

ambrosial aubergine

When mini robot posted about a pair of Scorah Pattullo booties last month, I appreciated her passion but didn't think I would lust after them in quite the same way (despite being a Hopeless Addict of boots in all shapes and sizes). At the time I chalked it up to the printed glitter stars. Stellar though they undoubtedy are, zippy patterns don't usually do it for me (and anyone going for glitter had better strut it with a confidence comparable to Ziggy Stardust). However, look what happens when you add a wash of purple...



Suddenly La Femme Ziggy is transformed into a vision of deepest, most opulent plum. Starry shoes like these are the only embellishment necessary for such a violaceous ensemble, and momentarily (as often happens in fashion fantasies), ₤300 doesn't seem an exorbitant amount for the kind of booties Cinderella might wear to a rave. This is a transient delusion though. I suppose that is why purple is known as a royal hue and us plebs are forced to stick with less grandiose shades...