18 December 2014

Cliff Classics

A week ago, my sartorial integrity has been challenged. Mama-provoker threw a spontaneous cocktail party in the hub of Hong Kong's financial district for colleagues and friends that consisted entirely of bankers, lawyers, and accountants. If I were to show up and be introduced to this foreign world as the son of the hostess, my sister, also a confirmed attendee, promptly implied I better not be 'too much of [myself]', as in please dress down. When further interrogated if I brought a plain shirt from London, I realized I hadn't foreseen any formal functions, I only packed turtlenecks and knit dresses. Needless to say, it's starting to shape up as seriously not-my-scene. On the night, I decided that I'd be damned if I were to compromise and show up looking like a typical 'boy' conforming to my oppressive gender role (to someone like me); so to strike a balance, I showed up in an all black vintage 70s Ann Taylor jumpsuit. There, diplomacy has been laid. This led me to think, why am I so adamant against going with the proverbial flow? I mean, even instead of choosing a plain background to shoot an outfit, I needed to hoist myself up to the edge of a cliff with crashing waves like I'm Aerial the mermaid *cue Part of Your World*. Perhaps it's because I've been trying to 'fit in' all my life and got me nowhere because people like us simply don't fit the classic mold, which is why we're seen as provokers. But truthfully, I don't mind the classics, so long as there's some twist to it. Exhibit A, a striped top and black wool trousers, except mine are corseted flared dungarees that are so high waisted they graze my nipples, and my Breton cardi-top also works as a polo. Yes, I let the devil live in my details. Then for street-cred, I throw on this vintage cropped white denim jacket I found in a tiny charity shop in Paris back in October. Come to think of it, I do have some formal events lined up, one wedding in France come summer. I was given full permission by the bride-to-be to "be myself", now that's what I like to hear... I'm thinking a sheer baggy navy ruffled blouse and tweed fringed diaper shorts. Oh yeah, fuck the suit.

jacket LEVI'S
cardigan CHANEL
dungarees CHANEL
sneakers CHANEL

photography DAVID HAJOO CHOI

08 December 2014

Coast Calls

 I swear it was Beyoncé who told me to look to the left, which justifies only the first shot but not the following eight, but I can't conjure up any more Bey-Bey lyrics that influences the rest of my alledgedly candid poses, so whatevs. Once again, it's Monday, and I sulking in guilt for being a weekly-posting 'blogger', but that's only a temporary glitch as I'm up to my unplucked busy eyebrows in academic obligations that must be prioritized; forgive me internet for I have sinned. Once I graduate in a few months, I promise my love shall return in full force and I will provoke you like never before... seriously, it gets really personal... #TooMuch? On another note, I think there comes a time in every girl's life where she stops on the street and ponders "is my life worthy of YouTube exposure?" Far be it for me to say my life is fuckin' fabulous, and I need to document it like National Geographic with macro lenses just so the world can analyze me in molecular detail! No, but I do find myself often in hilariously awkward moments (very Bridget Jones) along with hopefully relate-able scenarios that also provoke. Hence, I've literally been videoing the most random snippets of my life in London and other cities on my iPhone, and if for some miraculous reasoning I don't cringe at myself (why does my face look as if it's undergoing epileptic seizures on cam?!), I'm considering sharing my life through another form of media, think of it as an extension of my Instagram. If you haven't already seen it, then let Jay-Z tell you to look to the right (sidebar derr!).

trousers CÉLINE

photography BRYANT LEE

01 December 2014

Knee-high Blues

It's December the first and also a Monday, that to me is conflicting concepts. On one hand, I'm in joy that we're steadily approaching the holiday season where we celebrate fat middle aged men in red suits judging our moral status with presents; while on the other spectrum, Mondays generally suck mega Christmas balls. So my current excitement status is on the proverbial fence. You get me? Besides being complacently stuffed with holiday baked goods, overdone cranberry-anything left over from thanksgiving, saturated politically-correct Christmas decor, static-inducing wooly mothball scented sweaters, and everything else smelling like cinnamon or Chris pine; Winter is my favorite season if you're basing it on needing to shave your legs or not. Razor season is O-V-E-R! Rejoice in ticking one more bodily maintenance need off reducing my daily-prep routine down ten minutes. But if you possess Alexa Chung limbs and occasionally opt for any clothing with a hem above the knee, then consider knee-high (or thigh-high for the gifted) boots as your best gay friend... get acquainted. No, seriously, hide your prickly shins but do keep a slither of skin for dermatological ventilation as stanky boots are as much a turn off as your cactus calves. As for me, my lazy approach is just to zip into these cut-out heel Wang boots, then throw on a favorite Céline number of mine that drapes in all the right ways acting as the perfect day blouse. Then hold onto a marble clutch for necessities, whilst asymmetrically wrapping around a skinned cookie monster around my neck for added warmth. From an initial glance my leather shorts masqueraded themselves as a skirt, but hey, you choose whatever you want to see; I rather like the skirted look instead. After all, defining my gender through what I wear is a daunting task, especially in the Winter.
shirt CÉLINE
shorts VINTAGE
fur stole G.V.G.V.

21 November 2014

Post-Paris Ponders

Upon my most recent return from Paris, it truly hit me, I much rather prefer being a frequent visitor to this ville de l'amour than a residence. The ideal situation is I be a New Yorker - as you've all seen how much I thrived on that last year living and working in The Big Apple for eight months - and dropping by London whenever, and skipping over to Paris. This 'lifestyle' if you could call it that, over the years has led me to rake up quite a few little urban families in each city, which makes navigating them a lot easier as a nomadic boy-tomboy. This way, I still get to play the American (hopefully the educated-not-clichéd American) in Paris scenario and maintain the illustrious illusion of the beauty that is Paris; since I don't think I can deal 24/7 with the gypsies, the political incorrectness, linguistic disadvantage, awkward club scenes, and slow-paced lifestyle that irks even the most zen of us. True, the fresh artisinal pastries, architecture, insider galleries, fashion flagship stores, ubiquitous night cafés, smoking culture, and the fact that this is the place that houses Gainsbourg, Guislain, and Ghesquière, does tempt me to try on the 'Parisian shoe' one more time even though I know deep down, they're either not going to fit or I simply can't afford them. But look, either way, I'm simply trying to preserve some charm and mystery that I feel like after my fiftieth visit has somehow numbed me to it, or prepared me for it? Hold that thought whilst I wrap myself up in with my furry buddy of mine because is it me or is it bloody fucking cold these days? I know, I know, I shouldn't swear, I take back the word 'bloody'. #FuckItsCold
fur stole PRADA (HERE)
sneakers CHANEL

photography BRYANT LEE

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