Model on the Eiffel Tower, Harper’s Bazaar, 1939
(Source: a-harlots-progress, via ladytudorrose)
An Open Letter to Elizabeth Wurtzel: By Bianca Ozeri
Bianca wrote this impassioned response to Elizabeth Wurtzel’s recent article in Harper’s Bazaar, “Looking Better At 45 than 25.” I love impassioned letters, and I love Bianca, so I asked her to post it.
I just think it’s funny that Elizabeth Wurtzel is advising women on how to look put together, because if my eyes aren’t fooling me, she kind of looks like a mess.
But maybe it’s because I don’t appreciate multi-color highlights and pancake make-up. In any case, without further ado, here is Bianca’s letter.
Dear Elizabeth Wurtzel (and your horrid editorial),
Our mothers probably would have gotten along. A Brooklynite with stale notions of empowerment, my mom can apply liner and lipstick while driving her car, her impossibly narrow feet will die, I assure you, in vintage heels, and when I go out at 11 PM for some milk, or a sweet tooth satisfaction, she encourages me to change out of sweatpants because, “Bianca, you never who the cashier is going to be.” (Rarely do I comply, rarely am I enticed by the bodega clerk.)
September 16, 2012
elizabeth wurtzel
harper's bazaar
guest blogs
Looking Better at 45 than 25
feminism
Planning a trip to Savannah at the end of the month, dreaming that I’ll wear things like this the whole time down there.
I have an important deadline today, and I’m stuck on the ending, which is why I’m writing this post, but only briefly, because I cannot get lost in this stupid fucking blog.
Julianne Moore did this shoot for Harper’s Bazaar a few years ago (in 2008) which for some reason has become a Tumblr meme. Someone put all of the modern-day shots of her, and put them next to the original work of art she was mimicking. The only one she did successfully was Egon Schiele, in my opinion, but I’ll let you decide what you think.
Now, back to work.
Icon of the Week: Grace Coddington
On my way to get milk this morning, I thought about Grace Coddington.
I’ve been reading a bit about her, and by reading, I mean scanning articles in New York Magazine and Gawker. They don’t tell me much, except that she’s nicer than Anna Wintour and was married for a year, in the late 1960s, to Mr. Chow. Both of those things are uninteresting- will anyone ever get sick of villainizing Anna Wintour or eating at Mr. Chow’s? I’m weary of both.
What makes Grace Coddington interesting is not her personal life, but rather the work that she’s done for Vogue.
When I was younger, I would pour over fashion magazines, and cut out spreads or advertisements that reminded me of falling in love. Then I would paste them to what I called “my wall of love” with blue tack.
By the end of my freshman year of college, every square inch of my room was covered with glossy pages torn from Vogue, or Harper’s Bazaar, or the Anthropologie catalog. I went to sleep at night gazing upon the Ralph Lauren Romance ads, and I woke up every morning in a Kate Moss fantasyland.
I can’t imagine that on my wall there weren’t more than a few Grace Coddington spreads, which have remained iconic throughout the years that I’ve grown up.
For you, Grace. For working frequently with Natalia Vodianova. For the gorgeous flush of your colors, both in your work and in your red hair, your alabaster skin. For referencing times when women could flounce in lace and chiffon and live life always conscious of what they were wearing.
For the romance of clothing, for the way that fashion magazines can allow a teenager to imagine a life more beautiful than her own, one worth hoping for and dreaming of, one full of stolen kisses and train platforms in the rain. For giving me fodder for my daydreams, Grace Coddington, you’re my icon of the week.
