Monday, February 15, 2010

Writing for, uh, Blood

Oh hell. I really am not that bloody, not angry - well not a ton angry. I seem to be more succinct in emails so ... )

"Well.
Hasty is as hasty does and wtf is hasty pudding, sigh. Well yeah. Here I am loathing the world of bloggerati, my upper lip almost curled with picque and chagrin (of course excepting LibertyLondonGirl.com and SilentStoryTeller.typepad.com/blog; how does one get so fond of someone you've never met and yet ... I KNOW her aesthetic and so love it) and ColinMcDowell.blogspot.com.

It's a rather middle school thing "we are bloggers, seat us" and perhaps this moment is not about them, not a bit. The bloggerati have served a purpose, rather like a crisp grapefruit sorbet between courses. The world of fashion is also about business and most were slow to recognize that there's growth not shrinkage online. Netaporter.com and Yoox.com are up 50% and selling globally in lots of languages and the conversion from real world boutiquery to ordering online, receiving a pretty box with return instructions in case it's not something you want to keep. All Saints boxes are so pretty and vintage/worldly/bespoke that I can't recycle them; they're taking up space under my desk with the dogs and plastic bins of silk flowers.

Style.com and several other sites deliver online collections in jpegs, some in videos; Robert Duffy is the loveable gentleman of fashion whispering insider bits (not really, but he is gentle) for Marc Jacobs on twitter and bringing intimacy in 140 characters or less.

I want to sell a book and I am fuming, absolutely fuming that I must have a blog to point agents to - what, they can't read thirty-five double-spaced pages? Maybe I should one hundred forty character write a pithy, quirky, sexy, war, dominatrix, lose-weight-now post to get their attention.

After I closed my pink shop with a rose garden, a joke really as in "no one ever promised me a rose garden" (fine, I'll do it myself), I volunteered at Jackson's pre-school to help set-up a baseball caps for sale area for the fundraiser. It was at Henry Jaglom's house which made me smile. He'd come in every Christmas and spend quite a while selecting one Eric Javits black hat - always one Eric Javits black hat - with tulle and flowers, and would tell us stories. We adored him, and for him didn't care that he was a one-off. The p/r (public relations girl) for the event walked by me and threw over her shoulder a "no, no, do it that way, it'll be better." She turned to rearrange, look and smile at me. Some smile; baseball hats and I couldn't please her. No, it didn't hurt my feelings but it did let me know right then that without a platform, so to speak, one became wallflowerish and not really seen."

There's more but there always is. Clearly it's time to dump the coffee, walk Papa Bear, let Cheese Ball (I know, silly) sleep and shut the door on the kittens.

(art by Mr. Brainwash, presently showing in New York)

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