This pair of shoes made me think. And then they got me thinking why shoes make me think at all, but that's beside the point. These stunning scaled 3.1 Phillip Lims remind me of a question I was asked yesterday: "What does fashion mean to you?". And the answer is actually a bit more complicated than I had first imagined. It goes without saying that the fashion industry has already changed me and my life in a way that nothing else has. I've met amazing people and done wonderful things, just because one day in '09 I decided to run this blog. But the change that arose came with its own dichotomy: does the love I have for fashion weigh up against my abilities?
Like any young person trying to decrypt what his future should be, I struggle with insecurities. I love the artistry behind fashion, I love how it allows me to put my feelings into words and I love how wearing a nice outfit lifts my spirit. I love the creativity of the people I work with and love how they inspire me to be better. But I don't like how fashion can make me feel small and incongruous, how I sometimes have to convince myself the opinion I am forming is my own and how sordid I can feel in a forest of plushly clad glamazons. But what I dislike the most is how envious fashion can sometimes make me. How the simple fact of someone having an object I desire can turn me into a green-hued Cain, ready to cut a bitch for toting around that bag I wanted or waving around an invite that never cast a shadow on my doormat. Just like these shoes: I love how they inspire me but I hate how I will never be able to cough up $750 for them and how they probably look better on someone infinitely cooler than me.
That umbrageous side to me has never been able to conquer my drive to become better, though. There's so much I still want to know, so much I'd like to find out. I want to be able to be critical, to not choke on fabricated fashion fodder. I want to be impervious to doubt, but not succumb to delusions of grandeur. I strive to excel but not at someone else's expense, even though I realise that that sometimes is inevitable. There even are days when I wonder if I'll ever even get out of this village. But then I remember that I'm not alone, that we all are just making it up as we go along. As long as that gross vein in my neck throbs at the prospect of seeing a show or buying a new magazine, I know I'll be fine. As long as my left eye twitches with glee when I see an important e-mail pop up or as long as my lungs ache when I hear of a designer's passing, I'll be okay. I've learned that it doesn't matter who I am or what I have today. What matters is how hard I try to be better tomorrow.