Outfit of the Week: -Valentine's Special- Betty Boudoir

Nightgown: Lucky Vintage

Photo: Lady Leila

Betty Boudoir adores her bedroom. Her bed is a mattress on her hardwood floor, piled high with blue and cream comforters and down pillows. She drapes a gauzy mosquito net from her ceiling, and in the mornings emerges from her tent by trailing her fingertips along the hemmed opening, lightly gripping each edge with both hands and stretching her arms wide to take in the world. Along her walls she hangs her favorite slips and underpinnings, which act as her closet and from which she chooses her outfit for the day. She is a poet and works from home, and feels her most artistic when wearing next to nothing. When callers arrive, which they often do because of her wit, shine, and generosity with her Turkish coffee, she throws on a silk kimono or a quilted bed jacket, or sometimes a sheet when she did not feel inspired to dress that day. Her bed acts as her couch, her workspace, and her Tarot table. She is not lazy, and will protest at the mere mention of the word. She is relaxed and comfortable. Her bedroom is her sacred space, where dreams take her to other worlds but always bring her right back to the place she loves most. Why would she not want to share this with you?

Happy Valentine's Day! May your day, and many days after, be filled with love and light.

Outfit of the Week: Brigitte Bombshell

Dress: Cheap Thrills

Photo: Lady Leila

Brigitte Bombshell is far from a movie star. She resides in a small town in the mountains, far from the grease-slicked streets of Hollywood. Her town has one movie house that shows a different classic movie every Thursday. Every Thursday she goes to swoon over James Dean's rebel, to giggle with Marilyn Monroe's upstairs girl, to try and outwit Robert Redford's grifter. The dress she wears, a gift from her artist aunt who saw it in a thrift store in the Village and immediately thought of her favorite niece, makes her feel a part of the movies. The beauty that is forever captured in celluloid and remains bright, glittering, hopeful, despite the pops and cracks in the film strip. Her hands caress the worn red velvet seats, fingers following the curve in the arm rest that has become so familiar to her. The smell of popcorn leaves the taste of salt and butter on her lips. Some would think she is unhappy with her sleepy, small town, her life spent working in a small convenience store, assisting people always "just passing through". But she is happy with the familiarity around her, the closeness of her neighbors, the dazzling clarity of the stars in the night sky. She can have the big city, the neon glow, and the drama on the screen. She has a whole host of real bright lights above her head.

Our Time Is Now

The Patti Smith to my Robert Mapplethorpe sent me this song the other night. It is entirely too perfect and pertinent to my situation as of right now, although the "listen more to your friends" part is actually really helping me out. In fact, it is finding reflective elements in the people around me, striking chords and resonating tones that has lead me to solace and comfort. Over the weekend, I have experienced so much support and love that sometimes I felt like my ribcage was made of bird bone and people could see my heart beating much too fast through my thin skin.

And although I feel ragged and centuries old, my friend reminded me that I am, we are at the morning of our lives. But I'm not sure the dawn ever ends. There is always something new, something different, someone or some place waiting to be discovered. If I have learned anything from the women in my family (whose stories should be told, and perhaps will find their ways onto this blog), you never, ever stop growing and learning.

I'm excited for the adventure.


Note: The other morning, I woke to see my walls blushing. This photo was taken looking out my window.

Another note: Pardon all of the Patti Smith references as of late. I had the incredible opportunity to see her talk about her latest book, Just Kids, at Seattle Arts and Lectures last week. From our $10 seats, she looked like she was about twenty years old, wearing worn jeans stuffed into Doc Martens and gray men's t-shirt. Her voice was like worn leather, and she swallowed her "g's" and kept saying, "When I writ this book...". She ended the night with an acapella version of "Because the Night", with which the audience sang along to the chorus. To hear her voice fill a symphony hall was nothing short of astounding, crazy, and cool.