Showing posts with label models. Show all posts
Showing posts with label models. Show all posts

Sunday, February 14, 2010

F is for Figures

Throughout the press lately, I've been adorned with a reputation that makes me sound like I like the models, and indeed women, to look like they come from Belsen or one of those fictional 3rd world countries (we'll get to those in a bit). I do not. I like models to be skinny. Models are not fat. You're living in a dream-world if you think models should be fat, and what a horrible dream-world that must be. Fashion itself is a dream-world, built on decadence and fantasy and depraved people. Models are part of that fantasy. When a child buys sweets, do they expect vomit coloured wrapper-and-sweet? Of course not- this would be ridiculous. We don't get many ugly people in movies because most movies are a fantasty, too. You don't sell a dress by placing it on an unattractive lady, hm? Just as one doesn't sell cigerettes by showing pictures of people dying of lung cancer. Of course a designer is free to do this- it's their perogitive. But most likely they don't understand how important a part fantasty plays in fashion.
And as for these models that one hears about going down the runways; the ones who look like they've just come out of a prision camp- well, they're not going to sell dresses either. Nobody wants to buy a dress off a skeleton. Where's the asperation in that? I realize we're a morbid culture- but not that morbid, I hope. So I don't use the prison camp models (no matter what PETA says). I use attractive girls who can convey whatever I want them to convey- I use girls who can wear my clothes well.

Yet I'm leaving out two very important things here- the figures of the women who are not models, and the figures in a bank account.

You know, women don't care what men think they look like- they're more worried about what the female population thinks they look like. Especially the chic woman. I recall a conversation I had with a dear female friend, who idealized- probably still does- the body of the model. I said to her: "but this is incredibly unattractive to men," and she said "I know, but I don't care what they think- they have no taste anyway. Have you seen those men's magazines?" I asked her what these men's magazines are, and she replied- "oh, Playboy, FHM, Maxim- that sort of thing." I told her I had read a Playboy once or twice; there was a good Bob Dylan interview in it, but I didn't understand what those vulgar women were doing on the pages. "Vulgar. That's the sort of women most men like" she replied, to which I replied that the women weren't very sexy looking, even for someone as perverse as I- why doesn't Playboy use people like Kate(Moss)?
She told me most men don't actually find Kate attractive, which I found very strange. I pointed out a few other models- Lara Stone and so on. "Nope," was her answer. So I tend to agree that woman, if they must care about anybody's opinion, should care about that of other chic females (every so often I find a straight guy with taste, but most of them have girlfriends, so please don't mail me asking for their details.)

From this, we can ask the question: "what is the perfect figure?" which I actually almost impossible to answer- if a woman is tall and has an hourglass shape, she may very well look like a hooker unless the figures in her bank account are very healthy indeed. A short woman who is exceedingly skinny may be mistaken for a tree. A very thin woman, who is likewise very skinny, may also be mistaken for a tree. In fact, she risks becoming one. There are oddles and oddles of models who were too tall and too skinny, so skinny that one day they put their arms up one day, and the universe mistook them for a tree. So they became a tree. It's most unfortunante, although I believe the modelling agencies these days have insurance policies against this sort of thing.
The perfect figure depends on every facet of you- from your nose to your asophegus. A rich woman can get away with being plumb- a "dumpling" we call them- although she'll have trouble fitting her piggy little legs into couture! A woman who has not-so-much money will want to look less like a dumpling and more like the stick on a kebab (though not a toothpick.) In the end, it comes down to personal taste. There's no need to look like a strand of my lucious hair, and there is no need to look like you're tomorrow's roast.

Figures in bank accounts are somewhat less vague. The bigger the better. The fatter the better. In fashion, everybody wants smaller, smaller. Many "fashionistas" make the mistake of thinking their bank account should reflect their slim figure. It really shouldn't. It should resemble the obese duchess you'll have to shake hands with at a charity auction if you haven't already. Warts and all.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

Transcript

Karl asked me to post this transcript. Regards, Brad II.

Bob Dylan: Cathy Horyn saw Karl in the kitchen/can't say nothing, but nothing didn't happen
Karl: Boys who wear cowboy hats end up lying on the mat.
Bob: Cathy wore her beanie/And her knee highs too/Someone said "girl, you look like a hag"/She gave them them the evil eye
Karl: How do you even know who Cathy Horyn is? She's just some hockey mom.
Bob: Karl saw his models/All in a line/Cathy said "Karl, why don't you grab something off the shelf?"
Karl: Models don't go in lines. They go in gaggles. Actually, I'm not sure if there's a proper term for a group of models. What's the term for a jar of toothpicks?
Anna: A pickery.
Karl: Oh! There you are. I wondered where you'd gone.
Bob: And Anna's getting some medicine and gin/in the infirmary.
Anna: For once he's right. "Voice of a generation", ptf. That generation was so stoned up a rock could've been the spokesman for it.
Karl: Or a pen.
Allen Ginsberg: What, you don't like Bob?
Anna: Dirty American. It takes a lot of effort to work at American Vogue, you know. But nobody reads British Vogue. God. Coco. Pynchon. You might as well work at Cat Fancier's Weekly.
Spokesman for Cat Fancier's Weekly: Hey now! Look here, we at Cat Fancier's Weekly have been getting a lot of flak- since about the beginning of time. Even Jesus used us as a joke.
Karl: How'd the joke go?
Spokesman: Erm..um..
Jesus: Oh man, I remember. It was like- "I could hardly be God's son if he worked at Cat Fancier's Weekly."
John Lennon: Oh yeah! That was a good one! Bigger than Jesus, that joke.
Jesus: Bigger than Jesus.
Spokesman: It's just not fair. We've been going as long as Christianity! Surely we're doing something right if we're still going. Right?
Sir Edward Elgar: Surely sir, you realize that you're only in existence because of the continuity of this joke? In fact, this conversation right now is keeping your alive.
Spokesman: So..?
Karl: So you would not exist if Anna hadn't made that joke about you.
Spokesman: Am I supposed to pop out of existence at the appearance of logic here?
Anthropomorphic Panda Bear: No.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Concerning that Catfight

I was hoping to have a nice relaxing day working on my autobiography (King Karl, Better Than Yves. 7L Press, release date unconfirmed), and then maybe sketching a collection and doing some photos for something shoe-related. But no! Rumor got out of of the catfight between two certain models. Those web logs that people write have posted about it, so hmm. I suppose I better set matters right.

It's a little known fact that many models are world class fighters. Not simply cat-fighters, but world-class blood-and-guts fighters who could knock out any brute on the street. Under what you may perceive as "thin" frames, these models pack a mean punch. I'm serious. With one clenching of their well-kept fists they reveal more muscles than Alber's eaten cakes- there's some muscles there that the Body Part Naming Institute hasn't even named yet! (And by the way, did you see the article about darling Alber in the New Yorker? Delicious)

You have to be a good fighter when you're a model. Photographers, designers, hairdressers- they're all so very very dangerous. Photographers will screw you, designers will screw you over, and hairdressers will screw up your hair. If you're not careful all three will happen to you! I feel sorry for those poor models, about as young as a fetus, who don't know how to fight yet- when they're here for their first Fashion Week or somesuch. Of course, they will soon learn.

My problem with the catfight mentioned- (it wasn't much of a catfight, more of a tigerfight where the tigers are famished), was that it was in public. This is simply rude. Vulgar. Unacceptable. The first rule of model club is that you don't talk about model club.

A couple of blows were debt, a tooth or two lost. Hairs fallen out of place. Once I saw I broke it up. I simply put one fingerless-gloved hand in the air, and said "enough!".
And it stopped. They went back to their respective posses, to bitch among themselves.

Anyway. I will deal to these two errant models in my own way. I will not reveal their names, for their careers don't need to be ruined- I'm actually fond of one of them. But be reassured, public, this offence will not go unpunished. I am not a forgiving man. Forgiveness if for hippies with long hair who ride on donkeys for lack of a love bus. I ride on a broomstick.