Inspiration is a strange thing. It's that mysterious thing that jump starts something in your brain, makes your heart skip a beat and stomach fill with butterflies. Not to mention, your inspiration can make every care and worry in the world disappear.
As I endure the horrid flight from John Wayne International Airport all the way to a frigid Chicago O'Hare, recalling the inspirations from the past week pass over me like the cool Pacific breeze. My seven day venture throughout Southern California was nothing short of perfection. From the flawless beaches of Newport and Huntington. To the photogenic streets of the Los Angeles Fashion District. The list of personal inspirations are endless. To me, fashion speaks it's own language. There is no denying that an Annie Leibovitz editorial that graces the pages of Vogue can change fashion culture as we know it. The statement a Birkin bag make tell an entire story without uttering a single word. Who is that mysterious woman strolling the streets of New York City? Who is that girl in Hermes scarf strutting the sidewalks of LA?
Growing up in suburban Milwaukee could have been considered torture to a decade younger version of myself. Considering I was in a Catholic grade school that required a uniform of a white, emblem-less polo and an emerald and navy pleated skirt, my inner Spice Girl was dying to escape to public school. Stealing my mother's fashion magazines before I knew the alphabet seemed to come nothing but natural to me. For as long as I can remember, French couture designers came more natural than algebra or biology ever did. My passion for individuality through fashion was somewhat released when I enrolled in a public high school. I was constantly seeing myself in the runway looks that I only had access to through my monthly Vogue subscription. Since my long legs were busy at work on the volleyball court and also occupied leaping hurdles on the track, I had a difficulty finding the time for a job. No job = no money. No money = no designer shoes. This somehow became a reoccurring nightmare for my sixteen year old self. I learned to make due with the common Target brands and found the power in a sewing machine and bedazzling gun. I learned to never underestimate what money can buy. I could make $50 worth of Target clothes look identical to what Calvin Klein spent $2000 to send down the runway.
Unfortunately, it took over five years for anyone to recognize my fashion magazine addiction as an actual talent. Growing up, I was labeled as a burden for always asking for a new top or complaining that I needed a new winter coat because last year's colors are "so not in" anymore. But once I got my hands on a camera and my feet in some Steve Madden's, there was no turning back. It's time for a lifestyle change.
The typical American is obsessively opposed to any kind of change. This is where my transformation begins. Acceptance. I was never accepted as the person I wanted so desperately to be. And I cringe thinking of any other little girl not pursuing her dream because there is fear of being rejected. Whether it's accepting new people, new habits, and maybe even accepting the fact that combat boots might actually be a fashion statement. I can't stand speaking for anyone other than myself, but if everyone tried being more accepting of this crazy thing called life, I know the planet would be a better place. One person at a time, let's change the world.
Here's what I enjoyed in the past week. I'm hoping to get a website with my photography up soon. Stay posted loves.
