All tagged fashion
Be it our media our our mothers, there's no shortage of resources conveying the idea of beauty coming from within. One way or another, we've all heard that it's what's on the inside that matters.
The same applies to clothing.
It's been one year since Ieft for London. Here's a collective account of my summer interning abroad.
Meet Ashley, Helen, Ridhema, Nicole, and Tiffany, and see our different interpretations of the same assignment.
Today markes the second week of my second semester, and I thought that before I get too caught up in my new classes, I’d like to share my classes and projects from last semester to help demonstrate what some of that “stuff” is all about.
Red lips pressed up against a ribbon mike and a waxed mustache puffing on a harmonica against a white tile wall. At first I hear drums, tap, tap, tapping to the jazz band’s tune, but an opening in the crowd reveals the tell-tale silver flashes from dancing soles shoes A girl with checked accordion pleats and a feathered cap spins a crescent moon around a man with fiery red hair and a Windsor-knotted necktie.
I’ve only just stumbled off the train, onto the crowed subway platform at 96th street and into the swinging big-band age of the 1940’s.
New York Fashion Week has come and gone, and my Youth With A Mission (YWAM) friends have all dispersed back to their various corners of the globe. They let me tag along with them again this year, working backstage dressing models with their Beauty Arise team.
You know how when you’re in love, your perception of things tend to be slightly skewed?
The sun shines a little brighter, for instance. You don’t know what day it is or what you ate for breakfast. Did you, in fact, eat breakfast? It doesn’t matter. You’re in love. You spill your coffee in your lap? No worries. You’re in love.
Today marked the sixth day of my London adventure and I’ll assure you I was the one asking for directions; camera and tennis shoes and all. I am a tourist after all, no matter what my pride tells me, so I have the right to go all out if I want to, right?
oday, 10 a.m., London — After a ten-month hiatus, I was finally able to sit down in a proper sewing studio with my beloved Juki’s long lost British cousin. I bathed in the silky glow that the ivory in-work wedding gown left on my hungry fingers and delighted in every tiny stitch.
My new friends, Appa, Nyleeta, and Tina and I took turns sharing our Harrods research with Lucy Tammam (our boss), with wide eyes and enthusiastic hand motions.
But the excitement did not stop there.
I must be in England.
Why am I in England? I hadn’t thought much about it until I woke up this morning. As the airplane wheels hit British soil it finally hit me: Holy crap I’m in England.
Chandeliers toss prisms of soft blue and gold about the cocoa-infused room. A red leather chair rests on the warm wooden floor below me, and the murmurs of other guests rise and fall with Ed Sheeran’s “Thinking Out Loud.” Rows of buttery fresh-made pastries wave from a glass case.
A black-clad waiter sets a tray with six tea cups onto the marble table. Four contain varying shades of thick chocolate, and the other two sit below mountains of whipped cream garnished with nutmeg.
My friends, Lizzie from Oregon, and Fahanny from Ecuador, my mother, Rebecca, and I reach for our orders of hot chocolate, eager to hold the floral cups in our hands after a full afternoon in New York’s January snowfall.