Of The Inspirational Femme

Oh role models. Don't you love them?
Those people you totally want to be like.
I'd use the term 'idolize' if a certain pagan friend of mine wouldn't bite my head off while saying that my faith in certain preternaturally cool specimens of humanity is somewhat misplaced.

It's like that person you secretly mentally stalk who is just that little bit too awesome. Or the 'older kid' when you were a knee high little deviant. Or why I did my presentation in high school French on Chanel ('So basically - she was amazing and had several steamy affairs...Chapeau!') Some people were just meant to be followed. A bit like a 'Guide to Life' but better.

I dug out an old scrapbook of collages I made back in the day. Fresh out of school and into the bright new (now totally not so shiny) world of university. Some of it made me laugh. Alot of it made me feel nostalgic (remind me to burn my ex's letters in a bonfire of some perfume I don't wear anymore). And I re-discovered some of the women who made me fall head-over-heels in love with living a decadent, aesthetically indulgent life.

Jane Birkin and her similarly imperfectly beautiful yet irresistible scion (who could resist La Belle Laide). Tomboyish, tousled hair, untamed Parisienne sexiness. In spades. Who else could have made me want to sit around half naked listening to Serge Gainsbourg possibly dressed only in the simplest of high-waisted blue jeans. And maybe those infamous white Repettos.

Jean Shrimpton and her beehive, teased hair and scandalous shifts. Proving that dirty photographers go oh-so-well and hand-in-hand with devastatingly beautiful models (obsession with David Bailey much). I may or may not have spent countless hours in fruit(less) experiments with environmentally damaging hairspray.

Sofia Coppola. The too-cool-for-school princess of a film dynasty. And her gorgeously understated films. Like music videos with actual layers of meaning. Set to the best soundtracks. Ever (which FYI - gave one little impressionable girl her rather impressive musical tastes). You never wanted them to end. A little left of centre. Rebellious in only the most captivating way.

Definitely life lessons worth learning...

Love

xx

Bec

L'Amour

I must confess - ever the cynic - I am way over the search for romance and the perfect man.
Apparently French musicians (who come with chateaus and beach villas inclusive) may or may not only exist in Paris.

But there's alot more to be said about lovers.

Ah lovers! Those seedy chance 'encounters'! That illicit affair! And pourquoi?

Tucked away in the August-September issue of Russh (lifesaver if ever there was one) - I stumbled upon an old McGinley snap of the late Dash Snow blissfully engaged in a bit of carnal pleasuring (as many a friend of mine likes to term it). And it has me feeling both nostalgic and inspired. Ah lovers. The intimacy. The slightly shameful smiles. Staring at the floor and mumbling a response to the question, 'So, what have you two been up to?' The devious knowing conspiratorial glances across a room. The unexplained 'disappearances'. The encounters which seem permanently set to the soundtrack of 70s folk-rock (probably just me). Bed hair that is just perfect. Where there's a story behind that messed up outfit. The shared morning after coffee. The forgotten item of clothing.

Yes, I just walked out wearing your shirt.

And touche, I will pick up my bra.

It could be once. It could be forever.

Maybe later.

I'll be back for more.

Love (and I mean it)

xx

Bec