Internal monologue overheard in my head at a recent art show:
“Hey I saw you at that overrated magazine party? You were wearing Birkenstocks, but I’m trying not to judge. Really. You’re pretty cute. But the nose-ring?..isn’t that a little…..OH. right. Of course.“
Every tall, attractive man in Toronto who gets it, is gay.
In other news: Julia Hepburn is pretty f’ing talented.
Her unbelievably detailed and dark dioramas are like a rich cross between Tim Burton and Beatrix Potter.
After gazing at the detail of Julia’s work over cheap wine and amid the over-the-top fashion of West Queen West…we started talking.
Although I love the obvious sweet things about our friends, the clever banter over tapas, mutual love for the new Lykke Li album and the like…
Isn’t it the bad stuff that really connects? The nights when, over too many cigarettes and too much gin, the underbelly rolls over and you peel back the layers of the best secrets?
The good stuff: the former addictions, current addictions, bad habits, unhealthy obsessions, bad dreams and cynical outlooks...
It’s the sweet and sour.
The nice stuff is what draws you in, the awful is what makes you stay.
Ok and lastly and wildly-importantly: the search for the best opaque black tights continues. Upon looking through old photos I have realized that despite continued investments in what look like the perfect black stocking: I never manage to avoid that ominous sheer line drawn down the leg.
Proof:
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