in which i decribe to you how going through the paper shredder was the best thing to happen in my life,

So I was surfin' the net, avoiding my email, thinking about chocolate, eating chocolate, doing my thing, you know, and came across Iris van Herpen. She is perfection. I cannot see anything NOT perfect about her. She is Comme.

Okay, so she's an Amsterdam designer who graduted from design school in 2006 (notice my serious journalism skills, obviously I am very specific and informative). The lookbook pictures here are from her first collection. Her first. They only get better. My favorite kind of design is pure, unadulterated art you can wear. If I could wear an art gallery every day of the week I damn well would.

She's very elaborate in each piece, which makes the fact she only makes 10 pieces per collection forgivable. I'm nervous for her solely because I don't know how she'll make it commercially -- though obviously she's not doing it for the money, or else she'd be pulling a line skirts out of her ass and splattering them with whatever trend of the season.

No, she's very much designing for her own muse and her muse alone. I love it. I want to write a love song to it. I want to court her muse and serenade it at night to sleep, and buy it rings the size of my fist, and buy it a yacht and half the world. I want to stalk it at night at it's window. Yes. Even that.

her latest collection.

She juxtaposes mummified silhouettes with ruffles, studs, anything that fits her whim. Her aesthetic is kind of like a love child of Pugh, TAO, and skeletons, with a healthy dose of barbed ire and rufflery and sometimes even bondage. Iris smudges the line between the macabre and the feminine. It's rough, but it's fragile, and damned if I don't want it all.


(sorry for the quick post, got lots of plans for the blog in the future -- lucky packs return, a contest, and more. xxx)