what a waste

What a waste of talent, scattered all over Instagram captions and cheap blogs with pixelated imagery. I am of course referring to writers.

On my latest mission impossible, that is to find a writing gig(s) that would emotionally (and financially) sustain me while I am painting my way through the self-hate and doubts, I have encountered plenty of opportunities. Not to say that I could tackle many. All the writing ‘listings’ somehow made me wonder whether the recruiting people are looking for employees on the wrong planet or they are lucidly fucked in the head.

Starting off with a genuine request of a “1st class degree equivalent from a leading university” to “basic CAD skills”, “in house CMS” and to top it off with, most are ticked with “voluntary submission”. As far as I am concerned the latest can only be applied to a sexual intercourse. Not to mention the blunt statements of main responsibilities which most of the time include management of the social media channels, brainstorming and keeping in touch with bloggers and influencers, product description, and only then you may spend  “10% of the time writing engaging content”. 

What really fired me off, is the notion that a writer no longer needs to be devoted to writing per se, but photoshop, image creation/research, HTML coding, graphic design, SEO, experience with wordpress and the list goes on (all of the above are not necessary skills to possess but simply a fat competitive plus). Top it off with many citing “English as a mother tongue” (notice that countries like UK and USA do not place such atrocities on the front page of a job announcement). 

I am afraid the bridge between outstanding reporting and witless blogging no longer exists. So here is to an expressionless face with a dog filter and an insightful caption recycled from a Pinterest board. I might pick up just that if it pays. 

Farfetch

The Uniform Pages

Business of Fashion

Motion Global

Prestige Artists

Beorgeous

The Fashion Enterprise

ITheStylist

Judging You

The Met Gala themed “Heavenly Bodies: Fashion and the Catholic Imagination” apparently has sent out the wrong memo, not the genuine 'Sunday Best' but 'hey do that circus thing but on acid'. Of course this is the only yearly red carpet event which encourages clashes of bad taste, hype and fashion spectacle, yet many designers and stylists seem to brew a secret hate towards their clients. That, or the clients (that is the Gods we really all worship) in the midst of glueing hair extensions and nail extravaganza (natural is still a thing though), selfie-ing their make-up through and through, have failed to look in the actual mirror. 

First things first. What is up with all the halos? Lana Del Rey and Beyonce did it best - back at the Grammy's: Lana rocked hers like a true angel, while Queen Bee just did not leave any room to compete after her Goddess-like performance. Cardi B gave it a hard try, in a jewel and pearl encrusted Moschino, but let's not scowl the pregnant woman. Not that she cares. Janelle Monae and Solange Knowles looked to the point and poised (latest strutting Iris Van Herpen and a bottle of wine in her netted bag). The rest were just a fart-like echoes of what Coachella left: scattered egos in need of a crown at all costs. 

Let's not name names, but ladies, some of you just cannot walk the walk in a gown. Aknowledge it, accept it, swipe for pants instead. Natalia Vodianova shined high class on the red carpet in her Balmain pant suit. Amal Clooney, as usual, flawless (wearing Richard Quinn). 

The break of Instagram: Katy Perry vs. Rihanna. Miss Perry mixing up the event with a Victoria Secret Fashion Show, the only place where one can deem feathered carcasses 'appropriate'. Rihanna - well Rihanna is just Rihanna (John Galiiano got a shot out so there is always hope). 

Lily Collin's made up tears seemed like a childish attempt at a halloween costume referencing Virgin Mary (note: she was actually attempting to channel dark arts and gothic) in juxtaposition to Tracee Ellis Ross' sophisticated nod to priests wearing rose on the 4th Sunday of Lent.  

As for relevance Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen never miss. The Gucci gang was a great marketing campaign, and that is only because Jared Leto naturally rocks a Jesus look since the Oscars circa 2014 and Lana Del Rey looked like she just stepped out out of one of her latest music videos (her natural habitat). 

Among all the farce Kim Kardashian West's Versace attire appeared surprisingly sober and appropriate. 

Whose look are you digging? 

p.s. Jonah Hill 

On Periods

Do raise your hand if you have caught yourself on several occasions searching for a female cashier at the check out while purchasing sanitary products. Raise both, if during a blood bath a public restroom has failed to provide a safety net in the face of magic machine. Everybody knows healthy women bleed, yet the society seem to hush around the subject, still. If men happen to endure the alike inconvenience surely all the facilities would be filled with pain killers on demand and tampax.     

Media goes back and forth, raising the subject and quickly moving onto the next big thing. As of recently, the infamous Russian model, philanthropist and a business mogul Natalia Vodianova has dared to post a selfie with a pad, firing a rage in the comment section consequently failing to make a movement. Models which Vodianova persuaded to to do the same, politely waited out. A permanent women rights activist Emily Ratajkowski was too occupied sharing sponsored posts with DKNY, while Doutzen Kroes was busy taking polaroids in the bathroom. Who can blame them? A tampon in the social feed is equivalent to a red smudge on a white dress during a red carpet, and an additional shady backlash. Although both do deserve some credit for openly talking about periods with Vodianova in her exclusive interviews for the Flo Period Tracker App.   

Period shaming can be simply blamed on sexual education received at school (or lack thereof) and the misconceptions accumulated over time. As far as Ancient Romans were concerned - menstruating women were witches, Medieval Europeans were petrified to consummate with a bleeding woman, while 19th century Brits thought women would ruin food while on their period. You do not have to look into history that far - openly dealing with menstruation only a couple of decades ago was unheard of. 

One has to understand the concept behind such discretion: periods are not sexy. As much as they have been projected by many yogi-slash-soul searching gurus as a ray of sun shine beaming through the Godess-like womb - it is no glitter. Bloody business at times involving clots, smells and surprising colours. Try to pain-crouch without staining the bathroom carpet simultaneously wiggling a circus trick with a sanitary product of your choice. A Goddess, indeed. 

Here is the thing - even a mouthy feminist does not want to get up with a smear all over her white fancy pants. Yet, if you do, laughing it off can help. Talking about it can too. Not in a dreadful ‘Oh God I was on my period’, but ‘Hey, anything men can do I can do bleeding’ sort of way. 

Raise your hand, if you do.