And now for some lightness; some autumn lust to add luster to the fading summer glow. I allow the thought to enter my mind, creeping as it will around the edges of my waking consciousness, nagging me, "what if? what if?" Dare I?
I've never owned any Valentino, yet a certain black dress by the same name first caught my eye at, oh, perhaps ten or twelve at the oldest. Perusing a Vogue, about this time of year, I still remember the moment of clairity when my fingers flipped the first few pages and my eyes zeroed in upon the shadowy girl swathed in black satin with a big bow near her neck. It was then that I realized the fantasy of film could be found in the physicality of fashion. My short list of idols at the time -- Grace Kelly, Audrey Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe, Hayley Mills -- all from another era far more glamorous than the 1990s, would have worn such a dress for their romantic escapades and windswept adventures, their figure admired by, say, a Cary Grant or perhaps some unknown actor, young and tan and glowing. But always at once accessible and untouchable. Untouchable because, if still living, they no longer touched the world with the same cinematic flourish; accessible because I was young and had yet to experience things as one of the world, not only in the world. They occupied my dreams and future projections of what the world most certainly must be like, of course, filled with opportunity fueled by fashion worthy of Hitchcock.