by kimberly pearl

Because introductions are the polite thing to do…

I use this picture far too often. But I look decent, and am too embarrassed of my lack of photogenetic-y in front of a camera for something new.

The abridged version:

I’m Kim, your archetypal Aries who writes without restraint, hesitant to call herself a freelance writer who dabbles in fashion/lifestyle because it’s a hefty title I’m yet unworthy of. It also makes me sound a lot cooler than I really am. But it is my job outside ABC, so for brevity’s sake, I [like to] write. So yes: my passions are writing and dance. But to call fashion a passion of mine, or even just say say I love it, is impossible. I can’t love fashion – the practical, sensible, no bullshit side of me won’t allow it. How can you ever truly love frivolity? I only dote it. What I do love, however, is the cultural aspect of it; history fascinates me.

Done.

But if you did, per chance, have extra time on your hands and have absolutely no social options left, read on at your own risk.

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I’m just your average girl with a penchant for fashion and developing personal style, that’s all. We’re living in an age where youth is both infantilized but also pushed to grow up, yet regardless of age, we are all trying to navigate our way in a society where first impressions, image and appearance is essentially what counts - if you don’t care, why should others believe in your self-worth? This is my attempt to both discover and stay true to my sense of self. I want to be inspired, and to inspire. That is my goal.

I indulge in the frivolity of fashion and makeup because they do make me happy. Shallow, perhaps, but while I admire those who embark on they journey of minimalism, I can never bring myself to commit to that entirely. I believe as human beings, we naturally feed on aesthetic. Beautiful things inspire and make our soul sing. We can survive on the basics, but we live for aesthetic. We thrive on it. Life’s too short to live otherwise – thus I believe in surrounding myself with beauty and inspiration. I crave, adore and respect all things beautiful.

And still, I can’t bring myself to ever say I love fashion. I can’t. I sometimes criticize and question it, all for the same reasons everyone else does; a little less than a year ago I wrote this:

I’ve spent the last year re-thinking nearly everything. A re-evaluation of my self, my future, my aspirations, per say. And during this time I had (shock horror!) halted my daily dosage of Jak & Jil, Garance Dore, thefashionspot, and various other blogs of which I obsess over, and left monthly issues of magazines to gather dust upon the dresser adjacent to my bed - whilst ignoring Style.com updates of Fashion Week RTW collections. Perhaps a lack of time and re-assessment of priorities had been a factor in my perceived lack of interest. But in reality I was questioning why I loved fashion so much. Why I obsessed over designer collections. Why I wanted a job in the industry.

Was it worth it? Would I be willing to, if lucky, place myself in an industry in which superficiality would be undeniably omnipresent? (Of course I had been making generalizations at the time.) And especially in such tumultuous times, was fashion important enough to me for me to let myself be whisked away by the thought of Paris Fashion Week when so much pain, suffering, and unseen wars is occurring throughout the world? Why then, why would I choose to dream of such a path when I could be making a difference for someone?

Obviously it took me a few months to dwell on the aforementioned questions. I liked fashion enough for reasons unconventional and possible unheard of: I adored the cultural, anthropological, historical aspects (nerd alert) of it.  But I digress; those few months spent contemplating and re-evaluating had been used wisely. I know I do want to be in this industry. As an individual I cannot change an entire history’s worth of established ways – but I know I want to bring to light a new perspective. Finding ways to make a difference through fashion would be far easier; fashion is undeniably universal, and it is through similarities of an entire human race through which we can achieve change. Change through advocacy, I like to say, bringing attention to the important things through the superficial. I swear it made sense in my mind.

Which brings me to last week. I picked up a copy of October’s ELLE, which I have not touched since our dear postwoman left it in the brick mailbox (and yes, I physically had to brush dust off the cover). I read it back to front, re-captivated by the beauty of the works of these artists - designers, photographers, make-up artists, editors, directors, writers, etc. And I knew then, at that moment, that this was what I wanted to do. I want to help women put their best face forward to exemplify who they are inside.

And yet here I am, writing about it. The irony if it all. My penchant for it – let’s use that word again – has since grown. Evolved. I’m fascinated by the fashion industry’s ability to have a worldwide appeal and universal breadth, yet somehow remains utterly exclusive. I’m overwhelmed by the number of trends that spew off runways bi-yearly, but am entranced by the psyche of it all. The key phrase, however, is that I write about it. I entertain the idea of fashion, get excited by the premise of runway shows and coveting exclusive handbag collections, but wouldn’t say I’m particularly fashionable. I’m the furthest thing from it.

It’s a spectator sport for me, fashion. I thoroughly enjoy the show, for better or worse, cheer on like a die-hard fan or throw my hat  in frustration at it. Occasionally I indulge in it and pretend I really am some chic little thing, but to be honesty, I mostly just sit back and refrain from participating. I observe, and write.

Style, however, is an entirely different story. I believe every woman should own a timeless, beautiful wardrobe, indulging in life’s pleasure all the while remaining financially literate and independent. Perhaps a little silly, yes, but more on that here…

Needless to say, ABC has slowly moved from being a purely fashion-based journal to  one on fashion and lifestyle, with an emphasis on personal style, the importance of looking and feeling your best always and self-empowerment.

I call it journal because I loathe the word blog. It’s ugly and unnatural and undermines credibility. I consider ABC is just a space in which I can express myself as both an individual – a single girl with aspirations too big to fit into her Filofax – and a writer. I’m no professional journalist nor believe myself to be some all-knowing guru. It’s not the case at all: I have yet to reach my quarter-life crisis and am learning as I’m living. These are just my musings, my observations, my beliefs, my thoughts whatever else you’d expect from your average girl’s life.

I write a lot. Too much, sometimes, but c’est la vie.  And outside of this little nook on the Internet, I write too. Still, I hesitate to call myself a writer; there are hundreds of truly great writers, award-winning or not, who have spent years cultivating their craft and undoubtedly possess a talent and passion for language. I’m not deserving of sharing a title or occupation with the likes of Jane Austen, Vanina Marsot, Stacy  Schiff, Elisabeth Fourmant, etc. – but it is what I do. Who I am. What I aspire to be and become. It’s what I’ve always known. It feels weird and arrogant, but all the experts have re-hashed the importance of positive affirmations.

I’ve always wanted to become a published author. Not necessarily a New York Times bestseller, per se (I didn’t know what that was until I was well into junior high). I would have been ecstatic with just a professionally bound, paperback copy.

It was in fourth grade when I put together my first fiction story – 22 chapters about two best friends’ adventure in some fairy land, scrawled in my best penmanship in a composition notebook, complete with a [self-illustrated] front and “About the Author” back cover – and gave it to my English teachers to read. Ambitious, perhaps, but I was proud of myself. I can’t say I’ve attempted writing any novels after that – I was frustrated by the boundaries between originality and yet another rendition of Lord of the Rings. It wasn’t the right fit for me either. Always a people-watcher regardless of where I am or the occasion, I observe. Watch. Listen (or eavesdrop). I take it all in, scribbling notes on a stray Post-It or in a journal – whichever is in my handbag – if I find it interesting. I suppose it was (and still is) a strange quirk of mine, slightly Harriet the Spy-ish sans the petty gossip. If I’m inspired, I jot notes and write about it later on in the evening. It’s just something I’ve always done.

I still want to write. The dreams of becoming an author have since dwindled, however, replaced instead by a desire to become a journalist, columnist and/or freelance writer, the title depending on the job at hand. The ever-so-mysterious “They” (projectedly the sages of Aesop’s time) always said with age comes wisdom. I’m but an 18-year-old girl, nowhere near discovering true reason and rhyme, but I grew practical since the fourth grade. There is nothing better than a good book, whether read for relaxation, entertainment, or as a means of succumbing to imagination. After all, there is “no frigate like a book / to take us lands away” when our daily lives seem only to oppress.

And yet there are significantly more readers of magazines, newspapers, and blogs. The human race thrives upon being informed. We like to know, understand, and process the reality around us with paper or electronic columns. Thus journalism is wanted and needed all in the same breadth; it makes reality comprehendible and tangible and intertwines us all… (taken from my application to a journalism school)

So I suppose I’ll call myself a writer. In few years’ time I’ll have my degree in that, and marketing. Fantastique!

… but back to ABC…

I believe flirting isn’t limited to an expression of sexual attraction. Flirt with life. With people, regardless of whether or not either of you are (sexually) interested in each other. Flirt with your self.

I’m pragmatic, but I’m a dreamer. Also known as the Aries and realistic idealist. A walking antithesis in heels? Indeed. I don’t believe in love (yet), but have had multiple love affairs with culture, philosophy, expensive lipticks (perhaps one too many for my sake), handbags, stationary, all things French, pilates, raw-ish foodism, museums. A bit salacious of a love life, I suppose, but I can’t help myself…

“The essence of style is how you live your life; what you do with your life.”

- Oscar de la Renta

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Kudos if you’ve made your way to the bottom (;