I Want a Ruff

No, read that a little slower. I don’t want it ruff, I want a ruff. Okay, maybe I want it, too, but if that were the main theme of this article, I would have used the correct spelling of the word. Moving on.

I remember going to the circus once in my life and not being particularly enchanted by it. The modern acts didn’t thrill me at age 6, and I certainly wouldn’t pay a couple hundred dollars now to watch unhappy, mistreated animals plod around with their heads down, or to laugh at completely generic, mindless slapstick comedy routines (that’s what George Bush and Britney Spears are for). There’s something I’ve always loved, however, about antique circus art, be it from the harlequin-oriented Victorian era or the tattooed 20’s. Where are today’s knife throwers, horseback dancers and puddle divers?

I suppose most of them probably died practicing their craft, and not many have attempted to recreate the feats more recently. I know I wouldn’t.

I’ll tell you what I would do, though: I would wear the aforementioned ruff, or a daintily-puffed princess sleeve (or maybe even a full-blown mutton like Lanvin showed last season). Most of us are already wearing leotards as outerwear thanks to American Apparel’s (head scumbag) Dov Charney — why not add some sequins to the equation? As an aspiring editorial wardrobe stylist, I have been dubbed “steam punk” in my garment choices- and, though I’m not fond of the term — (Hi, Dances of Vice holds a Victorian-to-30’s-themed party?! Queen Victoria’s reign began in 1837, which makes that theme a century-long time span. Take a quick second to look at Wikipedia and see how much fashion evolved during that period.) I find that, alright, sure, I do own about 12 Dover clip art books full of Victorian art from my brief obsession with becoming a tattooer, I appreciate the subject matter of many of The Decemberists’ songs, and I like pocket watches, monocles and compasses! So sue me. What I’m trying to get at is now, of all times, is probably the easiest time to ever walk around New York in a majorette-type ensemble and not get beat up.

Okay, so you hate me now. You think I’m the most pretentious 1850’s hipster you’ve ever (not really) met and you think, if I dislike the 21st century so much, maybe I should go back to my own time/ maybe I should marry the 19th.

But, shit, I own J Brands, and I’m blogging here. And I just think it’s time to clown around!