'The Repast of the Lion', Henri Rousseau (ca. 1907)

   -- "OH IT'S VINTAGE CHANEL," she shouts into you completely innocently, trying to overrule the heady bass of the club with her voice. so she saw you sizing up those infamous double Cs then. you couldn't really make her out - her roar was a whisper in this thumping cavernous place where no one can truly be heard for all the noise - but you know exactly what she said. it's actually a really bloody nice dress, which makes you more annoyed. you're totally green and that's only in part the pulsing lasers, so you just smile and keep dancing like you didn't hear a thing. oh you petty little b tch.

That's my take on the whole 'quiet luxury' thing. it lost its appeal the moment it opened its mouth, and it kind of taints everyone that attempts to partake in this watery mess of a trend (in my lofty and irrelevant opinion, but also hi, colour me guilty). it's almost like proponents of the term forgot what the word quiet ever meant..like as soon as you attempt to explain the mysteries of class and affluence, any semblance of affinity or power you thought you held in that realm vanishes. ooo but maybe that's exactly what they wanted all along: power to the People? sociopolitically subversive fashion gurlies, that i can get behind.

but aside from those very rare gems, are the rest of us, in our haste to greedily consume this latest fad, the eternally feeding lion up above? or are we really the unidentifiable bloody mass that will forever dangle limp from its mouth.