As the year slowly rounds up and everyone is running from commitment to commitment, it's important to have a breather in between and immerge yourself into something other than sleigh bells ringing. Not least so you can avoid boring small talk during the so-manieth gathering and really engage with your loved ones, colleagues or designated drivers (for those among us who don't shy away from some eggnog). It also gives you the power to stand your ground when uninformed red-nosed Rudolph's try to derail a conversation by talking like they're 'in the know', while they're most definitely not 'in the know', which you are now going to point out to them because you are 'in the know' after reading these books.

Flâneuse by Lauren Elkin

'Flâneur' is French for a man who aimlessly strolls the city streets observing himself, passers-by and the funny world we live in. The female version to this, 'flâneuse', does not exist. Well, perhaps not in the dictionary, but on the streets the flâneuse has been alive and kicking. At least according to Lauren Elkin. In Flâneuse: Women Walk The City In Paris, New York, Tokyo, Venice and London (2016) Elkin makes her case for the existence of the flâneuse. Through her own walking-experience, Elkin presents multiple cases of flânerie by female powerhouses (think Virginia Woolf, George Sand, Sophie Calle) who proudly strode off into the streets. This book shows how women have been erased from the city streets, how public space is created and negotiated and how there's still a great need to keep on walking to (re)negotiate the cobbles we walk on. Although I wished her case studies were more diverse and intersectional (and not only reliant on big-named well-dissected classic writers), this book points in a playful manner to insightful and productive thought-strands anyone who walks out of the front door encounters.

The Psychopath Test by Jon Ronson

In The Psychopath Test: A Journey Through The Madness Industry (2011) Jon Ronson explores the absurdity that comes along with institutionalised mental health care. He focuses on the way the industry works, and most of all doesn't work, with help from psychiatrists, psychopaths and Scientologists (what a happy bunch indeed). He shows the maddening, looped-argumented issues the industry (and humanity) are faced with through his own intuitive interests. Throughout the book Ronson looks at the case of a psychopath that claims to not be a psychopath (but that's something a psychopath would say!). This case opens up confronting questions of what counts as a 'sane' person and how easily 'we' can loose control over our own minds and bodies. Through his approachable witty writing style uncomfortable truths, not-so-truths and can-you-believe that's-true truths are uncovered. When reading this I had to repeatedly remind myself that all this (still) takes place in the madness industry. I really like the personal touch and look Ronson uses as leading inquisitive insight to the way he conducts and processes his research.

The Story of My Teeth by Valeria Luiselli

Ok, The Story of My Teeth (2013) is a bit weird. Especially when you don't get half of the references... However, when you finally get the gist of it, you will fly through its pages. The book follows Gustavo 'Highway' Sanchez and his quest to 1) replace his unsightly teeth with some shiny whites and 2) retrace his shiny whites once they mysteriously go missing. Besides being a great tooth-enthusiast, Highway is also the world's best auctioneer. Or, at least, that's the modest title he uses to introduce himself. Through the power of his lies (or, as he calls them, allegories) Highway sells anything and everything to anyone who comes to his auctions (spoiler alert: even himself). The story of Highway takes collecting and connecting to a whole new level while it explores such small topics as value, worth and creation through entangling and changing claims of truth and the shifting weight of these claims (perhaps this can be related to Banksy's painting that shredded itself after it was bought at an auction and ironically doubled or trippled in value through this 'destructive' act). Basically: Bargain Hunt is nothing in its comparison! Although I really struggled reading and most of all understanding the story of Highway (once again: references, all of the references), in hindsight the main thing I took from it can be very productive when (re)thinking and (re)telling truth claims (and, perhaps, the pivotal role of capital within these claims). #fakenews?

What are you reading before the new year? Let me know in the comments below!

After practicing at-home yoga on my own in my bedroom these past couple of months I finally attended my first public yoga session. With about two-hundred other people. Yes, I take go big or go home very seriously. As you can imagine this session wasn't your typical Saturday morning yoga class (as I imagine there is such a thing as your typical Saturday morning yoga class). My first 'shared' yoga session was actually part of the Find What Feels Good Roadshow 2018 hosted by Adriene Mishler from Yoga With Adriene. Yes, I take go big or go home very seriously.

Up your connect

As a self-proclaimed recluse, leaving the house and sharing a -for me- very personal practice was not something I imagined myself doing. Ever. Let alone doing so quickly after only having picked up the practice of yoga this summer. I'm just a newbie, what right do I've got to do downward-facing dog with seasoned yogi's?! Well, to answer my own worries and doubts: you've got every right. Yoga, and especially yoga with Adriene (eeeey!), isn't about eeny meeny miny moe you're not good enough so go, but about connection. May this be connection between mind and body or connection between bodies sharing an online practice or (finally) smelling each others' sweat IRL. And boy did we sweat! Jk. Though my trademark clammy hands made an entrance with me as I walked into the room... Luckily Adriene reminded me/us at the beginning of the yoga class, after she prefectly, dramaticly entered the room walking down a steep stairway while Nina Simone's Feeling Good played in the background (note to self: make everyone play Feeling Good before I enter the room): "Everything is as it should be". Dramatic entrances and clammy hands included.

She's giving me good vibrations

The room was filled full-capacity with colourful yoga mats and their owners. Although a rush of anxiety swept me away at first, the positive tension shared non-verbally among each other created a sense of belonging without belonging. As I stressed and stretched on my mat in-between strangers, I even felt somewhat at ease. This 'easiness' really integrated as the practice developed and I dared to close my eyes to go with the flow instead of mirroring my neighbours' moves. This really made me realise how far I've come and how the unimaginable sometimes becomes reality so easily, so naturally. This naturalness is also something that really drawn me to Adriene as a yoga-teacher in the first place. Her pressence (online and offline) exudes a calm and playfulness that helps you to bring meaning to the yoga practice in your own way and on your own terms, while also helping you to go further and carefully break down brick walls. To connect. And this is I think also reflected in the diverse community based around her and all the lovely people that help to make Yoga With Adriene and Find What Feels Good happen.


At the end of the yoga session there was a meet & greet, during which they played music. One of the songs that came on was Good Vibrations by The Beach Boys. It's been stuck in my head ever since. In a good way. Although doing yoga with two-hunderd people at the same time is very intimidating, the whole experience was from beginning to end very positive (vibrations) and perhaps a good icebreaker for future yoga classes. Though for now I'll stick to the one-man show in my bedroom...

Are you a regular public yoga practicer or are you a proud member of the stay home club? Let me know in the comments below!

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Today is the birthday of my undeniably adorable four-pawed friend Sarah. Living with Saar has been a well-needed blessing. Her cheekiness and unstoppable love helps me to thrive through life. Having a puppy is hard work. But once you see them grow up into (occasionally) well-behaved doggos, you finally start to appreciate all those times desperately crying "Sarah, high five!" while she just stares at you confused munching on a shoelace. These songs go out to mah birthday gal and to all those who can fool any fool into sharing their food with them! The following tunes represent all the different degrees of dedication any dog in existence should be showered with...

1. Love at first sight

Then I saw her face, now I'm a believer, not a trace of doubt in my mind

I'm in love! Although sung by the wrong kind of animal, The Monkees with I'm A Believer perfectly sums up how your world changes just by the sight of a wagging tail.

2. Stop. It's puppy time.

Hyperactive when I was small, hyperactive now I'm tall, hyperactive as the day is long

Those who have a four-pawed friend know: dogs can go C-R-A-Z-Y from time to time. Not only is it a perfect delight to see them chase their own tails for ten minutes, but butterflies will fly out of your belly when they finally catch it and then let it go again. Hyperactive! by Thomas Dolby goes without explanation...

3. Cures any disease just by existing

This house just ain't no home anytime she goes away

"Where's the dog?" must be the most frequently uttered question in our household. And when it's answered with "outside", "upstairs" or "not here" you can hear Bill Withers passionately sing Ain't No Sunshine until our happy-meal reappears again.

4. Pooped in my shoe? I LOVE U SO MUCH!

Oh you pretty things, don't you know you're driving your mamas and papas insane

If you ask me there are only pros to being a dog owner as long as you're not too attached to your stuff. Otherwise sing through gritted teeth Oh! You Pretty Things by David Bowie and slowly feel nothing but heart-eye-emoji for your new interior designer.

5. I would die for you

You're the one that runs through my veins, like a hurricane, you lift the hurt I felt before

Paloma Faith starts Freedom with the biggest question of all time: If you left me, how could I go on? And the answer is: you don't. So protect every smol bean as good as you can and give them an exttra treat, pat on the head and thank them simply for existing. 'Cause where would humanity be without dogs? Nowhere, I tell ya!

Are you a cat or a dog person? Let me know in the comments below!

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From rubbing my tongue against an avocado to finally getting that double bed, this summer-holiday really revolved around me, me, me. But not in a selfish way (well, a bit in a selfish way). Sometimes it's just better to close your eyes than to angrily stare at your own reflection, if you get what I mean. This includes taking a step back, *breathe in, breathe out*, and recollect yourself before diving into the second-half of yet another stressful year. But before shouting 'bring it on!' to your teacher/boss/lunch lady, take another deep breath and sadly but optimistically sing "summer dreams ripped at the seams but oh those summer nights". Who knows, you might see your Sandy sooner than later! This is what I've been up to this summer... ("tell me 'bout it, stud")

1. I wrote my name in an exhibition space

And it wasn't an act of vandalism! This August I worked on the exhibition Resist! Take A Stand In Fashion. The exhibition is a collaboration between the Open Space Contemporary Art Museum (OSCAM) and Modemuze. It features four photographers who've created new interpretations of museum collection pieces that translates the historic piece de résistance to today's fashionable battle field. Think scandalous swimwear, radical rainbows and unique uniforms. Every photographer teamed up with a Modemuze-blogger and a Modemuze-editor (c'est moi!) who've written alongside the photos a blogpost/exhibition text. Although this exhibition was pulled together in a very short time, it really radiates the care, passion and personality everyone poured into it. This was my first time working on an exhibition from scratch and although my involvement was but-small, I learned two big things: 1) Good things do come to those who put themselves out there and 2) when you're open to change you'll be able to create something that's beyond everybody's expectations. Which is, like, ten times cooler than your initial idea.

You can see Resist! Take A Stand In Fashion until the 30th of September at OSCAM, Bijlmerdreef 1289, Amsterdam (free entry!).

2. I became a yogi

For years I said to myself, my mum, my sister, my dog, the train conducter and random strangers walking down the street: "I really should start doing yoga". And then I didn't. However things will find their way to you when you're ready to take the challenge. And this summer, after feeling out of balance and simply fed-up with myself, I was finally ready to *spit in hand and shake*. So I got myself a cheap mat, put on a sports bra and started wiggling my toes in 30+ degrees. Perhaps a ridiculously hot heat wave (we hit 38 degrees!!!) isn't the best time to start stretching a very unstretched body but, ya know, when you're going to sweat why not make it a productive sweat... Although I'm no real yogi yet, I've already learned and grown so much thanks to taking the time to work on my body/mind/soul/energy/life/stretchiness on a daily basis. I mean, I can now touch my toes! I also feel so much better in my skin and am trying to live a better life, be more mindful AND I CAN TOUCH MY TOES. My toes. I can touch them. #toetouching #touchmytoes #totoeornottotoe

3. I (almost) decluttered my room

When I was fourteen years old I couldn't sleep when a pen wasn't neatly outlined on my desk. However with the years I got over the crooked pen. And the pile of about-to-fall-over books. And the never ending accumulation of useless knick knacks taking up crucial shelf space. And the 'one day I will definitely need this' I-will-never-need-this sh*t conveniently placed next to my bed. And the outfit of yesterday, the day before yesterday and the day before that lying on my floor looking like the remainings of a beamed-up teen-trio now living their best lives flying through the galaxy on the run from their alien abductors while fighting bad guys and solving crimes... You get the image. Instead of pen-insomnia I convinced myself I was responsible for archiving anything and everything my sticky fingers touched. Turns out: I'm not. What a relieve! So these past couple of weeks I finally sat down and went through my piles of stuff, stuff and, guess what, some more stuff. Although my room still looks like a whirlwind has gotten the better of it, we're getting there...

What fun and inspiring things have you done this summer? Let me know in the comments below!

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I'ts the 25th of June 2018. The sky is grey and clouded but the sun shines. I think this type of weather can best be summed up as a wrestle match: on the one side it's too hot to wear a jumper but on the other side it's too cold not to. So you constantly have to fiddle around -arm in, arm out- until you give up and sit around helplessly, with one arm in, one out. Or worse your jumper has turned itself into a smothering hump around your neck, and god knows where the arms are now.

So I'm sitting around helplessly, trying to find the arms of my jumper so I can fiddle it into another position and, while I'm fiddling, I amuse myself thinking about how I could possibly turn this into a blogpost. Because although I write flares of possible blogposts in my notebook daily, I recently find it more and more impossible to turn those flares into fire. My mum says this is because I take everything too seriously, to which I snort and definsively say "no, no, no, no". But perhaps she's right. Question mark.

On a roll

The other day I aimlessly browsed Twitter when I stumbled upon a tweet that proudly exclaimed: 'Just scheduled blogposts up to February 2019! I'm on a roll!', or something among those lines (I'm quite sure 'I'm on a roll' wasn't in fact included as that doesn't sound very internetsy). After staring at it for some time, I scrolled further and spend many precious minutes looking at cute dog pictures. However that tweet burned a hole in my (sub)conscious and, like a cigarette burn, when I came close I still caught a whiff of its implications. What to make of this?

That tweet bothers me, I think, because it represents everything I do not do. It shows consistency and a certainty in that what one produces. A preconceived knowledge on what is good and whether that goodness will still exist when its consumption is postponed. I think I write more in the moment, therefore making the goodness or pleasure of its consumption also momentarily. For me at least. Like the jumper around my neck, of which I have now found the left (or right, not quite sure) arm, I'm -what feels like- forever struggling to manage its position. Never sure how the fabric acts in relation to my body temperature. Never sure where my blogpost lives within the blogosphere.

Secret admirer

I find it almost unthinkable to be as organised and as sure of my blogposts to reach out to a new year already. Is that what they call evergreen content? Content that is shareable whenever, wherever, as it rings true from start to finish regardless of change within the world or within yourself. All I can think of is the potential choking hazard; there's just so much fabric you can fiddle one way before turning blue.

And still I secretly admire and wonder how I could become that tweet. How that tweet could be typed by my fingers, send by my thumb and seen by my eyes knowing I've accomplished such a thing. Taking a step back: I look from my flared nonsensical notes to my last blogpost published almost a month ago to my scheduled posts of exactly none. I start to sweat. Also, admittedly, because the jumper is now half-fumbled over my head, half stuck underneath my chin.


As if having a fever dream, I see my mothers lips part and move in slow motion: 'you take everything too seriously'. But perhaps I'm not taking things serious enough, mum! While I'm in the middle of wrestle-mania, others are singing happy new year in -I imagine- classy 1980s business suits, twirling their moustaches, looking down at us mere June 2018 bloggers. While they are heartedly laughing at the future, I'm knees deep in the present with the rest of me stuck in the past. Even when my jumper finally pops over my head and I'm freed from its tight grip, I'm reminded of this never ending cycle, as I hastily throw the jumper back on (it's getting rather chilly again) and count myself lucky if I even make it to the 26th.

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Call Me By Your Name (CMBYN) probably hasn't slipped your radar. The 2017 film starring Timothée Chalamet and Armie Hammer was up for an Oscar and, as it explores a 'controversial topic' (a same-sex age-gapped relationship #saywhaaaat), everyone had a tweet ready to state their subsequent feelings; outrage, confusion and/or share their plans to permanently move to Italy. I mean, regardless of anyone's opinion on the film, I think we can all agree that the Italy in CMBYN is the kind of Italy no one minds to spend a lazy summer's day at (even without a wild Hammer or Chalamet frolicking around).

I recently took it upon myself to watch this highly acclaimed film and, before I go any further, please put your torches down and give me a chance to explain myself: I didn't love it. *takes a deep breath* Although I acknowledge the phenomenal acting (that last scene where Chalamet's character just sits crying in front of the fireplace... literal chills) and the undeniable tension of -I guess- desire eerily lingering through every scene, I just couldn't seem to actually enjoy it. Every quick flirting gaze from them was met with a stoic frown from me. Admittedly it already had quite an upheaval to overcome: my default *rolling eyes* for romantic movies (it's me, not you).

Take a deep breath

I think the main thing that 'irked' me about CMBYN is the lesser debated but-still-as-significant-as the peach scene, the sniffing trunks scene. I've mentally filled that scene as one of the most uncomfortable things I've ever watched. Which, indeed, illustrates I haven't seen much yet as well as my inability to fathom how crotch sniffing could install deep emotions that apparently thickens the plot for love and communicates this longing and beginning of romance to the audience. My mind just goes to farts. Sniffing all the farts. *takes a deep breath*

As illustrated by this scene, I think the film focusses more on physical attraction instead of investing in emotional bonding, while it tries to convince you it's an emotional rollercoaster; making fart sniffing substitute actual togetherness. And although the by-now famous speech by Chalamet's on-screen dad (played by Michael Stuhlbarg) made me tear-up, it didn't reflect the relationship I just witnessed. I'd say their togetherness was much more based on physicality instead of soulmating and is rather an exhibition of attraction than of connection. I mean, do they ever really have a proper conversation with one another? But perhaps that's just me not picking up on that what's said in between the dialogue (or, let's be honest, the lavish staring, dramatic sighing and frustrated pouting).

But-two-lovers

However I want to love CMBYN, if only to guilt-free enjoy compilations of funny press junket moments on Youtube. TURMOIL! I started doubting my inner film critic and decided to put my senses to the test: why not watch the complete opposite of CMBYN? Then, as if a sign of a higher almighty, the Avengers: Infinity War trailer popped up. "Perfect!", I exclaimed. From small, intimate, but-two-lovers to big, brash, more-than-you-can-count-on-two-hands galaxy-destroyers *ahum* I mean, galaxy-good-doers. I failed at this point, as I was too busy admiring my own resourcefulness, to foresee the implications that comes with this decision. I soon discovered that it's called the Marvel Cinematic Universe for a reason...

As I was scanning the endless list of Marvel movies, I promised myself to watch as many as possible and read up on the rest so I at least could recognise the actor/character gracing the big screen and had a faint idea about his/her/its arc. I've eventually managed to squeeze in six Marvel Movies into my busy schedule out of the ridiculous EIGHTEEN leading up to Infinity War. And it was a good thing I did, because when the movie begins it begins. No time for hinting, reminding, explaining or subtlety. This is a movie for those who know and for those who are charmed by the fantastical fanfare of screaming-on-top-of-your-lungs Americanism that runs like stars-and-stripes through every dialogue (or, let's be honest, action sequence).

Cold, cold heart

So there I went to our local cinema, accompanied by my sister, a daughter/father duo, a lone wolf and a group of what must be the most annoying twelve year old girls I've ever come across ever. I know to them I must seem like an ancient relic and I know I'm a bit old-fashioned when it comes to 'how to behave in public space', but the behaviour put on display before, during and after the movie by these youngsters just violently made long grey hair pop out of my skull while my eyes twitched and my finger, shakingly, pointed towards them huffing and puffing underneath my breath "be damned you disrespecting, foul speaking, LOUD speaking, dumb giggling, climbing over one another, mobile phone users! I'm trying to watch a movie wherein basically every single one dies! How. dare. you. Honestly! Show some respect to the movie dead!"

Although, admittedly, these monsters stirred more in me than all those biting the dust on screen. Even when my personal fave, after a in-my-opinion too short cameo, was pulverised into nothingness, I simply shrugged. And in that exact moment I realised I'm not cold-hearted (as was my conclusion for my indifference towards CMBYN), I don't have a heart to begin with! At this point we're not questioning my inner film critic, but my inability to feel anything at all. While they're dead on screen, I'm dead on the inside. Please check my pulse. *takes a deep breath*


CMBYN and Avengers: Infinity War are probaby indeed the complete opposite of one another; although, if you must believe Tumblr, there's much more going on underneath the initial heteronormative reading of the Marvel bunch. And perhaps they aren't really comparable without a hybrid version to mediate, the Malcolm in the middle if you like, to really see how the sensibility and finesse of the one can be appreciated in contrast/combination of the flashing lights of the other. Because it's undeniably an art to stage and capture disruption through stillness and action in such elaborate ways both movies respectively have done. And who knows, maybe it can revive this ol' corpse from a pile of moldy peaches and the ash of former heroes. *anxiously checks pulls again*  

Have you seen CMBYN and/or Avengers: Infinity War? Do you have any recommendations for a Malcolm in the middle film that you think mediates 'best of both worlds'? (Or a movie you've recently enjoyed watching?).

"Arms. Some got them, others want them. They come in all shapes and sizes. But these...", I hesitate and take a step forward, "...these are ridiculously small. No. Inhumanly small. There's no way someone could (voluntarily) squeeze their flesh through these tunnels." I'm standing, slightly leaned forward, in the Jan Taminiau Reflections exhibition at the Centraal Museum. In front of me hangs -what is meant to be- a sleeve perfectly still, attached to a dress embellished from head-to-toe in glass beads. It is not particularly only this dress with alien sleeves attached to it that's caught my eye. As I straighten my back and somewhat confusedly glance through the exhibition space, I can see a trend coming. Narrow sleeves, alienating narrow sleeves everywhere.

Although I've never particularly been a fan of my arms (they are arms, what do you want from them?), I suddenly become very aware of all the flesh I potentially have to push down through the minimal pieces of fabric that is the sleeve in front of me. A horror image appears in my head of seams bursting in slow-motion and glass beads, sewn on by some poor intern, in waves falling to the ground. Leaving us with an echoing sound of clatter and disappointment.

Miss Marple Mode

As I was attending the opening of the exhibition and irgendwie irgendwann irgendwo a wild Taminiau was walking around -I imagine proudly, slightly tipsy- looking over us mere human-armed peasants, I could've potentially asked the master himself why he again-and-again chooses these sleeves instead of normal un-narrow human-like sleeves. However we all know I'm not worthy enough to question the work of the master. So instead of bothering him with my doubts and fears, I decided to investigate this issue by myself. Weaponed with deductive skills picked up from watching every Agatha Christie adaption (except for the 2017 Murder On The Orient Express movie as I'm still bracing myself for that AWFUL moustache), I further ventured into the exhibition space trying to find the motive behind the narrow sleeve. #activateMissMarpleMode

Jan Taminiau -for those unfamiliar with these particular syllables- is a famous Dutch fashion designer best known for dressing the queen, but he has also dressed the likes such as Lady Gaga and Rihanna. This exhibition is meant as an overview and insiders look into Taminiau's work. Especially the different kinds and patterns of embroidery he develops in his lab is highlighted. The pieces on display are mainly (narrow-sleeved) dresses and, if I'm being frank, you basically see everything you need to know about his repertoire in the first room and this vision only gets repeated in different spheres, fabrics and glass beads in the rooms that follow. This is however not to say that the other rooms are unnecessary.

Whodunit?!

Although generally a whodunit plot is driven by finding out the who and why, I'm afraid the who is rather obvious and the why is some made-up excuse like 'because of aesthetics' or 'because it's my signature style'. Basically not that interesting. So instead I focused on the how: as we're dealing with a serial sleeve killer, I wondered if my worst fear -flesh seeping out of bursting seams- could come true. Now I was going to rob a mannequin of her dress and test-drive it right there and then, but the guard kept giving me funny looks and I chickened out. So I had to solidly rely on my observational skills. Just picture me creeping through the exhibition with an imaginary magnifying glass inspecting every sleeve while Can't Touch This by MC Hammer plays in the background.

One by one I inspected every sleeve that came my way once, twice and sometimes even three times until I found the one that possibly contains the answer to all my questions. "A concealed zipper!", I enthusiastically yell to no one in particularly (though I was once again treated with funny eyes from the guard). Unfortunately these are the only narrow sleeves I spotted with a concealed zipper to safely confine and keep the flesh in place. However on my way home I came up with three theories that might support the intrinsicality of the other sleeves: concealed concealed zippers, ALIENS (or models who have significantly thinner arms than me) and the plausible possibility that the other sleeves are sewn close when tried on by a model. As these type of clothing aren't worn on a day-to-day basis (it basically gets lucky when it touches the skin of a human being once in its lifetime), it could be that the narrow sleeves are made on measure when modelled. Sew me up Scotty!



You can see the exhibition Jan Taminiau Reflections at the Centraal Museum Utrecht until 26 August 2018. If you do visit, please check the sleeves and report back on your findings. We will crack this mystery and catch the serial sleeve killer together!

As human beings we continuously grow into our [metaphorical] skin. This skin is shrunken and stretched, trying to make it fit our guiding ideology. Although most of the literal shrinking and stretching is based on biology, there's a handful of social and cultural aspects that don't mind giving a hand. Especially 'teenagehood' presents an important period of transition, which in particular opens the road to self-exploration; which comes with its very own aesthetic. An aesthetic that can be as cliché as it sounds.

My teenage years were mainly spend dressed in black (with the occasional strong desire to go full Lolita). Or as my aunt said, I was going through my 'black period'. Turning to my mother as she saw me in head-to-toe black with my hair covering 2/3 of my face: "Oh I see, she's going through her black period." Then dramatically pausing with a sympathetic frown on her face, continuing in a reassuring voice how 'both my cousins went through a black period' and how 'both of them eventually grew out of it'. To which, as can be expected, I angrily stamped my feet stating with the brain capacity of a vain teenager that "this isn't just a phase, this is who I really am." Obviously it was just a phase.

My resume? Black wearer, James Dean discoverer... the usual

As my fellow-teens in the neighbourhood decided that black wasn't their colour, I began to look for a representational being that captivated the essentials of my teen experience. Like most teenagers I eventually uncovered the not-so-well-hidden secret of James Dean: our very own cultural icon of teenage disillusionment and social estrangement (or so Wikipedia claims). And as I was the only black-wearer/James-Dean-discoverer I could relate to, I soon forged the idea I was 'the chosen one' to carry this secret.

Although James Dean is remembered as a vivid red-jacket kinda guy, his legacy as a rebel keeps attracting black-wearers or otherwise self-implied 'edgy' youngsters all over the world. With only three films to his name and the tragic age of 24 forever beaming in neon lights above his head, James 'Jimmy' Dean is the perfect candidate to bestow our dreams upon his facade; either to be debunked or underscored after stalking his image on the internet. Although my Jimmy-days lay long behind me, I began 2018 with reading a biography on him. I bought this biography many light years ago but unfortunately never came round reading it as I was too busy internet-stalking and shrine-building, sighing to myself "no one understands me".

Dream facade

The biography James Dean, Little Boy Lost is written by Joe Hyams. Hyams is no stranger as biographer of Hollywood stars, however as someone who knew James Dean personally he was a bit more reluctant to write down the roller coaster ride of his friend. So he took his time and published this biography 37 years after Dean's death. In the preface of the book Hyams concludes that Dean's seemingly splintered character created unique relationships with the people who knew him. He was never the same person twice. And so as there's no coherent picture of him to represent. This is noticeable throughout the book and the main thing that keeps the story together is the ongoing fascination of 'James Dean' as the ultimate "no one understands me" token.

For someone who's rummaged every corner of the internet, Hyam doesn't reveal any shocking or new insights into the life and death of James Dean. It's nice though to get a more personal account on 'the good ol' days' and how Hyam experienced it in combination with what in hindsight was going on outside of his knowledge. I think the best way to sum up the sentiment of this book is through the 2007 summer hit Fascination by Danish pop band Alphabeat. Not only because they repeat the word fascination a thousand times which is what's keeping the James Dean brand alive. But also because it lingers on unexplained entitlement ('it's just the way we feel') and a glorification of youthfulness dipped in a sinister upbeat tempo. Also who doesn't immediately think of Rebel Without a Cause when they grinningly sing: 'Passion is our passion, in the moonlight on a joyride, easy living killed the young dudes in the high boots'. Also kudos to them for rhyming 'passion' with 'passion' and 'dudes' with 'boots'... #poetry

Did you rock the black period look when you were a teen? And why do you think James Dean still speaks to disillusioned youngsters?

Last year Modemuze -the online platform for Dutch fashion and costume heritage- organised an exhibition at the OBA and this year we're back! In correspondence with the theme of the ICOM Costume meeting 2018, anything and everything that's got to do with fashion and innovation will be on display. Together with a fun packed programme of which a few events I'll be your (terrified) host. *immediately starts to panic sweat*

Last year as 'the intern' at both Modemuze and one of their fifteen partners, I had the privilege experiencing all the different stages of building the exhibition and subsequently knew all the in's and out's of what was on display (as I put it there myself). This time however I was kept in the dark. Although, admittedly, I was one of the first people to see the marvellous campaign image by Carin Verbruggen and Ferry Drenthem Soesman. But nothing more than that. So when the exhibition was officially opened last Thursday, I was in for a surprise.

Layers of innovation

The 21st century is self-consciously an age of change and innovation, led by the so-manieth Apple-whatever, Facebook-scandal and Twitter-rant. Innovation however isn't always electronic or left to digital nothingness programmed by angry teenagers. It can be as big as the Industrial Revolution and as small as a simple popper; changing how we go through life and more importantly what we wear when staring directly into our webcam asking the FBI-agent on the other side if they know when your cousins birthday is. Thanks Tom!

As you can imagine, the words 'innovation' and 'museum' aren't often paired together. And even though I believe that museums have come a long way since the late 18th/early 19th century and (re)innovated themselves as reflections of the present instead of the greatest misconeption ever representing the unchanged past, not everyone sees it this way. Just looking at the frowned faces of my fellow-students, dramatically sighing and rolling their eyes as I once again stutter the word 'museum' in whatever context, following their misbehaviour up with a proud exclaim of "I never go to a museum" as if it's a badge of honour that physically fights the patriarchy. Yes, museums are undeniably a space for conservative old white men with an expensive hobby, but perhaps that's why it's even more important to show up and actively demonstrate that their unchallenged reign is over and therewith open up all the unexplored notions of what a museum could be. ANYWAY...

Challenging change

Although museums are perceived as dusty ol' patriarchal practitioners, there are currently many amendments made to this idea. As the Modemuze@OBA exhibition showcases, there are multiple developments -how banal it sometimes may seem- that got us where we are now. And it's thanks to these kinds of displays that show us these unnoticed layers underneath our imposed normative mobile-phone-driven existence. Museums, with all the 'useless' and 'boring' stuff they've gathered, can show just that. Poking through the seemingly fixed idea of the past, the present and the future as the notion of innovation changes with time. Just think again about the brilliance of a popper and how underappreciated its innovativeness is compared to the newest Iphone. #justiceforpoppers

The exhibition is similarly build-up as last year. When entering the space you're greeted with the campaign image and a brief introduction of what to expect. Because the space is on the small side, there's unfortunately no room for rotating mannequins doing cartwheels, however there IS room for fifteen museums and four private collectors to show off pieces of their extensive collection that in some way is innovative. This can literally go from a wrestling mask to glow-in-the-dark thread and my personal favourite: a two-in-one costume of the caterpillar on the mushroom from the 1976 production of Alice in Wonderland. This costume is what nightmares are made of.


Modemuze@OBA: Innovation will be at the OBA (Oosterdokskade 143, the one next to Amsterdam Cental Station) until 2 September 2018. As said at the beginning of this post, within the exhibition space multiple events will be held. You can find the whole programme on Modemuze and Facebook. Let me know if I'll see you there!

I was standing in the kitchen. A deep sigh escaped my mouth as I eagerly tried to open a biscuit package. As I was struggling to defy the powers of the cookie container -ya know, thousands of layers of plastic 'cause environment who?- I angrily murmured to myself "of course it won't f*cking open". I, now agressively, tried in an animalistic manner to tear the layers of plastic from my biscuit delight. As I put pressure on the surface, a piece of plastic suddenly rips off and in slow-motion I can see all my hopes and dreams crush on the floor.

I pick up the package, with an insignificant amount of plastic still clutched in my hand (because of f*cking course it didn't actually rip it open) and inhale all the air around me in preparation for the most magnificent scream the neighbours must have heard in years. Too dramatic? Well, tell that to me seconds later as I suddenly, effortlessly lay open the thousands of layers of plastic and am eagerly munching on crumbs trying to hold back tears.

The broken biscuit syndrome

This emotional outburst is naturally not a stand-alone case. Not being able to open a package doesn't normally make me that eyes-wide-open screaming-on-top-of-my-lungs. It's an accumulation of things that are going wrong or aren't what I expected them to be that makes me almost burst into tears when defeated by a lump of plastic keeping me from that one thing that might sooth the pain. This sudden misplaced feeling all the feels is called 'the broken biscuit syndrome'.

The broken biscuit syndrome is a psychological phenomenon in children (and I like to argue adults) where the setback of, say, a biscuit that breaks, can be the last straw that makes you momentarily loose all sense. This is because 'we' long for control over our environment and a broken biscuit portrays the somanieth lack of this control. Another way the biscuit syndrome works, when looking specifically at the biscuit-breaking-based part of it, is the idea of wholeness that matters to the crumbled victim. Which is something you can find in perfectionists or those who find comfort in repetitiveness or rituals. *raise your hand if you've been personally victimised by a broken biscuit*

Beating the biscuit

My great great grandmother, grandma Gouwerok, owned a biscuit factory (producing among other things spiced biscuits for famous Dutch company Verkade). When my grandmother was about 14 or 15 years old she was sent to work there with the logic that when she knew how biscuits were made or was surrounded by biscuits all day, she would finally stop snacking 24/7. Grandma was put on plate duty, removing the biscuits from the plate through beating with a hammer on it so the biscuits come loose. Grandma Gouwerok told my grandmother that she was allowed to eat every broken biscuit along the way. Do you see where this story is going?

Grandma, not satisfied with the ratio biscuits and broken biscuits, decided to take matters into her own hands and purposefully smash any biscuit that came her way. This lasted less than a week and before grandma Gouwerok was robbed of all her biscuits grandma was 'fired'. The moral of the story, besides that my grandmother had a black hole in her stomach, is that a broken biscuit stand for loosing control, however when breaking a biscuit you take matters into your own hands. Naturally we can't always go through life swinging a hammer in front of us. Sometimes the overwhelming randomness of existence happily swoops the hammer from your grasp and break the biscuit for you. But, after shedding some tears, taking that what's broken and turn it into our own advances is something perhaps 'we' biscuit mourners should take more often into account when licking our crumbs. Because even though it feels like it, a broken biscuit isn't the end of the world.

Skincare routine? More like *tumble weed* amiright?! Skincare routines, or so I thought, belonged to people who had their sh*t together. And thus, as someone who clearly had NOT her sh*t together, I waved every aspect of it away and left it for what I perceived it to be: just another scam to get me buy useless lotions and potions to display on my dresser and gather dust until it starts to 'smell funny'.

I decided that the bare necessities were good enough for my potato peel. You know, a bit of moisturiser here 'n' there when your skin starts to flake of your skull and using a random Lush face mask once every decade until you realise its waaaaaay past its expiration date and you cross your heart, hope NOT to die. Meanwhile I comforted myself with the thought that any day from now nature would kick in, do its thing and everyone would live happily ever after.

More damage than good

However slowly but steady I realised what I was doing -or rather: what I wasn't doing- did more damage than good. "WHY", I asked myself dramatically while examining my dry, flaky but also sometimes greasy, spot prone skin, "am I not blessed with a squeaky clean marble surface?". Till this day the answer stays unknown but, as it turns out, nature doesn't mind a lotion or potion or two (or more) to stimulate its miracles.

And so my quest for marble started. Naturally rubbing whatever onto your skin, crossing your fingers and hoping for the best doesn't cut it. There are so many other factors like what you eat, drink, how you sleep or stress about everything, that influences whether your skin resembles a rotting shrimp or a Greek statue. However besides the general advices of eating your greens, drinking enough water and practising mindfulness, there's still enough to be said about rubbing some mixture onto your skin and a few hail marys to proceed the process.

Lotions and potions

The past couple of weeks I ventured out into the world (wide web) and searched for products suitable for my sensitive, mixed but generally dry skin. And *touch wood* at the moment my skin indeed has cleared up tremendously using the products I've selected. So here goes nothing...

Morning routine

I wake up in the morning feeling like P. Diddy, splash my face with some water and hit 'the city' with The Body Shop's Aloe Soothing Day Cream. It's a light formulated moisturiser, suitable for vegans (v) and fragrance-, colour-, preservatives- and alcohol free. It's perfect to wear under your make-up as it's quickly taken up by the skin and doesn't leave it feeling greasy. And that's it! Only a bit of Lush's Ultrabalm (v) on the lips and 'problem areas' and the morning routine is in the bag; besides, you know, a quick grab and go make-up panic. And don't get me started on the desperate wardrobe dance...

Evening routine

I first clean my face with Ultrabland from Lush, the only cleanser I've tried so far that doesn't leave my skin feel like a trampled sand castle. Then I clumsily try to apply The Body Shop's Tea Tree Anti-Imperfections Daily Solution (v). It's advised to use it twice a day, but my skin ain't having it that frequently. I highly recommend it though to anyone who wants to deal with their blackheads, but will warn that it's thus a pain to apply and quite strong stuff (don't take a sniff straight from the bottle or you'll start hearing colours and seeing sounds).

To top it all off I use Lush's Celestial moisturiser (v). I've been using this moisturiser on and off since 2016. I love it but the formula is rather greasy and made my make-up melt before I even put it on, so I skipped it in the morning. Which made me skip it in the evening, which made me forget about it, which made me -eventually- flake to the bone. But we've made commends now and it works magic as a night cream.

Special additions

Besides these daily wonders I also use The Body Shop's Aloe Soothing Cream Mask twice a week. It literally works while you're asleep. Therefore it's a perfect match with all us busy/lazy people who like the idea of putting our feet in the air, cucumber slices on our eyelids, trying to not scratch our nose, but always find they're running out of time (watching the so-manieth Sebastian Stan and Anthony Mackie funny moments compilation on Youtube).

HAVING SAID THAT I took this moment of skincare-revelation to further experiment and try out a Lush mask hoping the Tea Tree fumes inspired some brain cells to get their act together. I went with the Mask of Magnaminty which, as the name suggests, is very minty. Its smell will prevent an upcoming cold and its substances will get rid of dead skin, spots and other unwanted blemishes. Highly recommend!


Compared to many other skincare routines, mine is a bit meagre. However this is no 'who can smear, rub and scrub the most' competition. And I think we can all agree that for someone who did next to nada, this already is a HUGE improvement. My skin looks so much more healthier and -dare I say it- happier. *looks into mirror and does finger guns*

Do you have a skincare routine? If yes: Which product do you mourn when you scoop up its last remainings and you're faced with the abyss of an empty container knowing it'll take at least a day before you can replace it? For me it must be Ultrabalm, that stuff is tha multifunctional bomb.

Fire all confetti canons and throw glitter in the air, 'cause Fashioned by Pluche is five years old today! Yes FbP was actually established in April 2013, but it took me a whole month before I gathered the nerves to post something. Since then we haven't been unfamiliar to that eerily ghost-town feeling, every once in a while interrupted by a head arising from a mountain of blankets holding a finger against its lips. However I still like to think all the nerves summoned when publishing that first post wasn't for nothing. At the very least I can say that this blog has helped me overcome my fear of filling squeaky clean notebooks with haunting 'possible blogposts' (if only they would hunt your screen...).

Generally I don't like *coughs* HATE *coughs* birthdays, but I've been looking forward to this one ever since I thought my five year anniversary was last year (13+5 is harder than you think, okay?!). I even bought a balloon, I don't get a balloon for my own birthday. So to celebrate this time turning event in true Fashioned by Pluche style, I've compiled the perfect playlist for party poopers. You can listen to it on your own, alone, at home, perhaps lying faced-down on your bed. Or standing in the middle of a meadow with your hands in the air, gently swaying your hips from side-to-side, religiously mouthing every word and melancholically sighing your way through the instrumental bits.

Happy birthday Fashioned by Pluche! *confetti canon finally, suddenly fires after struggling with it this whole post long*

By now it must be no surprise if I suddenly disappear from here for a week, a month or more. And as always I've got enough reasons for being MIA. Again. But to shortly sum it up for you, it generally boils down to this: 1) life is life, 2) once life is life you start to fantasise and build castles in the sky and then 3) you become either overwhelmed or unbothered by the shadows of those castles gazing over you and instead of laying bricks, you knit a jumper.

The initial draft of this I'm-not-dead-yet post, or, as I named it 'New Blog, Who Dis? 3 Things I'm Changing RIGHT NOW' (hell yeah I've become fluent in blog title *high fives*), consisted out of a lot of blah blah nicely wrapped in empty promises. Empty promises, so I discovered throug reading this blogpost by Golly Miss Holly on being a half-arsed blogger. Moral of the story: you're only going to get out of blogging what you put into it. So if your blogging-attitude includes the phrases 'oh well', 'I will do that later' and 'whatever', welcome to the half-arsed club we are happy to have you! And so, after realising all this, I started knitting another jumper.

What I've been up to

And now, while knitting before-mentioned jumper, I'm seeing a pattern of half-arsedness throughout my life and am thus finally anxiously scribbling down these words in the hope a fulfilled blogpost will fall from the sky. So while Fiyero is dancing through life, I'm half-arsing through mine (name that reference). Not in the sense that I hardly put any effort into 'living the dream', but more in the sense that the dream never turns out the way it was pitched in my head. Case in point:

These past couple of weeks I've had the pleasure of tagging along with the Modemuze-gang to three special occasions: a night opening of the exhibition High Society at the Rijksmuseum, a curators meeting at the Master Tailor Institute (special because we editors normally don't get to sit-in on the curators meeting and the headmaster would give a speech and show us around) and an opening of the Jan Taminiau Reflections exhibition at the Centraal Museum with Jan Taminiau.

This all sounds lovely, Dominique, how could you possibly half-arse any of this?

1. A humble beginning

Well, the Rijksmuseum promised all kinds of wonders during this night opening of High Society, from a lecture by Bianca 'famous fashion curator' du Mortier to personal guides and a live DJ. However they only managed to fulfill the DJ-part, which turned out to be a guy with a tablet and a Spotify playlist. Now I know this is more life-being-life than half-arsing from my side, but Modemuze being Modemuze aka existing out of fashionable intelligent people, I was provided with an off the cuff personal guide through the exhibition with all kinds of specialist knowledge on pantless gentlemen and how ruffs eventually became ties. Something my have-you-ever-heard-about-Coco-Chanel knowledge wasn't up against.

Half-arsing 1, building castles 0.

2. Lost in Amsterdam

As said, I was headed to an 'exclusive' meeting at the Master Tailor Institute, which is located in Amsterdam-West. I know sort of my way around the city centre and East, but West is complete new territory to me... I can only say that now more than ever I can truly appreciate the privileges of the 21st century: I ended up taking directions from my sister through the phone as she tracked me down on Google Maps and, literally, guided me step-by-step into the right direction after I helplessly circled around for over an hour.

In fact I got so lost that I ended up in that part of Amsterdam where local residents start beating up their local junkie for always making a mess and enough is enough! #truestory Just imagine me tiptoeing around them on my kitten heels with a chihuahua clenched underneath my armpit in a mini designer bag saying "excuse me, excuse me, I'm on my way to a very important fashion meeting". It wasn't actually like that but sure felt like it.

Half-arsing 2, building castles 0.

3. It's getting hot in here

Everything went according to plan. I was having a nice time with some of my Modemuze-colleagues at the grand opening of Jan Taminiau Reflections at Centraal Museum. After some speeches and visiting the exhibition we casually strolled to the garden for some chitchats. Yes it was 30+ degrees (which is highly absurd) and yes I, a creature of the shadows, was standing in direct sunlight, but I wasn't prepared to act upon bodily dysfunctions and thus happily waved away any unusual symptoms like distorted vision and hearing. You've guessed it: I almost went flat-faced but luckily I could just in time, not so gracefully, settle my arse down on the grass while all the semi-famous museum and fashion insiders stood around me mildly entertaining each other with insignificant small talk and bubbles (shout out to Sterre who handled the situation perfectly and got me back on my feet).

Anyway I felt very embarrassed. More so than walking into a drugs-fight like the lost innocent Barbie-doll that I secretly am. Which brings the score to half-arsing 3, building castles 0.


I'm afraid if I spend any more time with my head in the clouds instead of my feet on the ground things could end up seriously awry. So although I'm not going to fill this place with empty promises (like how I from now on will post regularly), I will hereby at least plead to build more castles instead of living in its shadow. And act, d*mn it, act and not just sit back and knit a jumper. I'm not going to live the rest of my life undereducated, lost in space and flat-faced on the ground!

All content, photos, opinions, existential dread and bad jokes are mine unless stated otherwise. Blogposts that are sponsored or features a product that was send to me by some very lovely people will be disclosed as such within the blogpost. All pictures that aren't made by me (or my mum) will be credited as such. Do you see a picture that's yours and (not correctly) credited? Please get in touch and I'll have a stern word with me (and naturally change it according to your wishes).

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Fashioned by Pluche has been cruelty free since 2016 and cares about animal and human rights, the environment and continuously improving this rotating ball we call earth. #yolo

Fashioned by Pluche is a PR friendly place and open for collaborations, reviews or deep conversations about life. If you want to contact me for questions or business enquiries, you can email me at:


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Collaborations

Are you a fellow-blogger looking for some love? I'm always happy to virtually hug, exchange thought bubbles or moan about the weather ("isn't it awful" *rolls eyes*). So if you have any ideas for guest posts or fun collaborations, hit me up!

Hire me!

Besides this lil' blogging career I'm also *ahum* trying to *ahum* pave the way as an all-round writer. As it goes, I started from a young age writing -what the kids nowadays call- fanfiction and slowly worked my way up to the school newspaper (don't you worry, all fanfiction was savely locked away by then). Currently I'm co-editor and blogger at Modemuze. Modemuze is the online platform for fashion and costume heritage in the Netherlands, collaborating with fourteen museums as a source for all fashion lovers, professionals and fashionistas. Click here to read my blogposts.

So do you want me to write a blogpost, article or diary entry? No problemo! You can send an email or message me on Twitter or Instagram. Or shout really loudly. Though the success rate of the latter is dependend on the distance between you, the shouter, and me, the receiver of the shouts.

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