It's gripe time. I just finished the June 2009 Harper's Bazaar (I know, I know - finals), and am pained by what I saw. To point out though, the Abbey Lee by Greg Kadel ed was the one saving grace. Abbey posed her ass off, it was gorge and sumptuous, and the curly mane was a great touch. "The Jonah Hills" was just horrifying. I recall a few years ago when Elle was obsessed with staging editorials "inspired" by pap shots, with even Steven Meisel giving it whirl in Italian Vogue, but that was then. Trucker hats and Ed Hardy anything have no place in Harper's Bazaar, no matter how hard they try to be "cheeky" in their presentation. And btw, Bazaar, they last time it was remotely appropriate for a fashion magazine to incorporate them was 2003.

Thanks for putting me off Jonah Hill, who I've always enjoyed. Were those douche-y "texts" for real? LA trash style aside, I can't say how over I am of Riley Keough as a model. She has no awareness of her body, she's short yet unsignificantly looking (and usually appears 5'4", particularly here), and unlike a real model, Keough relents the throwup outfits to wear her. And was she chosen to resemble Lindsay Lohan? Cuz the resemblance is creepy on p. 134. What a terrible way to show the divine Chanel Paris-Moscou pieces. To me, Ed Hardy should be kept out of the same room as Chanel. Lastly, what a strange choice to go with a Marie Claire-level photographer like Ben Watts...but then again, this was supposed to look as if caught by one lacking sophisticatioin or skill. I don't understand how Katie Mossman could go from the excellent Abbey Lee ed to the this. Ugh, Harper's Bazaar, what the hell were you thinking?

What is with the recent editoiral downturn of styling looks or accessories against crazy, cluttered, and obtrusive backdrops? What do these stylists and photogs have against pleasing the eye? I can absolutely appreciate ugly-beautiful, and images that credit clothes that you're unable to even make out, but they don't here. I'm speaking of the insane-print Steven Meisel ed from Vogue Italia Dec 2007 and even the May 2009 French Vogue ed. with Eva Herzigova by Walter Pfeiffer. I enjoyed it to a point, but couldn't linger too long on each page or my eyes would have crossed. In Bazaar's case, it was that gleamy accessories ed photographed by Robin Broadbent. The bags and jewelry were lost in a pool of metal pieces, and I couldn't risk blinding mysel trying to isolate the wares from the mess.

I'm only days away from the end of the last spring quarter of my college career. I didn't get the "social media network" internship, which is ok. I've had time to take Bruiser's (alias for my boyfriend) words to heart: Just because I don't land another internship doesn't mean that my summer won't be productive. This leaves me with a summer of opportunity that I can choose to seize or not. I really want to look back on all that was accomplished, and the fun had along with it in the summer of '09, so let this be my launching pad. I've accepted that a grand, ceremonious launch is out of the question if anything is to materialize, so here I go, one humble post at a time. I named this blog "Mag Pile-Up" because anyone who is very familiar with me and/or has seen my upkeep is astounded. A few are even impressed by my collector's devotion.

At twelve, I began with Vogue, July 1996. Amber Valletta in navy assymetrical Calvin, backdrop of the cleariest sky and framed overhead by a bright green font. I remember being stopped in my tracks. I had always been fascinated by the lucid world of high fashion and all the campy, glam trappings exposed to me on occasion since the early nineties. Just a year before, my father's Time arrived in the mail per usual, but I grabbed and snuck off with it immediately. It was one those few ever covers of Time that featured a model - Claudia Schiffer in a white Chanel tweed suit. As it happened, I was already the only member of the household who ever read the magazine, but this week's, I thought with excitement, was definitely meant only for me. My mother is the last woman to be found buying a woman's magazine, and I was routinely chided from pursuing "girly" interests like clothes or makeup, so I didn't grow up surrounded by fashion magazines. In fact, before buying that first issue with my fresh allowance money, I had never leafed through a Vogue, Elle, or Harper's Bazaar. Once I began, I became hooked.

The timing and vessel couldn't have been more perfect. This was the issue in which Katherine Betts profiled Marc, Galliano, Helmut, et al as the new generation of great designers in "Fashion's New Establishment." Everything I know, I learned after reading this article and drinking in the amazing accompanying Steven Meisel "portfolio." On a personal level, I will always regard those images as iconic: Kirsty Hume, Elsa Benitez, Christina Kruse, and the other girls laughing mid-trot in a fleet of white Gucci jersey and shirts unbuttoned to the navel. Turn the page and see them as Sicilian femme fatales lounging in curve-hugging tiger print and cherry print silk satin Dolce & Gabbana. Lastly, a co-ed gang arranged in Helmut Lang's assymetrical dresses and cargo pants. As a finale of the issue, Mario Testino's editorial captured Kirsty, Georgina, and Christina in fall's sexed-up military looks. Everything, from the casting, clothes, and the smoky bronze eyes to the mobile street scenes and spiral-pattern Prada tights was perfection. For a typically skinny July issue, this was the enriching introduction to my raison d'etre.