Friday, February 4, 2011


there was this book called take ivy which was the subconscious touchstone for american apparel, and prep trends. now that the internet tells us everything, we can all be like, "oh damn!" it all stemmed from this. the book is really beautiful and it plays to my love of dusty washed out colors and vintage typeface. it reminds me of new england and being miserable while surrounded by so much beautiful architecture and landscaping. it reminds me of wearing a uniform in high school and how strange I think lifestyle/fashion books are. I think because they give these gentle prompts with clothing, and setting, and i just project the rest. like what those people do when they're not in the photo, where they hangout, what movies they like. i attribute all these qualities to their life like i'm coloring in the negative space around the photo. i try and pretend it's real, because it's more interesting that way and that's what they are leading me to anyway.
the book was reprinted a few months ago, and i found this on someone's blog:

I took the fucking Ivy.

Standing on my hardwood floor.

Pennys with no socks (natch).

POV shot.

This shit is straight porno.

I’m a fucking cinemotagrapher.

Who the fuck are you?

I’m Trad in a toaster.

Fucking crispy.

Glad Powerhouse re-published.

I only buy Made in the fucking USA.

Got this shit fucking pre-order.

Haven’t even opened the book.

I fucking been had the scans.

In photo class at my liberal arts college.

Name dropped T. Hayashidy.

Prof had no fucking clue.

So not Ivy.

Ivy is not one of eight prestigious unversities.

Ivy is not Madison Avenue.

Ivy is not Brooks Brothers.

Ivy is not modern Jazz.

Ivy is my BA in clownin’ on bitches.

Ivy is my crotch out of focus.

Ivy is standing in my iced out apartment.

Steezying for my followers.

I took the fucking Ivy.

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