sleeeeep

Another week (a frigid one), another Lindz Lohan shoot that bears discussion.
So....okay. "Fashionart." I am continually guilty of that maybe-twee stringing words together approach to communication. That's not problematic to me (though it is an unaesthetic instance, containing, as it does, letters to form "shit" and "fart"). The clumsy bedding of fashion (a word--btw--that goes the way of "classy" more and more each day) and art for the sake of cash and noise seems a thing best left in this near-past decade. The two will meet always, but I think we ought to tread lightly for a while, get cautious and critical, dialogue rather than sign contracts (leave room for artists to be genuinely critical of the boundless market). And muses. Gawwd. I hate the very concept, antiquated, condescending to women (or rather, beautiful and/or eccentric persons).

The photographer's Page Six ramble ending in that supposed Lindz soundbite, "I want to make this iconic." ----

She is one of those figures whose very image is valuable, despite its wide availability. She has a whole life in pictures, daily pictures, tabloid pictures, pictures that contain sudden, instant, artless information (where she was and what she wore and what she was on and who she was with and what time it was and what her hair and nails looked like). She looks to us like a photograph. And really, the only iconic images (except these cuz duh) of Lindz are tabloid shots (ahem). She sells all kinds of magazines, an apt cover model, who does (unlike most actresses) know clothes and wear them well. But a set of dark, strange poses with a hazy "color story" about the 90s. Yawn.

She looks unwell (and that's not so glamorous as it has been [in say, 1995 or 2005]). En este momento, Lindz has this muscled thinness, a body that somehow signals struggle, not health. Wan, sad, raspy, a mad addict (and therefore *maybe* a kind of parasite, full of hunger and wiles and less and less luck). What a bummer.