"Well, there are always those who cannot distinguish between glitter and glamour....the glamour of Isadora Duncan came from her great, torn, bewildered, foolhardy soul."
--Dorothy Parker
Well, well, look at those four none-too-friendly yet so very knowing, so very cool blue eyes.
I remember when New York City downtown glamour meant catching the glint off mean, pretty sapphires like these, as wild and rare as eyes glimpsed on safari, I suppose. (But we at Wit wouldn't know, preferring as we do the wildlife of American cities with their gorgeous human plumage and their wild rock and roll animal songs more than anything glimpsed through binoculars on the African veldt.)
If they still make them like this they're being carefully hidden from We of Wit. And haven't these two forgotten more than we'll ever know about what it means to be cool in New York City when New York City was still cool?
Unlike the rest of us, whose eyes are alluring highlights of some duller whole, the bodies above are just second-thought husks--hosts borrowed by a couple pair of astounding optical orbs. That kind of ocean-bottom aqua egg wears the rest of the body, asshole, and the exhausted flesh just does its blue bidding.
Ever seen a photo of Manhatta's hip downtown granddaddy Walt Whitman, childdrins of the Staircase? Well lean in close, closer: He wore these exact same gaslamplit turquoise eyeballs first, and I don't mean they're merely similar, I mean they're the same fucking pair of undead Lower East Side eyes!
Look how they hover, untethered to particular skulls, as if they are the midnight lanterns of Lower Manhattan when it didn't yet reach above Peter Stuyvesant's Bowery farm. Neither of these pale perfect downtown ovals would look out of place emerging from some eighteenth century four a.m. fog rolled recently in from the East River, would it?
But if you're out some late night and either face from the American Avant-Gothic above looks past you as if you were a already a revenant, don't despair. Remember, they only wear Manhattan's crown jewels for a short time. We must pardon them for gazing beyond us and into the indigo New York City night, where the undreamt-of blue-eyed bohemian future waits to be born.
Link: Marc Jacobs After-Party: Party Coverage on Style.com.
Filmmaker Vincent Gallo and Sonic Youth guitarist Kim Gordon, twin bohemian towers, as stately and significant as any fucking skyscraper, at a party this week in New York to celebrate Marc Jacobs' Spring 2007 collection.