MANILA, Philippines - At the risk of making myself sound like a pre-historic fossil, I grew up at a time when blogging bore little to no prestige. Back then, it was simply a lot of frustrated writers (many of whom are still around, don’t get me wrong). Having a blog didn’t necessarily indicate an interest in anything; more like a disinterest in handwriting your own emotions and wanting some sort of audience waiting in the wings to validate your every thought.
This is true to some extent. I was a LiveJournal baby, where I grew from posting about crazy nights out and this week’s drama to a brief charismatic Catholic stint that left me preaching endlessly. (Which was oddly the time I wanted validation for my so-called brilliance the most.)
Presently, I keep a blog on Tumblr, but am by no means a “blogger.” I like having my gratuitous little nook in cyberspace, where I can share red band trailers, different versions of Call Me Maybe, updates on designer collaborations, the shame that is my makeup collection, and unfiltered thoughts on the stupid things other people say. But trust that it’s all me, and I am in no way trying to turn myself into my own movement with sponsors and free hooch.
Now, I generally don’t have a lot of beef against other bloggers. In fact, I feel like I’ve lost hours of my life poring over the lives of other people — Scott Schuman and Garance Doré, Tommy Ton, Emily Weiss, Ree Drummond, the lovely people at Thought Catalog, and the ever-reliable Christine of Temptalia.com.
I find that the blogs I tend to enjoy are the ones that aren’t really all about the person who runs the blog in question. It’s about the different street styles you’ll see in different cities, where the best sales are, or how to make the best of this week’s basil. The people I like to read and keep up with have made me fall in love with a color accent, rediscover beloved skincare, find peace in using both butter and oil in one dish, or embrace my love for tween music without apologies.
But. (Don’t lie; you knew this was coming.)
In the movie Easy A, Thomas Hayden Church says, “I don’t know what your generation’s fascination is with documenting your every thought, but I can assure you: they’re not all diamonds.” This is how I feel about many a fashion blog.
Full disclosure: I did try out fashion blogging for a time, but I wasn’t gifted with nearly enough self-indulgence to keep it up. Also, knowing that there are people who look forward to posts that have to do with your personal style oddly changes the way you dress. Which is exactly what I dislike about fashion blogging.
For me, being chic is marrying personal style with practical utility and a certain amount of propriety. It comes with grit, wear and tear, and loving pieces within an inch of their lives. But as it stands, the idea of being highly photographable pulls focus away from making more sartorial choices and keeps it on staying trendy. The fashion being blogged about becomes homogenized, because everything falls in line with some exaggerated interpretation of trends. It puts a premium on throwaway fashion, on adhering to a certain blogger aesthetic that mandates the use of 30-inch platforms and obnoxiously bright print-on-print.
It turns life into a runway that is so far out of touch with reality, it’s mind-boggling. I understand if you’re one of the Panty Monsters, who regularly don floor-length tutus, rubber masks, and spiked heel-less shoes that they can actually walk in. These are artists who approach life with a certain aesthetic, regardless of the photo op. (Then again, I’ve seen those kids at work and they’re still wont to slip on flats and jeans.)
What I don’t understand is what one has to gain by posting photos of oneself heading to Divisoria to buy fabric in neon monster shoes, a floor-grazing mullet dress, and foundation three shades too white for your skin tone. Real talk, sister: that’s not being ahead of the curve. It is, however, a sure way to get mugged.
What is especially irritating are bloggers who post outfits to appear as though they approach life like they’re headed to events 24/7, when in truth, they have a personal uniform for each day of the week. (Blind item right there.) I mean, if you want me to buy it, at least have the decency to really sell it.
There is a vast sense of entitlement that lingers, wherein because bloggers are so much more accessible, they are given the same amount of reverence as those who have curated the course of fashion history. It perpetuates the notion that with a clear enough camera and some knowledge of layering, anyone can build a career with premeditated, over-posed photos. And so it stands that there is a clear question of how far out of context fashion has been placed, especially where it’s no longer models and editors pushing an aesthetic, but “real people” on their blogs.
As far as I can see, everything in this world has its place. Sure, clothes have a myriad of positive effects — changing the way you feel, skimming down features you’re not exactly thrilled with, expressing the facets of your personality only you might be aware of. And yes, I will be the first to tell you that fashion is art, expression, freedom, inspiration, and creation.
But it is also function and comfort, and days when clothes really are just clothes. Because while we’ve been made to believe that they might make the man, they aren’t magical enough to produce substance where there is none. They serve their purpose, but fall second to character, skill, intellect, and depth —something so easily forgotten in a haze of lens flare and digitally-retouched lighting.
Maybe there are outfits worth documenting and preserving for posterity, but I find that the most extraordinary days are simply lived, often- times with a nondescript pair of shorts.
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Tweet me @gabbietatad.