Internal Monologue Of Someone Being Photographed By The Sartorialist
Ahh, what a gorgeous day to go for a stroll on one of five streets in Paris or Midtown Manhattan, or, occasionally, Milan. Sometimes I long to wander into one of the myriad unexplored neighborhoods in my city, but then I think, “No.” These are the only streets where things are happening, where people come to see and be seen, and where a three-piece suit worn to pick up toilet paper at the grocery store is not only appropriate, it’s expected. This is where the sexy people live.
And it’s nice and sunny — the perfect day to debut my new outfit. I remember when I was buying it and was like, “When am I ever going to get a chance to wear a cropped magenta alpaca-wool cardigan with paisley poodle skirt and Spice Girl-era platform sandals?” How naïve I was. As we all know, this kind of balmy, late-spring day where the heat is coming later this week, but hasn’t quite yet arrived — when the sun is peeking through the leaves in a sort of collage of light and shadow — that is the day to step out in your most absurdly fashionable clothing. It is the time to go grab a baguette from the local baker and stroll around with it under your arm like some phallic ode to French gastronomy, looking sickening.
Hark, what is this? Is that… could it be… Scott Schuman? Why, is that Mr. Sartorialist himself? Oh, my god. And on the one day I forgot to do my signature eye makeup. Good thing I’m wearing these sunglasses that cover my face from mid-forehead to lower cheek. I knew these would come in handy some day. Okay, be cool. Be cool. Just stand here on the corner looking out onto the bustling city before you like some kind of mid-18th century British naval commander wearing fabulous heels. Turn gently toward him, making sure to display your flowers and baguette from your day out shopping (as cool people sustain themselves only on fresh-cut gardenias and crusty bread, the sexy groceries). You want to look busy and jetting off to somewhere exclusive, but never rustled. You are never rustled.
Yes, Mr. Schuman, of course you can take my photo. Why, what a surprise seeing you here! I thought you usually canvassed the more diverse areas of the city to photograph people of all sizes, shapes, colors and levels of disposable income to spend on their clothing. Photographing a rich, thin, beautiful white person wearing a smattering of various designer clothing and pair of shoes that cost what most people earn in a month? This is a jarring change of pace — are you sure your readers will understand? Well, I guess it’s just my lucky day, then. Where would you like me to stand? Looking pensively to the left or thoughtfully to the right? Straight ahead? Sounds good.
Wow, they look great! Thank you so much for taking my picture — will it appear online soon? Great. Have a great day!
What a fabulous day. I have to organize a dinner party of some kind to celebrate this. Stefano will be so jealous — he’s been wearing nothing but hand-woven silk dress socks with his khakis cuffed up thrice to best show off their pattern for two straight weeks trying to get snapped. I bet he’s just going to vomit an Hermès ascot out of sheer rage. Well, better pick up a new afternoon tea dress to match my gardenias. To Prada, beloved pink Vespa, show us the meaning of haste!
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It started with a right swipe, a little green heart. Tinder of course.
Though I acknowledge and appreciate the differences in human experiences, and while your heartbreak is (and always will be) uniquely and completely your own, I must urge you to consider that I have been where you are.
With his hat cocked back, body tilted away from his cane, and right forefinger pointing directly at his audience, Joseph Ducreux commands the attention of those viewing his self-portrait.
I was born in 1990; he was born in 1973. I’m 23; he just turned 40.