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The TurnSTYLE
Posted by Caitlin Cortez
on
5:11 AM
Watching the entrance/exit to the subway station is like watching a chest rise and fall with each breath. Hordes of people going in and out. All together. In one motion. Choreographed to perfection.
Subways are the heartbeat of the city. The tracks, like viens, disperse life throughout neighborhoods and parks.
The pulse that beats beneath the streets, beats to a tune all its own. Encompassing each and every culture found in the city. A place for all who can turn numbers and colors into neighborhoods and boroughs.
Decoding is your initiation. The turnstyle, like the gatekeeper in Oz, can deny you entrance.
You may not pass go. You may not collect $200.
Breathing life into inanimate objects is a rather embarassing habit of mine. A habit I should have let go of along with my Barney and Baby Bop stuffed animals. But I quite like the thought of the turnstile playing the gatekeeper in Oz. Deciding whether or not to let you enter into the presence of the Wizard.
The somewhat heartless world of fashion, has forgotten subways, and instead turned to black town cars. Cold. Lifeless. Devoid of any unrefined beauty or any unguided style. There is no game in having someone open a door for you to slide across black leather seats, made of what feels like butter, with the latest issue of Vogue waiting for you inside. No turnstile to reject you and eat your dignity as people groan behind you, awaiting their chance to see the wizard.
Upon acceptance into the hollows of New York City subways, you are witness to life in its most raw and uncut form. A singular jazz band echos throughout the subway tiled halls. If you push back the tears that naturally form in your ducts from the strong aroma of urine and body odor you can see the real fashion world.
An ugly world, one without photoshop and glossy prints. A world where you put on what you want because it feels right. You wear what you need to wear with confidence because you know it will get you where you need to go.
Just like a subway car. In fashion you must find a style that defines you, a number, letter, or color subway car that craddles you before dropping you off at home. You have to have confidence in the style you choose, knowing it is for you and no one else. The subway system is confusing enough, do not muddy it with someone's elses style or direction. And most importantly you have to be accepted by the almighty turnstile. A metaphor for you. You ultimately hold the key to your happiness and acceptance, not Anna Wintour, or the gatekeeper in Oz.
Invest in a subway map. Study it. Know yourself and your streets.
Forget a cab, or town car.
Let the turnstile become a turnstyle. Turn the platform into your runway. Impress the wizard by wearing what you want to wear, not what the vogue sitting upon smooth leather town car seats tells you to wear.
Subways are the heartbeat of the city. The tracks, like viens, disperse life throughout neighborhoods and parks.
The pulse that beats beneath the streets, beats to a tune all its own. Encompassing each and every culture found in the city. A place for all who can turn numbers and colors into neighborhoods and boroughs.
Decoding is your initiation. The turnstyle, like the gatekeeper in Oz, can deny you entrance.
You may not pass go. You may not collect $200.
Breathing life into inanimate objects is a rather embarassing habit of mine. A habit I should have let go of along with my Barney and Baby Bop stuffed animals. But I quite like the thought of the turnstile playing the gatekeeper in Oz. Deciding whether or not to let you enter into the presence of the Wizard.
The somewhat heartless world of fashion, has forgotten subways, and instead turned to black town cars. Cold. Lifeless. Devoid of any unrefined beauty or any unguided style. There is no game in having someone open a door for you to slide across black leather seats, made of what feels like butter, with the latest issue of Vogue waiting for you inside. No turnstile to reject you and eat your dignity as people groan behind you, awaiting their chance to see the wizard.
Upon acceptance into the hollows of New York City subways, you are witness to life in its most raw and uncut form. A singular jazz band echos throughout the subway tiled halls. If you push back the tears that naturally form in your ducts from the strong aroma of urine and body odor you can see the real fashion world.
An ugly world, one without photoshop and glossy prints. A world where you put on what you want because it feels right. You wear what you need to wear with confidence because you know it will get you where you need to go.
Just like a subway car. In fashion you must find a style that defines you, a number, letter, or color subway car that craddles you before dropping you off at home. You have to have confidence in the style you choose, knowing it is for you and no one else. The subway system is confusing enough, do not muddy it with someone's elses style or direction. And most importantly you have to be accepted by the almighty turnstile. A metaphor for you. You ultimately hold the key to your happiness and acceptance, not Anna Wintour, or the gatekeeper in Oz.
Invest in a subway map. Study it. Know yourself and your streets.
Forget a cab, or town car.
Let the turnstile become a turnstyle. Turn the platform into your runway. Impress the wizard by wearing what you want to wear, not what the vogue sitting upon smooth leather town car seats tells you to wear.
