Thursday, June 19, 2014

Cornstarch, milk, and London's Springtime moment

 to London's lightly covered in-
 troduction of menswear sugges-
 tions, and took the precaution
 of illustrating his excitement
 with enough liberality to read
 through it. It would call for a
 harder heart than ours to doubt
 his report, of many reduced to
 tears. Deconstructions do this. 

Houdon ate the heart out of his own blancmange, so uncontrolled was the voracious jubilation for its crumbs. But there he was, the gender blessed at last to breathe within the milkened cornstarch of idolatry in motion. Who would not have wept to share the day? 

 At home, then, later - possibly much 
 later - the usual sordid questions 
 tend to lay the celebrant low. Where 
 can one wear the thing; how can one 
 know if it isn't a knock-off, or even 
 if fits? What if it shows up on Amazon?
 But, oh, is it not just chickening out
 in art's defense, even to ask the price?

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