The Sartorial Rosebud

Rugged boots, black hoops, ink and all, parked in plain view. I perked up at the sight of her bag. It infected me wild. Camera in hand, I approached. "May I take a pic of your bag?"

"Yeah, sure." she said, mildly puzzled. By permission, I set her bag on the bar table, where it pancaked. I grabbed and lifted it repeatedly until some structure remained.

Out the corner of my eye, I noticed her watchful eye. "You concerned that I'm going to take something?" I teased.

"No, not at all." she said coolly.

Dismayed by the low light, I snapped two pics, took a peek and deleted them both. "I think these pics would look better with you in them." I thought out loud. She obliged me.

Therese radiates potential in her style and air. For example, elongate her shirt and a sultry cocktail dress emerges; extend it to the floor, remove the cap sleeves and, behold, a glamorous gown unfolds. The former look would arrest every eye within a hundred-foot radius. The latter would feisty up all cameras on the red carpet.

From her color palette to her bag, from her boots to her body art, and all the little things like her earrings, glossy nails and phone, Therese's selections express who she is; they enhance her beauty for all to swoon over. The low neckline of her shirt exposes her collar bone. The shirt's shoulders accentuate hers. All of it frames her cover-photo face happily. The cut, fit, and color of her shirt, the pale hue of her soft, even skin, the midnight darkness of her lustrous hair pull me in close enough for her eyes to grab mine and dance with them. 

Mr. Andy

Meet Dio

From afar, at the juxtaposition of Seventh and Pine, a sartorial shadow disappeared into the book store. I almost didn't turn 'round, but some mysterious force overtook my being and lunged me in after him. The closer I got the more he shined, until there he was in full view, blinding me like a diamond in the limelight.

He was sizzling: I had to document his look for all to marvel, study and learn, what have you - eat off him? I asked away; he was ready and willing; out the door we flew. I was on a mission to capture his look asap lest the flame of opportunity extinguish.

Dio hails all the way from Taiwan. In about as fast as you read this, I whimsically imagined his journey: Over the Pac he slung shot to LA, then sped up to SF, catapulted up to Seattle, navigated across to NY, where he hurdled false hopes to near exhaustion before half-circling the roundabout back to Seattle, where he's now a student of fashion at Ballard's NY Fashion Academy. In everyday time his movements spanned four years.

In so many words Dio acknowledged that his decision to devour the Big Apple was premature. He survived one month. "So, NY kicked your ass?" I remarked.

"Yeah, how did you know?" he replied. Half surprised, half embarrassed, he wore his heart on his sleeve.

Something tells me that NY hasn't seen the last of Dio. I doubt that the world hasn't, either. NY, Paris, Milano, Tokyo, look out, Dio's on his way.

Dio, thank you for electrocuting me with your incredible fashion sense. You are an inspiration.

Mr. Andy

Twice in One Day

She shouted, "Take a picture, it will last longer!"

She pinched me with her menacing glare. I thought I was safe and invisible. She had noticed me drooling over her all along.

"Alright, I'll take it, your pic, if you wish." I stammered like an idiot as I fumbled with my camera, a point-and-shoot.

My intentions were innocent: I wasn't undressing her with my eyes, prepping for a wet daydream. I was documenting her look. I was working.

OK, time to fess up: That exchange never really happened. Truth be told, she was rather nice and incredibly obliging. She even introduced herself before graciously posing for me. Her name is Emma. Isn't she lovely?

(Below) Evening arrived and brought Miss Anonymous along for the ride. I don't know what it was about her that intimidated me so. I almost didn't ask if she'd let me take her pic. I requested that she continue reading her book and pretend I wasn't there. The blur resulted from my nervous hand. I'm surprised that I steadied the camera long enough to salvage the image below.

I uploaded the pic immediately and realized something familiar about it. "Can it be?" I wondered. I rushed to uncover the intro pic above. I tried my damnedest to remove the glasses and compare the features of both women side-by-side.

"That necklace, that jawline, those lips, the hair, the elegance ... How can all of it be mirrored in both women? Unless ... Yes! Wait, on the same day?!" With my computer, I approached her again, confident that she was the very Emma whom I had met earlier.

"Excuse me, but is this you?" I inquired.

"Yes, that is me!" she bloomed with delight and merriment.

"You're Emma."

"And you're Andy, I remember."

After sharing a laugh, I asked Emma if she normally switches her look on a daily basis. She divulged that she's a bookkeeper by day and an artist by night. I asked her which look she prefers. She said that she likes both and prefers neither. I asked if she takes pride in her style. Surprisingly, she said no. She clearly owns both looks with aplomb. Unbelievably, paint influences Emma's fashion the most. That is, she wears what's least marked by paint. I noticed a fist-sized mess of black squiggles that encircled the right pocket of her brilliant camel coat and realized that she wasn't joking. Oddly enough, the artful accident created something noteworthy. I'd normally cast all stains as big, fat no's. However, in Emma's case it worked, adding a signature sexiness. The artist in Emma shines for all to see, without a care in the world. It's who she is.

Emma, everywhere you go, you inspire. I offer you my most humble thank you for inspiring me – twice in one day.

Mr. Andy