The end of elegant?

What happened to the era of elegance? It seems unfathomable that the most timeless of styles is indeed fading from the horizon of the fashion    industry. To reminisce over years of unadulterated opulence is to realise that there is no longer that sense of intrinsic class in the clothes we now claim are so ‘on trend’. When one stops to observe what is passing them by, there is an undeniable lack of luxury in the apparel surrounding them,
regardless of event or location. Imagination has,
undoubtedly, taken its place; people seem to favour
creativity to the simplistic grace of preceding decades.

It seems plausible that high street fashion is to blame. Products are rushed out in the hope of mimicking the designer styles so consumers can instantly be ‘up-to-date’. Is it the very nature of this that prevents the public from making uninhibited decisions as they have become so dependent on following the crowd? Despite this, designers seem to have made very similar decisions, shifting their classic visions into a much more modern context; echoed in the recent Chanel collections—this brand was once the epitome of unrefined elegance. Although understandable, the adaptation is fundamentally disappointing as iconic glamour is no longer achievable. Even Vogue, the dictator of style has slipped into a persistent attempt to be ‘edgy’. The public seem to be indifferent, willing to allow themselves to be led by who they believe know best. It is perplexing that there is no longer a desire to have the graceful image of sheer sophistication; eccentricity is preferable, as reinforced by Vivienne Westwood and Lulu Guinness.

Another factor is the constraints, imposed by the young, that clothes should be structural and tight fitting. Anything that does not cling to the figure would be wholly unacceptable, irrespective of whether it is tasteful and well designed. Being stylish and beautiful has taken on a new persona in young people where a lack of subtlety is essential.  Inexplicably, times have changed, since feminism resulted in the rejection of ladylike and demure clothing, to a transformation into a less is more principle, dignity seems to have taken a hit. So, at what point will desire return to understated allure? Without question the fluid 'wide leg trouser' suits many more than the 'skinny jeans' phenomenon. It is unclear whether this is proof of less freedom or more; women are now allowed to reveal what they want to reveal, whereas, once upon a time women were confined by social expectation. Contrastingly, it could be considered, women are being forced to wear clothes they are not completely comfortable in order to ‘fit in’. 

Gone are the days when the true symbol of elegance was Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn. The black and white age was awash with poise and exquisitely simple attire. An unpretentious and effortless black dress was enough to make the world gasp in admiration. Since the fifties there has been no decade with the same impenetrable class. A time where fashion could be suggestive but demure. Since then clothing has become all about flaunting your assets and appealing to others in the most undignified of ways. It would be so much more becoming to return to the time when the raising of one eyebrow was the essence of seduction.

Incontestably, times change and dwelling on the past is not considered stimulating so, returning to the age of glamour is unlikely. Maybe, it should be respected that the fashion industry is essentially an ever-changing world, yet, a little reference to the past would surely do no harm. Could it be that in years to come fur stoles and full skirts will be the much coveted look for all those wishing to stay ‘in vogue’?

Not My Business - Rewritten

Unsettled, African civilians plead desperately for help in the small town outside Banjul, as it becomes clear lives are being forced into peril by unruly extremists.

The third attack took place inside the supposed sanctuary of innocent civilian, Danladi Ubjar’s home. Neighbours shrieked, shocked at the seemingly endless cries of pain and strife, desperate for the image of his limp, lifeless body being dragged away to vacate their scarred memories. Danladi Ubjar hasn’t been spotted since this accident, and his family are expecting the worse, as of yet, no happy endings to these abductions have been reached.

But some civilians are taking on a different view: apathy. 35 year old, Yaku Hilm was overheard saying, “What business of mine so long they don't take the yam from my savouring mouth?” This ‘each for their own’ attitude is echoed throughout society and has resulted in a loss of community, if there ever was one. Ironically, these filthy terrors to humanity must have eyes everywhere, as Hilm himself was captured yesterday evening or maybe complacency should not be advised as it does not seem to protect anyone. He was taken, exclaiming to neighbours for assistance; no action was taken to save the man.

As these horrendous attacks relentlessly occur, people are left afraid and fragile, as it seems nowhere is safe, especially in the comfort of your own home. The President of South Africa is working alongside the Government, determined to overcome these disastrous happenings. He has publically proclaimed, “Taking lives comes at a very high cost, and these sick men will pay that fine!” We all hope you're right, Mr. President!

Havisham

Smouldering in the ashes of his betrayal, I wait. I’ve waited. I will wait. I claw at the remnants of our time together, screaming his memory. This is what I have known as a relationship; a series of endless, furious disappointments. Inconceivably, after all this time, I can still ponder his reasoning for deserting me. I loved him.

Some say the closest thing to love is hate and with that I can empathise. My feelings for him were so overbearing that I’m left to despise him. Unwillingly, I have dedicated my life to him; devoted myself to the hatred of him. I have agonisingly shrieked his name until I can no longer speak. My voice rasps, my throat is dry. I have held my breath waiting for him, resorted to gasping back the air in dejected despair.

I’m trapped, unrelentingly, in this unrequited love story. Love is futile, worthless. As, incontestably, my rage overwhelms me, my loneliness does also. Discarded and forsaken. Somehow he left me neglected and vacant, void of emotion, compelled to remain in my desolation. Tears stream to the point where there is nothing left, I am empty.

So you ask, what is love? What is a relationship? Love is deceitful and deceptive; it convinces you that someone is unquestioningly committed to you. Love lies. Relationship… the word ignites a fire in me that flares deep inside, it burns. Does this word not suggest trust, reliability, stability? It lies.

Love. Relationship. These two words made me what I am. They left me devastated, a shadow of the person I once was. The concept of love resulted in the need for destruction and, with nothing better to destroy, I have allowed it to eat away at me. Rotting in my defeat, I submit, I surrender to the agony of insufferable abandonment.

I loved him.

What is it?

An object? A memory? A possession? A reminder of a time when things were different?

What if it's more than that? What if in the thin gold band there is the reassurance of something to hold on to? In the icy stones, carefully set, there is the promise of commitment and unconditional love? What if in the unassuming amethyst placed centrally there is the certainty of who I am and where I come from?

It's more than just a ring, it was a gift to me that meant something undeniable. It meant that, although the person presenting it to me may not always be there, they loved me and they wanted to be something constant in my life: something physical.

I cannot deny that it is not something I always wear and it's certainly not something that's with me all of the time but I know where it is. I keep it safe. I suppose it’s just like the person who gave it to me; they aren't always there but I know where they are if I need them, I know they'll be there.

In terms of design, it is simplistic, childlike but elegant. Each stone moulded carefully so that, when brought together, the result is a flower. Is it predictable to compare this to meeting with the person who gave it to me? Although our time together is evanescent at least it happens; at least we have time together even if the miles of motorway spread between us.

So effectively it's not just a ring. It's a symbol of love and the determination to be in someone’s life despite the difficulties. Isn't it?