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>C’mon, Vogue.

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Dude, say what you want about Vogue and Anna and Alexandra Kotur and all that shit, but let me say that even still, as Vogue languishes in the obscurity of irrelevance, I pick up each thick issue with its impeccable binding and am reminded of being 16. And, hello, I love Marx! You know? I have never, in my life, been interested in capitalism in an obvious way. I loathe, loathe the way that fashion turns subversion into “style” and “media”. I believe in subversion and punk and queer rights and anti-heteronormativity and that whole thing. I mean, I’ve read the books, I search for truth, I’m aware of the way of the way stylization makes a mockery of important things.

But the power of Vogue is exactly that it floats above my politics and forces my eye towards beauty. In some way, some how, Vogue has nothing to do with the vomit-inducing trend of punk-influenced clothes or any of that appropriative bullshit. It remains, quite possibly due to a century of precedent, a magazine that serves more as a vacation, a feeling, in a Wildeian sense that beauty can reign. I understand the complaints: fashion is, by nature, a classist enterprise. But I believe strongly in the pursuit of beauty. And while beauty should never have the pricetag of a $5,000 dress, Vogue costs merely four dollars, and it has, at moments (admittedly not as much recently) enveloped me so fully that the dresses and blouses and shoes are merely afterthoughts; the value is in the moments I spend in my room, away from the deglamorizing internet, in the light, but sturdy, pages of a magazine that honors shape and color and form more than any other publication.

Written by alexgfrank

April 30, 2009 at 3:47 am