Girl

No one doesn’t know what 5-letter word Courtney Love screamed in 1994, it’s this understanding that gives us that extra edge when we add Malibu to our April playlists. A quiet rebellion, which only satisfies the girls who wanna be Chloe Sevigny, forced to bear all that is Vincent Gallo. Of course, they say such things in the comfort of their $50,000 yearly budget. Okay maybe not all of them get their monthly transfers, that’s only Billi, and she definitely hasn’t seen The Brown Bunny. It's the other ones, the girls who taped a print of Tracey Emin's My Bed to their bedroom wall, or better, posted it on their Tumblr. The ones who read all of Lena Dunham's book recommendations but would kill themselves if they looked like her. They smoke esse menthol cigarettes pretending to be self-aware of their obsession with looking like Kate Moss, yet no preface guises the naivety of each inhale. They order, click, and press play. They don't sing but say too much, with a strain on all the wrong vowels. They uber everywhere, usually scouting another defaced shopfront for their next shoot. The model’s a skinny Russian girl with eyes set too far apart, wearing a distressed Cop Copine off-the-shoulder tank and a Pleats Please skirt. They have their own label assigning themselves too many titles; stylist, creative director, casting agent, photographer, but they see writing as their main occupation. Of course only picking up a pen once a year. It’s at this point they become less one of the girls and align more with a collective identification, Girl. Girl is disinterested but hyper-aware. She hates a lot of things but reminds herself of the power of post irony, so she never quite out rules anything. Except for the Marc Jacobs tote bag. Girl hates the word esoteric and refuses to follow anyone using archive as a descriptor. She remains untarnished yet swallowed in logos. Girl cannot describe but knows so innately why Addison Rae’s transition from ‘normie’ to PC music alumni is genuine, and why Camila Cabello will never collab with Arca. It's not that they know of Arca. Or want Tabi ballet flats. Or hate Sally Rooney. That's all a given. It's a more potent substance. A subtle scoff at the Heaven by Marc Jacobs couch. An unfollow, unliking, unsaving, probably something of Devon Lee Carlson. It's the decline to virtually attend the Diesel show, the one they were never invited to. They are hardly invited anywhere. But they've met Troye Sivan once and done 2 unpaid e-commerce shoots. See Girl is friends with a 30-year-old photographer, who attends and works and is looked at. By friend I mean they track each other's digital personas over a story like, and transactional comment on a Corrine Day inspired self portrait. It's not the film stock or the shake she rehearsed in front of her tripod, it's the lack of caption on the post that asserts the most. Indescribable but the photographer notices. Girl has seen his cock on Twitter and entertains the idea of unhiding her folder of nudes in her camera roll. Now here's where the term girl materialises in its most relevant form, one that discerns not penis or vagina, but that's been pushed forever. The way Girl inserts itself between the racks of dead stock Anna Sui and stacks of FRUiTS magazine is a complete rejection of the impossible-to-objectify, ultra-inclusive definition of womanhood, which makes everyone feel seen and valued and stimulated. These girls once subscribed to such wokeness, but now reside more comfortably centre left. Of course remaining a pendulum, swinging which way looks hottest. Something about a Balenciaga city bag and the cadence of a “faggot" fit too well together. Girl is definite, you’re either in or out. It can’t be spelled out but seen from across the street. A substance not thick but dense. It's a spray of Fantasy by Britney Spears. A rerun of America's Next Top Model. Girl is Jenna Lyons’ Ssense wishlist, but only the products now out of stock printed alphabetically on a miniskirt. It’s An iPhone 5s, space grey with no SIM card. It’s concrete and full of preservatives. Demure, and certainly not fat. Girl is an invisible invitation to the hottest club, with a bouncer not unlike the one in the virtual Berghain simulator. It's not that they get in, it's just they wouldn't care if they did. But don't get it wrong, they do know how to brag. Vanity is the basis of all decision-making, it's their acceptance of this that entertains an intellectual hierarchy, one that doesn't quite place Girl at the top, it's that Girl decides who's on the bottom. It's about becoming a gatekeeper. An innate belief system that realises one's importance. Maybe less realises, and they more decide that their perspective matters. Yet Girl doesn't have original thought. I don't mean to say her contribution is stagnant, it's just Girl’s craft is in her meticulous regurgitation. A curatorial processing of outdated media and pop culture iconography. Girl is grounded vanity. Synthetic vulnerability. A calculated spontaneity. It’s a silent monologue with invisible observers. It becomes less about trying to discern Girl from the girls as we step into the task of being noticed by one. Be warned however. Girl infiltrates the subconscious on a level so uselessly intricate. Is that a Walkman or an upside-down Mowalola logo? Is her listening to Prism by Katy Perry post-ironic or just embarrassing?

	 
	No one doesn’t know what 5-letter word Courtney Love screamed in 1994, it’s this understanding that gives us that extra edge when we add Malibu to our April playlists. A quiet rebellion, which only satisfies the girls who wanna be Chloe Sevigny, forced to bear all that is Vincent Gallo. Of course, they say such things in the comfort of their $50,000 yearly budget. Okay maybe not all of them get their monthly transfers, that’s only Billi, and she definitely hasn’t seen The Brown Bunny. It's the other ones, the girls who taped a print of Tracey Emin's My Bed to their bedroom wall, or better, posted it on their Tumblr. The ones who read all of Lena Dunham's book recommendations but would kill themselves if they looked like her. They smoke esse menthol cigarettes pretending to be self-aware of their obsession with looking like Kate Moss, yet no preface guises the naivety of each inhale. They order, click, and press play. They don't sing but say too much, with a strain on all the wrong vowels. They uber everywhere, usually scouting another defaced shopfront for their next shoot. The model’s a skinny Russian girl with eyes set too far apart, wearing a distressed Cop Copine off-the-shoulder tank and a Pleats Please skirt. They have their own label assigning themselves too many titles; stylist, creative director, casting agent, photographer, but they see writing as their main occupation. Of course only picking up a pen once a year. It’s at this point they become less one of the girls and align more with a collective identification, Girl. Girl is disinterested but hyper-aware. She hates a lot of things but reminds herself of the power of post irony, so she never quite out rules anything. Except for the Marc Jacobs tote bag. Girl hates the word esoteric and refuses to follow anyone using archive as a descriptor. She remains untarnished yet swallowed in logos. Girl cannot describe but knows so innately why Addison Rae’s transition from ‘normie’ to PC music alumni is genuine, and why Camila Cabello will never collab with Arca. It's not that they know of Arca. Or want Tabi ballet flats. Or hate Sally Rooney. That's all a given. It's a more potent substance. A subtle scoff at the Heaven by Marc Jacobs couch. An unfollow, unliking, unsaving, probably something of Devon Lee Carlson. It's the decline to virtually attend the Diesel show, the one they were never invited to. They are hardly invited anywhere. But they've met Troye Sivan once and done 2 unpaid e-commerce shoots. See Girl is friends with a 30-year-old photographer, who attends and works and is looked at. By friend I mean they track each other's digital personas over a story like, and transactional comment on a Corrine Day inspired self portrait. It's not the film stock or the shake she rehearsed in front of her tripod, it's the lack of caption on the post that asserts the most. Indescribable but the photographer notices. Girl has seen his cock on Twitter and entertains the idea of unhiding her folder of nudes in her camera roll. Now here's where the term girl materialises in its most relevant form, one that discerns not penis or vagina, but that's been pushed forever. The way Girl inserts itself between the racks of dead stock Anna Sui and stacks of FRUiTS magazine is a complete rejection of the impossible-to-objectify, ultra-inclusive definition of womanhood, which makes everyone feel seen and valued and stimulated. These girls once subscribed to such wokeness, but now reside more comfortably centre left. Of course remaining a pendulum, swinging which way looks hottest. Something about a Balenciaga city bag and the cadence of a “faggot" fit too well together. Girl is definite, you’re either in or out. It can’t be spelled out but seen from across the street. A substance not thick but dense. It's a spray of Fantasy by Britney Spears. A rerun of America's Next Top Model. Girl is Jenna Lyons’ Ssense wishlist, but only the products now out of stock printed alphabetically on a miniskirt. It’s An iPhone 5s, space grey with no SIM card. It’s concrete and full of preservatives. Demure, and certainly not fat. Girl is an invisible invitation to the hottest club, with a bouncer not unlike the one in the virtual Berghain simulator. It's not that they get in, it's just they wouldn't care if they did. But don't get it wrong, they do know how to brag. Vanity is the basis of all decision-making, it's their acceptance of this that entertains an intellectual hierarchy, one that doesn't quite place Girl at the top, it's that Girl decides who's on the bottom. It's about becoming a gatekeeper. An innate belief system that realises one's importance. Maybe less realises, and they more decide that their perspective matters. Yet Girl doesn't have original thought. I don't mean to say her contribution is stagnant, it's just Girl’s craft is in her meticulous regurgitation. A curatorial processing of outdated media and pop culture iconography. Girl is grounded vanity. Synthetic vulnerability. A calculated spontaneity. It’s a silent monologue with invisible observers. It becomes less about trying to discern Girl from the girls as we step into the task of being noticed by one. Be warned however. Girl infiltrates the subconscious on a level so uselessly intricate. Is that a Walkman or an upside-down Mowalola logo? Is her listening to Prism by Katy Perry post-ironic or just embarrassing?

Girl

Playground

follow