Roman Escapades

Alex’s guest post makes it sound as though I spent two weeks gallivanting through Rome with nary a care.

That’s not entirely true.

I spent two weeks gallivanting through Rome with precisely one care, namely, the dearth of tea in Italy.  I was nearly forced to drink a cappuccino, the horror.

No, but really, it was a rollicking good time.  And I suppose I should explain a bit more fully what I was up to.

You might recall my mentioning, earlier in the summer, that I was slated to appear in a fashion film for Richard’s line, Cavalier.  Normally, we advertise by dressing as piratical gentleman and commandeering pleasure yachts in the Mediterranean.  (No, I know.) But Richard decided he would like to try his hand at land-based conquests, and so this film was born.

The script was…well there wasn’t really a script.  There was merely a scenario: two Lotharios, one gay, one straight, go to a party as each other’s wingmen where they end up meeting their objects of pursuit and proceed to chase them across the gorgeous Italian countryside until conquests are made and everyone falls in love.

The bloke playing the straight lead–this sort of vaguely rakish Ken-doll who insisted upon calling himself ‘Britain’–thought it was charming.

His counterpart–a spunky American model named Molly with hair straight from the 1930s and a queer girlfriend named Lamplight–thought it was horseshit.

And I, as well as my counterpart Fox, saw it for what it was–the absurdist theatre of Richard’s most tongue-in-cheek dreams.  We were able to convince Molly of this, with Lam’s help, and so filming began.

The first day of filming was a bit stressful, I must say.  I’m quite used to being dressed up and paraded about at this point, but moving cameras are quite different from stationary ones, and the pace was arduous.  Then there was the lack of tea.  And the fact that I can’t ride a damn bike let alone a Moped.  And the sheer weight of performing ‘macho’ all day, as Fox played the more effeminate role on account of his delightfully elfin appearance.

But I hit my stride fairly quickly, and ended up rather enjoying myself.  The countryside is truly magical, with all its rolling hills and climbing cypress.

roman countryside

Now imagine a warm breeze ruffling your hair…

Marc joined me on set at least once a day, as well, to giggle at my ‘sexy face’ and make eyes at me whilst I marched around in jodhpurs and jackets.  And Fox was a delightful companion once he overcame his nerves about playing opposite ‘Mr. Brutus’, as I’m known throughout ghost Italy.

Meanwhile, the kiddos took to Rome with renewed fervor.

J went about everywhere in his little tunica and bulla, accepting parcels from townsfolk with the seriousness of mind that becomes the son of a Roman priest.  He also quite bonded quite with Claudius this visit and spent a great deal of time in the barnyard, learning to corral animals and read weather.

Mira did a bit of solo wandering, getting to know the land and the landscapes.  She also spent some time on horseback, introducing Nox around–Marc’s sneaky method of drawing her out into the town and forcing her to socialise.

And in all, we managed to use the time away to check in with a number of other friends.

Marie and Girafe came down from France for a ‘picnic’, which I should have known wouldn’t be a mere picnic.  They arrived with a boatload of lavish pillows, which Marie flung about a clearing in the countryside while Girafe made mysterious calls on his feather-covered mobile.  All of a sudden we had an oddly poofy, organic gazebo effect happening, and a vast array of food trucks from which to choose.

Delphi came out from the city no fewer than three times a week for afternoons that bled into suppers that bled into cocktails.  He and Claudius are no longer hiding their item-hood. They were as cozy as could be, and utterly sweet besides.  My favourite detail of their relationship: as Claudius is prone to forgetting to clean his spectacles, Delphi wears a soft cloth as a pocket square these days.  My heart!

And at the end of the trip, yes, we did go laze about in New Zealand with Matiu and Teddy and their son Miri.  I was quite ready for the time away from cameras and back in nail polish and loose tees.  Marc was ready to shed the immediate responsibility of representing Rome back to itself.  Mira and J were greedy for our time after all the excitement–quite gratifying, hehe–and I scarcely went ten minutes without a tiny hand in mine or a sleepy little face on my shoulder.

Now all that remains for the end of the summer is Marc’s participation in the war games.  He didn’t ‘play’ last year on account of the WWII theme, and he’s actually not leading any troops this year, either, to give other generals a chance to enjoy their moment in the sun.  But he will be providing live commentary from the stands this weekend, which is bound to be both enlightening and hilarious.  It’s a sea-battle, and he’s hoping they provided for ghost sharks to eat the fallen, because of course he’s hoping for that.

sea battle

Oh shit is ghost shark get out! – Marc

Oh, and I suppose I also have a birthday coming up, but I’m not terribly anticipatory.  It’s 199 this year, and I begged for a small gathering since I know for a fact I’m not escaping some monstrosity for my 200th.

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NY Ghost Fashion Week Recap

Our host is on the road again this week, so I’ve only time for a short little post.  As it turns out, though, NY Fashion Week was rather low-key this year, so I needn’t go on at length.  Here’s a brief glimpse at our fashion forays:

Wednesday, February 10:  We arrived at fashion week and walked the first of many red carpets into the event.  J insisted on taking his new teacup pig to the opening events, on a glitter leash, and I must say Earl Pink made quite the splash.  We’ve quite the reputation at this point for doing eccentric rich-people things, but with children and charm.  In fact, one blogger has dubbed us the First Family of Fashion.  I suppose one must concede to ridiculous titles where required.

Thursday, February 11: I walked for Herschel, whose line of suits this season truly soared.  All Edwardian, as per usual, but with a great deal of country flair this time in rich red tweeds and plaids.

Friday, February 12: Meetings.  All bloody day.  Marcus was approached by commercial developers from ghost Egypt. They’ve requested he open his second African store (the first being in Cape Town) and commissioned a few new Egyptian/Roman pieces from him.  Fleur and John saw to JS business interests in Europe.  I spent my afternoon with Danny networking with models and gauging interest for my services as a London-based runway coach (interest is high).  And Mira had tea with Oscar de la Renta, acting as the charming face of his line.  J spent the day with Lucas, vascillating between Marc and I, cradling Earl Pink (who also wears faerie wings), and being quite adorable.

I walked for Georgie in the early evening, and then went on a bar crawl with Richard and the cavalier crew to show off his line in lieu of a runway appearance.  The man never does anything formally when he can do things with foppery. Not that I’m complaining…

Saturday, February 13: For the first time ever, Mira and I were scheduled at near simultaneous runway shows, and on opposite sides of the fashion events.  Marcus and I fought for a different time to no avail.  So, we checked Mira into her event with Lucas and Fleur (and J, to hold her hand backstage).  Blinked across the city to begin our runway.  Blinked back for a hot second to see Mira’s opening walk (with her kitten, Cozy, on her shoulder).  Popped back over to finish our show.  Disappeared again to watch Mira’s final walk with all the fetching looks, leaving Danny and poor, puritan John to handle the first rush of post-JS show interviews.  And then finally settled in at our after party for cocktails and conversation, occasionally spiriting away to check on Mira and J, who were tucked beside Oscar and Fleur, respectively.  The children were so very good for everyone, but Marcus and I were both heartbroken at giving them up for the evening.  It might mean taking a less coveted runway time slot or stage, in the future, but we’re never going to finagle things this way again.

Sunday, February 14: Lunches, followed by our closing ceremonies.  Herschel won a very much deserved afterlifetime achievement award–he’s been designing suits for 100 years–and he was oh so shy and sweet as he accepted the accolade.  The man really is a darling.  And the Junius-Smith’s, having made out like bandits in the Spring and Fall of last year, happily cheered on our mates and well-respected acquaintances as they picked up the other awards.

And that’s about it!  Rather exhausting, but managed with success.  I am looking forward to the Fall where Marcus will debut his first haute-couture line along with his usual runway, where Fleur and I will put forward our women’s line, and where Marie shall be back on scene.  (She boycotts American events in accordance with her French Revolutionary experience.  Rather feels they should have sent a ship to aid her Queen.)

Our next big event?  Marc and I are celebrating our five-year wedding anniversary on March 19, and of course I’ll tell all about those plans in my  next post.  Fabulous to be sure.

 

 

November Catch Up

I’ll be back to regular sorts of posts in December–short essays on ghost and family goings on and such—but I thought I would take the first day of the month to share a few retroactive highlights from my time away from the blog. Because goodness gracious, November. Never the busiest month for me in life, it has certainly become so in death…
Here’s what I was up to, whilst away.

Fashion Week (November 11-15)

Because ghosts are not bound by the same physical rules as humans, we can do our fashion weeks in rather inaccessible locales. So, this year’s fashion week took place deep with the forests of Japan.

https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f0/Shiratani_Unsui_Gorge_17.jpg

But with fabulous hair for accoutrement.

It was just about as beautiful as could possibly be, with fireflies lighting up the nighttime runways and gorgeous sunsets illuminating the afternoon. And Marc’s line —menswear inspired by campfires, charcoal, and gleaming driftwood—worked incredibly well with the backdrop, adding an extra level of magic to something already quite magical.

But behind all the beauty, of course, are schedules, reservations, rehearsals, bitch-fits, and last-minute problem solving, all of which went from about a 5 to a 10 on the Stress Scale this year. Reason being…this was our first fashion week as independent designers.

In every previous year, we’ve had AMMA dealing with the majority of the nitty-gritty on our behalf. Our first assistants, Danny and Fleur, also had coordinating staff meetings to help them solidify our schedules and appearances. This left Marc and I to just design, execute, and walk.

But this year…well, Marc had to not only design his set but book the space, coordinate the build, schedule the rehearsals, etc. Danny and Fleur had to be incredibly discerning about our interview selection, jettisoning some of the old and bringing in new, and they had to work more time for networking into an already packed schedule. And I had to put on my most confident swagger and go…talk to people. *shudder*

But we managed it all, the show went off well, and I was able to amicably part ways with one of my designers whose brand I’ve outgrown, promising to send him some fresh faces for consideration.

And in the end, at the award banquet, we made out like Junius-Smith bandits…no brag, *ahem.*

Marcus won the overall independent designer category with takes into account new shops opened, sales, brand originality, and design. The man is a sexy, design machine. Also, one of the recipients of Marc’s Rufius Award, named after his late artistic husband, received the award for best new line—Xavvy—and thanked Marc for his mentorship in the speech.

And Mira, our baby queen, won best print advert second year in a row modelling miniaturized Oscar de la Renta. In the shot, she has on a gorgeous red dress with cream under skirts, and she’s coming out of a forest cave and stepping over a puddle while she looks at the sky with this ‘are you quite finished’ expression. Hah! And her walk much improved this year, as well.

I was out of the running this year after winning the top modelling award in 2014, so I was able to just sit and cuddle J-bird and celebrate Marc and Mira.

Then the rest of the month was also about celebrating them, haha.

Marc’s B-Day (November 22)

One of the greatest pleasures of my marriage is having a husband who is truly the easiest person for whom to buy gifts. I mean…it’s extraordinary. He loves anything animal-related, cute and fierce animals both. He loves jewelry, like leather or gold cuffs, thick rings, adornments for his toga. He loves anything he can add to his favourite spaces in the house—kitchen, pool, bath, stables. He loves family-related gifts, anything to do with Roma, things that are fast, photography gizmos, clothing, wine, you name it. And no matter what you give him, it is like watching Christmas unfold before your very eyes.

Ugh, I love it.

And this year for his birthday (which we relocated from June), I got him the most perfect thing—a full afternoon with a falconer, meeting birds, wearing gauntlets, watching raptor predators swoop and dive, and making a new friend, as it turns out the falconer also dabbles in swordplay.

He literally almost cried when I told him what his birthday present was, and he’s been printing out pictures of falcons and pinning them up in his study ever since.

Husband achievement unlocked.

Mira’s Adoption Anniversary and Thanksgiving (November 26-28)

Marcus and I are neither of us American, but our host is, and so we sort of took to this holiday over the years out of proximity more than anything else. We all rather think it’s ridiculous as a celebration of anything even remotely historical, but it does do a good job bringing folks together for moments of warm gratitude, so when we started living part-time in Canada, we rolled it out as a novelty for our mates up there.

They loved it. Ed and Jacques fight us for hosting rights now, haha.

And then in 2013, our (now) daughter Mirabelle stood up on her chair and grandly announced that she had decided to accept our adoption invitation, injecting a whole new level of meaning into the holiday. She makes a toast every year now, baby mimosa in hand. It’s fabulous.

Alexander’s NaNoWriMo (November 1-30)

Of course the other momentary diversion from regular blog posts happened on account of Alex successfully accomplishing NaNoWriMo with 50,206 words on his current historical-fantasy project. I’m madly in love with it, and terribly proud of him—just wanted to say that in public space. Good show, darling sir.

Back to Work?

If there’s one thing that positively guts me, it’s change.  I can handle about two changes at a time, and anything more than that leaves me morose and exhausted–hence the late post.  It’s not a particularly charming personality trait, but there it is.

As it just so happens, there are approximately 6,000 changes in progress at AMMA, and, therefore, going back to work this week was quite difficult.

Primarily, I’m dealing with the burden, if you ask me, opportunity, if you ask Marc, of releasing my contract.  This is the four year contract I signed when I started at AMMA in 2011, and it has been nothing but gloriously comfortable and productive.  The fine print never came back to bite me, the staff writing position was never arduous, the ensemble modelling was terribly fun, and having AMMA on my side in negotiations with high-fashion runway folks was not only a relief but utterly necessary.

Now I’m being told–in the most complimentary fashion, I’m assured–that I’m too recognisable for ensemble work, too adroit for staff writing positions, and too independently successful to continue with agency representation.

I know.  I know it’s ridiculous to complain about such things, I do.  I’ve made good on my responsibilities, garnered opportunities, and become more coveted than I ever thought possible, and I should strike out on my own.  But I’ll be damned if I’m not just miserable over the idea of leaving AMMA.  They’ve been so wonderful, and I feel so ungrateful.

I expressed this opinion to Robert–CEO, general hardass, and good friend–and after he was finished calling me a number of rather unseemly things and raking me over the coals for naivety, he admitted he was happy to hear that they would be missed and that he’d keep me if he could.  But he had to stand by his decision.  I’ve done more than enough for the company.  I have outgrown the contract. He will not be setting me up with a new one.  It’s for my own good.

Recognising that I was pretty torn up about the whole thing, even if I was attempting a brave face, Marcus took me out to supper on Friday night.  We went to our favourite spot–a tiny Indian restaurant draped in silks and smothered in pillows–and sat in our favourite corner booth.  At the end of supper he folded his napkin and said, “Do non be mad.”  Then he pulled a key out of his pocket and slid it across the table to me.

As it turns out, Marcus, who has always been more of a shrewd and independent businessman than I, saw this contract release a mile away.  And since he had planned to give up his own contract when it expired due to personal and creative differences with the editorial board he secretly purchased new offices two years ago.

That’s right, he had decided to move out of AMMA and across the street into a three flat brownstone two years ago.

I was mad.  Then I was grateful.  Then I was mad that I was grateful.

Then I saw the look on his face, and I knew exactly what he was thinking.  I realised that it was actually a rather big deal for Marcus to recognize that he had trespassed on my autonomy, rather than thinking that he was a 100% unproblematic white knight and know-it-all.  In general, high-ranking priest/official/judge/generals of Ancient Rome were not taught to be apologetic.  And there he was looking apologetic.

It didn’t fix everything but it sure as hell helped…

So, we grabbed a bottle of Bordeaux to go and visited our new offices, wandering around together hand in hand while he explained his thought process and talked about the design plan that has been rattling around in his brain for two years.

Namely, I get the garden and the second floor of the brownstone for whatever fashion needs I have.  I can have an office with a window, or I can burrow into the back corner of the semi-basement and surround myself with books and lanterns, whatever I like.  From those spaces I can sell individual pieces of writing to AMMA as a guest contributor, I can schedule and spread my time more evenly among my high-fashion designers and participate more fully in their businesses, and I can hire myself out as a consultant and runway coach.

The main floor and the top floor, then, are Marc’s, with a flagship haute-couture boutique and tailoring suite on the main and a facsimile of his AMMA offices on the third in addition to a conference room.

Furthermore, I get to keep my staff.  My personal assistant, Danny, is coming with me, as is his new assistant Lucas.  That looks terribly extravagant in writing.  What it really boils down to is that Danny and his husband want to become foster parents and so he hired someone to answer the phones and make the copies so that he can focus on the more complex tasks from home with a baby on his knee.

Marc’s staff is coming, too: his wildly, joyfully aggressive PA, Fleur; his studious artisan of a first assistant and junior partner, John.

Conversations about changes we might make to his plan (which is, admittedly, a great one) turned into conversations about the opportunities the place might offer us.  And those conversations turned into reflections on how it really is rather swell to be able to share your work with your spouse…with minimal bloodshed…and won’t it be grand to go into work next week in our own JS Designs headquarters, to have the kids with us at work whenever we want, and to launch whatever comes next for us from a place of full independence.

And, yes, it will be grand.  A bit scary.  But grand.

Swash Swash, Buckle Buckle

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I recently signed with a new line that specialises in Cavalier fashions.  The process of signing, at my stage in the game, goes something like this:

First, my personal assistant–Danny–looks for open contracts and does some recon on the lines.  He checks for responsible designers with promising futures, overall sales numbers, Fashion Week reviews, and, if he likes what he sees, he sends my book around with my print ads and numbers.

When I first started, this was terribly worrisome–followed up by in person fittings, interview, and trial runway walks.  Now, it’s primarily a formality, expressing my interest in their designs.  Like a calling card.

After my “card” is sent off, we wait to hear back from the line.  If they feel I’d be a good fit for the line, then they send along my requested materials.  I always ask for clothing from the line, so I can see how I feel in it and check the fit, and I also ask for letters of recommendation from the current models, expressing the personality of the line and their experience as a part of it.  I also get a copy of a current contract, so I can get a sense of their requirements and policies.

Finally, if I like the clothes, the letters, the base-line contract, then my company enters into negotiations.  When I first started at AMMA (Afterlife Magazine and Modelling Agency), HR took care of this, but my heightened position within the company now leads to high profile negotiations, which the director of the company–Robert–likes to take care of himself.

Robert is loud, shrewd, and very willing to ask all of those “but what will you do for us?” and “can we add another zero?” sorts of questions.  He’s a businessman through and through, and his own sense of fashion–dad jeans and ill-fitting white button downs–requires a bit of sprucing when the negotiations exit the land of email and close in person.  His long-suffering PA attacks him with a suit, always some shade of green for some reason, and threatens to quit if he won’t put it on.

Robert always puts on the suit.

I am not actually involved in the negotiations.  I really couldn’t give a ruddy raincloud how much the contract ends up being worth–that’s Robert’s area of avarice.  And all my riders–primarily relating to family considerations–are clearly outlined and clearly required.  So I just wait for the contract to land on my desk, have Marc check it over, and then immediately begin planning my next charitable contributions.

I also immediately set up to meet the designer and shake hands with the models who sent along their letters.  Provided everything feels right, I sign the contract and leave a copy with the line.  This is also primarily formality.  I have never not signed a contract at this stage–my company (Danny, especially) does a brilliant job of setting me up with the right people.

However, I have never signed a contract quite so quickly as I did this one.  As soon as I met Richard, feet up on his enormous beat-to-hell scrolled desk, looking for all the world like a seventeenth-century Errol Flynn, I asked for a pen.

Literally the only man who can make that mustache look good.

But with boots, a gold-embroidered waistcoat, and a rapier.  No, I know.

He handed me a quill and grinned, and I about forgot how to write.

As I muddled my way through my own goddamn name, he airily commented that my riders were rather interesting, and that I must be the sort of bloke with thousands of pictures of his children.  I admitted as much and passed him my phone so he could flip through a few while I finished crossing Ts and dotting Is.  He giggled appreciatively a number of times, and I fell further in love.

Contract signed off, and phone back in my pocket, we chatted a bit about the line and its origin and direction.  It became known to me in the course of this conversation that Richard had dabbled in nearly everything under the sun–including piracy, women, and men–and that he could wear the hell out of an earring.  I was suddenly very glad that I had worn mine.  Made me feel more credible, haha.

I asked toward the end of the conversation why he had hired me, and he threw his hands behind his head and said, “well, you’ll have to forgive me if I hired you on account of you being a choice piece of finery.”

And then he eyed me up and down.

And smirked.

I managed to smirk back–quite proud of myself on that count–and told him no apology necessary.  He laughed and said, “but don’t worry, I know who your husband is,” and held his hands up to display their innocent intentions.

Flirtations finished, he took me down to the next level of his offices where I found a cloistered, smokey, velvet bar.  Truly, right on premise.  And at the bar were a number of devilishly handsome models, two of whom Richard introduced to me as the blokes who wrote recommendations.  Jeremiah, like Richard an actual cavalier, has cascading blonde curls and quite the reputation as a casanova.  And Lucius, a dandy from the 1920s, surveyed me akin to Richard and then reintroduced himself as Fox–he’s quite taken with the Batman films, you see.  I noted that he should drag as Luscious Fox, and he determined that we would be quite good friends.

And then…I learned how we advertise…

As it turns out, we engage in piracy.  We dress up to the nines, head out into the Mediterranean on Richard’s pleasure yacht, roll up to rich-boy party boats, forcibly board them, and then proceed to drink them dry, throwing a festivity using their own liquor and niceties and leaving business cards behind after we boisterously sell the brand.

I’m not sure I can even express how much I am in love with this.  I love pirates.  I love fashion.  I love drinking.  And now I get paid to be a drunken fashion pirate.

Like this, but with...well, with similar numbers of gay men, likely, but...no, similar amounts of liquor, too...newer boats. We'll have newer boats.

Like this, but with…well, with similar numbers of gay men, likely, but…no, similar amounts of liquor, too… Newer boats. We’ll have newer boats.

I just…

I can’t.  But I will.  But I can’t.

But I will.

Got to See a Man about a Go-See

This last winter, one of my designers fell apart at the seams–no pun…some pun intended.

I try to keep six of them in my pocket, because I’ve determined that six is enough to keep me interested without stressing me beyond my ability to look and walk well for each.  I also try to take on jobs that allow me to stay at a consistent age and physique–as a ghost, I can shift at will as long as it’s within my realm of alively experience, or within an achievable range of new experiences as a ghost, but it does perturb the children, especially J.  And, finally, I try to take on jobs that allow me to dress for historical eras.  This might be a throwback to my time in the opera, or it might just be a personal quirk, but whatever the case, I bloody well love flouncing about in costumes from previous eras.

My current list of designers, then, fleshes out as such:

1. Marcus–JS Designs:  Of course, my husband’s line was my first sign.  I shall have to tell the story of our hiring at some point…it’s a tickler.  His clothes are angular, interested in natural materials (wood, ore, leather), and modern, although they are often inspired by his Roma and what he remembers of it.

2. Marie–Mode du Marie: Marie was my second sign. This was apparently something of a coup, although I didn’t realise it at the time, as awestruck and befuddled by everything as I was to begin.  She is the foremost designer of 18th century haute couteur and worked as an assistant to the primary dress designer of Marie Antoinette in life.  And now I traipse down the runway in her glittery creations, acting every part the courtier.  She recently collaborated with Marcus on a line of zoo animal inspired outfits.  She is also mad.  Just completely mad.  She calls her husband, “girafe.”  And she asked me at my interview to describe myself as if I were a hot air balloon.

3. Herschel–Zehr Anzuge:  Herschel signed me on my gentlemanly manner, which holds until I open my mouth and attempt to say any word starting with an “h”.  He makes suits primarily of the Edwardian era, and over the years I’ve come to front his line and print ads.  He’s a dear heart who fancies walks in nature over walks with companions.

4. David–Sliante:  David is adorable.  He’s this shy Irish bloke with an aversion to parties and shmoozing who knits all the sweaters for his line, pines after redheaded lasses, and finds the fact that I’ve gone and made him famous equal parts fantastic and frustrating.  His line is 40s/50s based.

5. Georgie–Regencies:  Georgie is posh, flippant, and something between a dandy and a Corinthian.  He found me in my second year of modelling and snatched me up before my contracts became…absurd.  I love walking for him, as he usually picks natural, wild, forlorn sorts of settings and encourages both Byronic attitude, as well as Byronic attendance–his audiences are overwraught, as are his partners of both sexes.  It’s all rather brilliant, haha.

So, now I find myself in the position of contracting a sixth designer.

This is a bit of a dilemma for a number of reasons.

First, I’m embarassed to say, I have to find someone who can afford me.  I don’t controul my own contracts yet–that happens next year, at which point I plan on taking on brand new designers for next to nothing with the intention of launching their lines.  But for now AMMA tells designers how much they must pay me, and it’s exorbitant and horrid.

Second, I have to find someone in whose line I “fit” as it were.  I need it to be a line in which I can believe, as well as a line in which I dress well.  And I also wish very much to work with other fun blokes who enjoy what they do but don’t take it too seriously.  The sorts who will go out for a beer after wrap and not fret the whole time over calories.

Just these two stipulations narrow my options, considerably.  In fact, I came up with five options:  Medieval, Renaissance, Cavalier, Victorian, or a second modern line.

The second modern line is right out.  I decided rather quickly that I’d rather Marc occupy that spot on his own.  Then I tossed out Victorian because even well tailored Victorian has a tendency toward frumpy, as Marcus discovered when he took in a number of my own jackets for daily wear.  I ruled out the Medieval after some debate because the clothes are just a bit shapeless, as well, and the blokes on the current line rather serious.

So that left Cavalier or Renaissance.  Both sets of models for these lines are deliciously hilarious and handsome, and the clothes are equally gorgeous.  So, I procured some looks from each and tried them on at home to see how Marcus responded, as I also like to look well for him.  He appreciated the Renaissance, but the Cavalier duds inspired a rather wolfish grin, and so that settled it.

https://veronica12aslvillegas.files.wordpress.com/2011/10/095.jpg?w=519&h=388

Me.

 

Nearly.

I had one further person with whom I had to clear the decision–Marc’s assistant designer and junior partner in JS Designs, John Smythe.

John, you see, is a Puritan.

https://i1.wp.com/www.kingsacademy.com/mhodges/04_American-Government/01_Colonial-Foundations/pictures/WIK_The-1st-Thanksgiving_Brownscombe.jpg

John.

 

I know what you might be thinking–but he works in fashion and with Marc of all people.  How does he handle the constant allusions to battle and sex and paganism and sexy pagan battles??

Well, it turns out that John is such a phenomenal craftsman and truly good person that Marc keeps it all toned down for his benefit.  And it also turns out that John is a rather progressive Puritan–he still uses antiquated speech and dresses quite simply (loose white shirts, khaki capris with lots of hooks for tools, and tall boots) but he also enjoys seeing his visions play out on the runway, giving away the money his leather-work brings in, and living in some comfort with his husband, Benjamin, also a Puritan.  I’ve also heard him drop the F-bomb.  Granted it flew out of his mouth when he was nearly hit by a car, and he submitted to a week of penance over the whole deal, but he still said it.

Anyway, Puritans and Cavaliers are like water and oil, and I very much didn’t want to offend him with my choice, even if it is just a playful one. So, I went to ask him his permission.

He gave me a very tight lipped once over and said, “Do what you wilt.”  And then a bit more kindly he added, “Thou art a good man.  Clothing is but clothing, after all.”

I nodded and said, yes, it’s all just a bit of fun.

This concerned him.  Fun.  How suspicious.  So he added, “But as thou partake of fun, do be wary.  Thou shouldst take care not to let the Cavalier ways of mind and manners of person affect thee.  They are a lascivious lot.”

And I said, John, darling, the H.M.S. Lascivious set sail years ago.  Which got another tight-lipped once over with a bit of a wince thrown in, but he just shook his head and waved me off.  “Go and have thine…fun” he says.

(I desperately want to play “Cards Against Humanity” with him.)

In any case, now all that’s left is to sign with my new designer–Rrrrrrichard–and then it’ll be mustard coats and armoured breast plates and a vast number of boots.

Boots everywhere.

Quite looking forward to it.