Loving My Own Skin

I will start filling my own cup,
Being my own muse,
Knowing my own worth

Loving my own skin,
Praising my own existence,
Validating my own journey,

Speaking my own truth,
Admiring my own reflection,
Experiencing my own love,

Enjoying my own company,
Extending my own energy,
Creating my own paradise.

Via: Fly And Famous Black Girls


Serving Looks, Serving Maripol

Best fashion compliment of my life? Maripol, who I was stunned to meet in Graceland (a room covered wall to wall, top to bottom with photographs of Grace Jones, most taken by the aforementioned party) when Serge Becker introduced her. “You were just in The New York Times,” I blurted out leaving them astonished.

“Yeah,” she smiled slightly. We all went back to glum.

I continued setting up before making my way to the back dining room next door, turns out I was her server. For those not up to speed she created Madonna’s iconic Boy Toy look and styled Grace Jones. A legendary renaissance woman apart of a golden age of art from the 70’s-80’s, running in the most coveted social circles on the scene. Needless to say her standards were tip top bitch. And here I was fifteen minutes late in the first place, deciding to wear my Halloween costume for David Bowie who passed that day. Rocking a silk lavender jumpsuit, switching the scarf out for a black floral one, instead of the orange birds I originally donned. Tying it into a voluminous bow, that burst like a bouquet. “That’s a serious jumpsuit,” Serge commented earlier that evening, freaked out “I just dropped off flowers that exact color to Iman.” He stared incredulous by the coincidence, because coincidences don’t really exist, only synchronicity. Now, under Maripol’s appraising eye the pressure was on in more ways than one and no matter how hard I tried to please her service wise, she was unimpressed. Never enough water, never enough ice, the drinks were slow. Testing me, I knew.

I just kept going, complaining at the service bar that she might actually hate me. After a grueling effort the night ended. “Nice outfit,” Maripol said, leaving a generous tip.
“Thank you, it’s my homage to Bowie.”
“It’s beautiful.”

After being hawked and her whispering to the blonde next to her, I swore she hated everything about me. But it was option two, she was giving me shit because she liked me too much. This is a moment I will savior forever, fortunate enough just to meet her. What was the best fashion compliment you’ve ever received? Via: Documenting Fashion & Strip Project