A Quote by Carine Roitfeld
I believe in the Yves Saint Laurent woman who either has her hands in the pockets of her pantsuit or is holding her lover's hand. She doesn't need a bag.
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A wise woman keeps her hands firmly in her pockets and does not accidentally unzip anything, including her mouth.
And so she comes to dream herself the tree, The wind possessing her, weaving her young veins, Holding her to the sky and its quick blue, Drowning the fever of her hands in sunlight. She has no memory, nor fear, nor hope Beyond the grass and shadows at her feet.
She needs someone who will be everything for her: her friend, her boyfriend, her confidant, her lover and sometimes even her enemy.
But she did not take her eyes from the wheels of the second car. And exactly at the moment when the midpoint between the wheels drew level with her, she threw away the red bag, and drawing her head back into her shoulders, fell on her hands under the car, and with a light movement, as though she would rise immediately, dropped on her knees. And at the instant she was terror-stricken at what she was doing. 'Where am I? What am I doing? What for?' She tried to get up, to throw herself back; but something huge and merciless struck her on the head and dragged her down on her back.
If a woman walks with her head down - she has a lover! If a woman walks with her head proudly up - she has a lover! If a woman carries her head straight - she has a lover! And actually, if a woman has a head, she has a
lover!
Even at the age of eight she would fall asleep by pressing one hand into the other and making believe she was holding the hand of the man whom she loved, the man of her life. So if in her sleep she pressed Tomas hand with such tenacity, we can understand why: she had been training since childhood.
I can't catch her by copying her, I can't draw her with a borrowed stencil. She is all the things a lover should be and quite a few a lover should not. Pin her down? She's not a butterfly. I'm not a wrestler. She's not a target. I'm not a gun. Tell you what she is? She's not Lot no. 27 and I'm not one to brag.
Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the more. She trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashed eyes. Now where the blue hell am I bringing her beyond the veil? Into the ineluctable modality of the ineluctable visuality. She, she, she. What she?
Monsier Saint Laurent was pathologically shy, and he made the Saint Laurent woman in his own image. Like her, I am shy. And to protect myself, I adopted something of an androgynous look, just as his women did.
Monsieur Saint Laurent was pathologically shy, and he made the Saint Laurent woman in his own image. Like her, I am shy. And to protect myself, I adopted something of an androgynous look, just as his women did.
Who's with her?" Roarke asked, though he already knew. It was just like her. "With her? Oh, ah, hmmm. Webster." Silence fell, a clatter of broken bricks. Peabody folded her hands in her pockets and prepared for the explosion to follow. "I see." When Roarke simply turned back to the screen and continued, she didn't know whether to be relieved or scared to death.
Yves Saint Laurent liked women to put their hands in their pockets, or to hold cigarettes, and act a bit like boys. It was to give an impression of composure, some self-assurance, and to counter the feminine appearance.
Drifting snowflakes brushed her face as light as lover’s kisses, and melted on her cheeks. At the center of the garden, beside the statue of the weeping woman that lay broken and half-buried on the ground, she turned her face up to the sky and closed her eyes. She could feel the snow on her lashes, taste it on her lips. It was the taste of Winterfell. The taste of innocence. The taste of dreams.
The adolescent does not develop her identity and individuality by moving outside her family. She is not triggered by some magic unconscious dynamic whereby she rejects her family in favour of her peers or of a larger society.... She continues to develop in relation to her parents. Her mother continues to have more influence over her than either her father or her friends.
Or had she always loved him? It's likely. Restricted as she was from speaking, she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to drag her hand across and pull her over. It didn't matter where. Her mouth, her neck, her cheek. Her skin was empty for it, waiting.
For me accessories create and define a woman's personal style. The bag she carries, the watch on her wrist, her jewelry, her sunglasses, her shoes all define a look that is her signature. For Spring 2014, my accessory collections are about a clean, graphic boldness creating a new dimension redefining modern classics.
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