Sunday, July 5, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Eva Mendes named world’s most desirable woman
Hollywood actress Eva Mendes has been named the Most Desirable Woman in the world by a new online survey by AskMen.com.“The Hitch” star topped a poll of more than seven million people beating the likes of beauties Scarlett Johansson and Rihanna, who could only manage the seventh and eight place respectively, reports contactmusic.com.
Mendes also left behind model-turned-actress Megan Fox, who was crowned last year’s Sexiest Woman In The World by FHM magazine.
Mendes also left behind model-turned-actress Megan Fox, who was crowned last year’s Sexiest Woman In The World by FHM magazine.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Padma Laksmi about Style
Harpers Bazaar—February, 2003
Do you dress for men?
By Padma Lakshi
Padma Lakshmi comes clean about her penchant for wearing clothes that are guaranteed to turn men’s heads.
The first time I chose my clothes to make an impact, I must have been nine. I was going to meet Billy, Pedro, and Jake. I'm not sure what got into me, but I knew what I was doing. I was dressing to kill. Or at least maim softly, as one could only hope to do at nine. I pulled out my favorite shorts, the really short shorts in baby blue with navy piping that I had all but grown out of. Trying them on topless in front of the bathroom mirror, I decided that the white-collared shirt with navy bicycles printed all over it would be best. I don't remember wearing much else save my roller skates that summer. But that day, I only buttoned the blouse to the middle and tied the ends in a knot. Then I undid the top and second button. I stood there wondering all kinds of things. What if you could see my underwear? Did my stomach look chubby? Would my mother kill me with my shirt like this?
But mostly I thought of Jake. I thought of what he'd see, what he'd feel. What I could make him feel about me.
Since then, I've never stopped dressing for the boys. Sure, I dress for the girls, too, and to please myself when I look in the mirror, but we've all talked and read about that. I grew up devouring fashion magazines, and what I never read about was dressing to please the opposite sex, except in syrupy bridal magazines. I seldom had a taste for those.
Moreover, my mother never bought them. At no time under my mother's sartorial guidance did she ever address being alluring. But I watched what she did. I was the one, after all, who ironed her filmy silk blouses when she got ready for yet another date. I watched as she turned round and round atop high strappy shoes to inspect herself from every angle in the long mirror tacked to the bathroom door. She seemed to be asking her reflection, "Will he like me in this?" "Does this show me off?" Yet my mother has always been a card-carrying feminist.
Mine is the generation raised by a nation of bra-burning mothers—the generation that was finally allowed to dress any damn way it pleased and still expect to be taken seriously. And why not? Where is it written that a smart woman can't also be stacked? But somehow it seemed to be a tacit rule that caring what the other sex thought (of our appearance, anyway) was very uncool, indeed.
When I got my first coveted, very unnecessary bra, I wanted it to be black, but my mother insisted it would show through most of my clothes. Well, uh ... yeah. When I kept making sure the strap showed, inching it towards my collarbone, it was all she could do to keep her eyes from rolling into the back of her head.
But I had my agenda: arouse from a distance the object of my longing, in those days, the only way I thought I could—by the way I dressed. It was during adolescent dating that I discovered that my body, depending on what was or wasn't covering it, could attract the attention of the opposite sex. His name was Artie, and he once told me I looked cute in a miniskirt. I believe I wore nothing more to cover my legs that year, well into February.
Even when I went back to India to visit family, I found that my aunt Neela, the great beauty of our family, had begun to have her sari blouses cut so dangerously low that I once caught her folding her bra down inside. When confronted by another nosy member of our large household, Neela said she always dressed this nicely, even to go to temple. "No one dresses like that to go to temple," the relative countered.
I followed Neela one day and discovered that she was going no further than the roof of our building to meet secretly the man who would fit later become her husband.
In college I discovered the bias cut, and it changed everything. All of a sudden I could unmask while covering, which seemed a much more delicate way to illuminate the body. I also favored tight jeans and heels, with fuzzy, off-the- shoulder sweaters for the cold New England evenings. In the summer I wore bright and clingy sundresses to show off my tan. I found sometimes it was better to show less—show carefully—rather than expose in abundance. I also developed a vast collection of very similar but subtly unique little black dresses. I gravitated toward anything that made me move in a certain cat-like manner. I wore whatever made me feel sensual, feel pretty and confident, so that I showed the best of myself, which is what we all strive to do when courting.
But I have never lost my penchant for the bias cut, and to this day I rely on it at times when the stakes are high. I once went to a party where, at the end of the night, my manager told me to buy the dress I was wearing in every available color. The deep turquoise dress, in floaty crepe silk, hung off my shoulders by the most delicate of straps. "Why?" I asked. "Look in your purse. How many phone numbers do you have?" "What does that have to with anything?" "Just get the dresses," she said.
The next day, while I was in the dressing room of the shop that sold the dresses, my phone rang. It was one of the people I had met the night before. When he asked what I was doing, I told him I was deciding whether I should buy a dress just like the one I had worn on the night we met. He said, "Definitely." We arranged to meet a few days later, and I told him I would wear the dress I had over my head when his call came.
At that moment, the dress became something more than just a garment; it became part of our emotional memory. As I got ready to meet him, I found myself turning around in front of the mirror and wondering, Will he like me in this? Does this show me off? Since then I have often donned that dress, if only to capture and relish the exhilaration of
That first year of our story, I brainstormed over my attire every time we met. I can remember what I wore that first time in Paris—a velvet lace number by Rifat Ozbek; that second time in New York—threadbare 1960s vintage corduroy Levi's with brass rivets down the pant leg and a butterscotch sweater just short enough to graze my navel; a somber pair of lean wool Gucci slacks and a wraparound I top cut with a very low V, the first time he came H to stay at my apartment. I still plan my H wardrobe when one of us comes home from a long trip, right down to the undergarments. Especially the undergarments. But of course I do. We are hardwired to do this. To say that we don’t dress to attract is to miss the first pleasure of the courting ritual. It nature to fan out our feathers and hope that we can display ourselves in a manner that will encourage the other sex to procreate. No one is immune to that. I have made a healthy living by allegedly being able to look good in clothes. But no matter how many times I stand in front of the camera, I still wonder whether I'll be pleasing to the other's eye. Thus is the insecurity of desire.
Dressing up is one of the last mating rituals we have. When I think of the times I have really planned what to wear, really wanted to look my best, to provoke and allure, it was always for an audience of one.
__________________
Do you dress for men?
By Padma Lakshi
Padma Lakshmi comes clean about her penchant for wearing clothes that are guaranteed to turn men’s heads.
The first time I chose my clothes to make an impact, I must have been nine. I was going to meet Billy, Pedro, and Jake. I'm not sure what got into me, but I knew what I was doing. I was dressing to kill. Or at least maim softly, as one could only hope to do at nine. I pulled out my favorite shorts, the really short shorts in baby blue with navy piping that I had all but grown out of. Trying them on topless in front of the bathroom mirror, I decided that the white-collared shirt with navy bicycles printed all over it would be best. I don't remember wearing much else save my roller skates that summer. But that day, I only buttoned the blouse to the middle and tied the ends in a knot. Then I undid the top and second button. I stood there wondering all kinds of things. What if you could see my underwear? Did my stomach look chubby? Would my mother kill me with my shirt like this?
But mostly I thought of Jake. I thought of what he'd see, what he'd feel. What I could make him feel about me.
Since then, I've never stopped dressing for the boys. Sure, I dress for the girls, too, and to please myself when I look in the mirror, but we've all talked and read about that. I grew up devouring fashion magazines, and what I never read about was dressing to please the opposite sex, except in syrupy bridal magazines. I seldom had a taste for those.
Moreover, my mother never bought them. At no time under my mother's sartorial guidance did she ever address being alluring. But I watched what she did. I was the one, after all, who ironed her filmy silk blouses when she got ready for yet another date. I watched as she turned round and round atop high strappy shoes to inspect herself from every angle in the long mirror tacked to the bathroom door. She seemed to be asking her reflection, "Will he like me in this?" "Does this show me off?" Yet my mother has always been a card-carrying feminist.
Mine is the generation raised by a nation of bra-burning mothers—the generation that was finally allowed to dress any damn way it pleased and still expect to be taken seriously. And why not? Where is it written that a smart woman can't also be stacked? But somehow it seemed to be a tacit rule that caring what the other sex thought (of our appearance, anyway) was very uncool, indeed.
When I got my first coveted, very unnecessary bra, I wanted it to be black, but my mother insisted it would show through most of my clothes. Well, uh ... yeah. When I kept making sure the strap showed, inching it towards my collarbone, it was all she could do to keep her eyes from rolling into the back of her head.
But I had my agenda: arouse from a distance the object of my longing, in those days, the only way I thought I could—by the way I dressed. It was during adolescent dating that I discovered that my body, depending on what was or wasn't covering it, could attract the attention of the opposite sex. His name was Artie, and he once told me I looked cute in a miniskirt. I believe I wore nothing more to cover my legs that year, well into February.
Even when I went back to India to visit family, I found that my aunt Neela, the great beauty of our family, had begun to have her sari blouses cut so dangerously low that I once caught her folding her bra down inside. When confronted by another nosy member of our large household, Neela said she always dressed this nicely, even to go to temple. "No one dresses like that to go to temple," the relative countered.
I followed Neela one day and discovered that she was going no further than the roof of our building to meet secretly the man who would fit later become her husband.
In college I discovered the bias cut, and it changed everything. All of a sudden I could unmask while covering, which seemed a much more delicate way to illuminate the body. I also favored tight jeans and heels, with fuzzy, off-the- shoulder sweaters for the cold New England evenings. In the summer I wore bright and clingy sundresses to show off my tan. I found sometimes it was better to show less—show carefully—rather than expose in abundance. I also developed a vast collection of very similar but subtly unique little black dresses. I gravitated toward anything that made me move in a certain cat-like manner. I wore whatever made me feel sensual, feel pretty and confident, so that I showed the best of myself, which is what we all strive to do when courting.
But I have never lost my penchant for the bias cut, and to this day I rely on it at times when the stakes are high. I once went to a party where, at the end of the night, my manager told me to buy the dress I was wearing in every available color. The deep turquoise dress, in floaty crepe silk, hung off my shoulders by the most delicate of straps. "Why?" I asked. "Look in your purse. How many phone numbers do you have?" "What does that have to with anything?" "Just get the dresses," she said.
The next day, while I was in the dressing room of the shop that sold the dresses, my phone rang. It was one of the people I had met the night before. When he asked what I was doing, I told him I was deciding whether I should buy a dress just like the one I had worn on the night we met. He said, "Definitely." We arranged to meet a few days later, and I told him I would wear the dress I had over my head when his call came.
At that moment, the dress became something more than just a garment; it became part of our emotional memory. As I got ready to meet him, I found myself turning around in front of the mirror and wondering, Will he like me in this? Does this show me off? Since then I have often donned that dress, if only to capture and relish the exhilaration of
That first year of our story, I brainstormed over my attire every time we met. I can remember what I wore that first time in Paris—a velvet lace number by Rifat Ozbek; that second time in New York—threadbare 1960s vintage corduroy Levi's with brass rivets down the pant leg and a butterscotch sweater just short enough to graze my navel; a somber pair of lean wool Gucci slacks and a wraparound I top cut with a very low V, the first time he came H to stay at my apartment. I still plan my H wardrobe when one of us comes home from a long trip, right down to the undergarments. Especially the undergarments. But of course I do. We are hardwired to do this. To say that we don’t dress to attract is to miss the first pleasure of the courting ritual. It nature to fan out our feathers and hope that we can display ourselves in a manner that will encourage the other sex to procreate. No one is immune to that. I have made a healthy living by allegedly being able to look good in clothes. But no matter how many times I stand in front of the camera, I still wonder whether I'll be pleasing to the other's eye. Thus is the insecurity of desire.
Dressing up is one of the last mating rituals we have. When I think of the times I have really planned what to wear, really wanted to look my best, to provoke and allure, it was always for an audience of one.
__________________
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
