Remi Rebillard | CSI Designer Shoe Fetish Meets Anne's Mice Shoes
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Shoes by Prada.
Greta As Stylvia Plath | ‘Fragmentary Girl’ by Remi Rebillard AOC Sensuality Yours
One look at Remi Rebillard’s latest collection of images and I see that a fashion humor intervention is in order. Remi, I’m the serious one, for God’s sake! You can’t be more philosophical about the influence of fashion on a woman’s life than I am.
The truth is that I have Remi spoiled — two intellectual minds playing cat and mouse. Wrong metaphor; the mouse shoes are in my story. Remi’s new images of luxury shoes lensed in happenstance moments of fashion luxury madness with CSI consequences have no animals.
I give Remi an inch and he takes a mile. It all began with the Prada shoes, the parting statement in Remi’s ‘Fragmentary Girl’. Can I help it that ‘The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath are two feet away, as we speak?
No, so I gave him the word works. Sylvia Plath herself got attached to Remi’s images, which doesn’t hurt for a photographer obsessed with suicidal women.
Two weeks ago I received a folder that caused me to write:
Remi Rebillard | The Cinematic Beauty of a F**ked Up Life AOC Private Studio
Remi’s images tap into the very real rates of growing depression and unhappiness in countries like America, where self-identity is almost exclusively defined by brands and consumption trends. I’ve yet to meet a brand that made me happy, or a club, a scene, a must-be-seen event. They are momentary highs.
Finding the Commercial in Artistry
I’ve cautioned Remi about being on a self-defeating mission with his imagery, but applaud his commitment to vision and process.
Before we plunge into Remi Rebillard’s latest collection of emotionally-troubled designer shoes, it’s worth noting that just today I checked the best-selling editorials, prepared to move The Cinematic Beauty of a F**ked Up Life editorial into the archives.
To Remi’s credit and the mental sophistication of our AOC readers, it stayed in the side panel, competing well with all those juicy, half-naked fashion editorials that we love.
Let me keep today’s Remi Rebillard fetish shoe editorial intact, but close this post on a strong Smart Sensuality woman, non-suicidal fashion-princess note, no CSI investigation required.
My story about mouse shoes shares a glimpse of New York women, before ‘Sex and the City’. We were far more than the sum of our stilletos in those years, the — ahem — decades when feminism wasn’t a dirty word, when a woman loved men and sex, demanded respect, wore high heels to work but took no shit in business.
These are not the girls in Remi Rebillard’s photos, but trust me when I say that very young women are rallying again.
Enjoy the rest of Remi’s CSI Tortured Designer Shoe Fetish (remember Prada above) and then my personal story that ends Remi’s Crime Scene Investigation visit with a living shoe triumph. Styling by Don West, beauty Mary Irwin.
Valentino Bow shoes.
Gucci Vintage.
Roger Vivier.
Giuseppe Zanotte
Jimmy Choo.
Manolo Blahnik suede. Now, on a lighter note with images not Remi’s:
A Master of the Universe Meets My Parisian Mouse Shoes by Anne
These ‘Smoking Cat Wedges’ come from London-based luxury accessories designer Charlotte Olympia. Mine were mice. I bought them in Paris during the 80s, and I positively adored them. My mice shoes were fully fitted with eyes, whiskers and tails.
Wearing them on the sidewalks of New York, I knew my mouse tails weren’t long for this world. A sensible woman would have kept her Parisian mouse shoes for special occasions, but mine were pounding the pavement in days. Within weeks, one tail was AWOL.
Whose NYC Sidewalk Is This?
I have a major pet peeve with aggressive men in New York. You know the guy — he walks in the wrong direction on your side of the sidewalk, assuming that you will get out of his way, in order to avoid a major collision. It usually works, and women not only defer but say ‘I’m sorry’ as a Manhattan master of the universe mows the little people down.
Men also get right on your backside in New York, not physically pushing you to walk faster like in Hong Kong. But men are sometimes as close to you as they can get without sexual contact, subconsciously pushing you to move it.
This was my case on this gorgeous sunny day in New York, when a master of the universe was bearing down on me. We were entering a crowd and I slowed down to avoid falling into them, causing the master to clip my shoes from behind, as he fell into me. Eureka!
To his credit, this 30s guy in a suit apologized but I had other plans for him. ‘My shoes,’ I screamed in mock horror, turning to face him and looking down at the pavement. ‘My tail, where is my tail. You ripped it off my mouse shoes. These are my favorite shoes, and you have destroyed them.’
He was dumbfounded, and I managed not to laugh. ‘Where is it?’ I demanded. ‘Find my mouse tail. I bought my shoes in Paris for several hundred dollars. Now find that tail.’
You must understand that we were surrounded by rush hour pavement pounders in every direction. There was no way he could look for my tail. Yet I held him still on his way to Grand Central, prepared to at least make him miss his train and wait 20 minutes for the next one, because he walked on my own feet and backside, which move at lightening speed as it is.
To his credit, my master of the universe did at least look at the pavement in futility.
Today, the same guy would probably say ‘get out of the way, bitch’, but in the 80s women like me used a certain amount of power over men when they were bad boys.
Maybe Remi’s next shots will be show designer shoes perched on the Statue of Liberty or the Chrysler building. If he can’t get a permit, I give my permission for a Photoshop fake it. And no fashionista suicide attempts in high places, Remi. That’s an order. Anne
