Cannes Fashion Report

The annual Cannes Film Festival is always a time where the film actresses and actors are rounded up to present usually indie and somewhat perplexing films. However, the red carpet fashion is usually unbelievably lush. With soft pastels, fine details, and a lovely backdrop, it comes to no surprise that it is one of the few festivals I gauge zealously. This year, I was blown away by the cascade of dresses I would lust to have in closet and to appear that flawless in front of the paparazzi, film, and fashion world. In no particular order, these are a few that stood out to me. 

1. Lana Del Rey

The black and white lace-y detail on this gown is beautiful. This dress is a statement in and of itself, thus not needing much accessories to accentuate the opulence this gown gives. Beautiful neckline, beautiful train; this gown is perfection.

2. Jennifer Lawrence

Not only is she unbelievably funny with a flawless body, she knows how to please the red carpet. This black and white peplum column gown is no exception. With simple detail, this dress needs no further fluffing. Accentuating her shape nicely, it flatters her svelte body, with the peplum defining her tiny waist. 

3. Isla Fisher

The bold color against her skin and hair color makes an unlikely but flattering combination, one that is highly pleasing to the eyes. It also adds a mysterious sultriness and come-hither effect. 

4. Fan Bing Bing

I cannot wear yellow and usually a yellow dress produces a washing out effect on the wearer, but this is not the case. The dress is so lovely and light yellow hue results in such a flattering effect that I am left in awe. I want that dress (albeit in a different color, perchance). 

5. Emma Watson 

Everything she wore was perfect. Refraining from using too many words, let's just say that Emma's closet is one I certainly wouldn't mind raiding. 

Bibliophilia

Books. There is something truly enchanting about them. How they transport you to a different world, different era, different climate, different culture, and different place. They have a magical element in which you open the pages of a book and suddenly, you are there, engulfed in the setting, surrounded by its characters, breathing in their air, feeling the wind as it brushes across their faces, witnessing secret liaisons between lovers, and noticing small yet visceral details that makes it all the more real.  Perhaps the method in which the author utilized his words or how the sentence flowed produced the real scenery in one's mind. 

I'm a self-professed bibliophile. I truly enjoy reading books for pleasure. I could spend hours in a book store scouring for the perfect read or glancing through another period drama, finding an alliance with a cabby driver or seeking counsel from a wiser sister in 19th century England. I love being transported to different places and exploring and interacting with different characters. To understand where I'm coming from, when I read, it isn't just a superfluous reading a book. Rather, it is an experience. I experience the book, complete with mourning the loss of a character, sensing the emotional turmoil the protagonist feels, and feeling lost when the book ends. It may sound silly, but after finishing a novel, I have to watch a movie or distract myself from the perilous gains and losses I've experienced from a reading a book since I feel connected with that plot, character, and morale. Thus, with the explosion of leisure time I've gained with the school year finished, I've found myself with the ample time to read again. For pleasure. No more reading through endless chapters on Christian history or studying cognitive psychology. Finally. I can read about a Jewess's escapade to 1930s Britain or exploring Jane Eyre's world. I no longer have to view my books from my desk with a taunting air and resist the urge to put everything aside because of school. I can read again. Whatever I want, whether it's rereading The Great Gatsby or finally getting the chance to finish Emma, I can resort back to one of my original amours: reading. And with three months of free time, I plan to read the following books:

1. The House at Tyneford by Natalie Solomons

2. Emma by Jane Austen

3. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte 

4. The Lost Wife by Alyson Richman

5. Atonement by Ian McEwan

6. The Time in Between by Maria Duenas 

Do not be surprised if a synopsis or book review will pop up in the future, as I plan to delve in their worlds and experience everything. It will finally give me a chance to escape my boring hometown and go somewhere more exciting, like 1930s Spain. To fellow bibliophiles, I encourage to pick up a copy from the store or library and read on for yourself. 

A Transpiring Between Two Lovers, Part IV

4. Welcome Home

Home is something that cannot be quite described. The definition is highly contingent upon the person's perspective of what home means and the image it illicit. But ultimately, it is the one place that every person desires to go. When things are good, when things are bad, home is home. Regardless of what life was like, there is one thing irrevocably true about home: it changes us. 

My love, do you remember that one crisp December night, when we had that argument? The one that I thought for sure that we would never speak again, never love each other again, and never be with each other from that moment forward? Yes, that one. We were arguing outside my doorstep and you spoke your final piece and leaped inside and slammed the door, right in your face, with a loud smack, reverberating loudly and its visceral reminder of words being unspoken resonating deeply beyond the few inches we stood. I run upstairs and clutched my pillow, heart wrenching sobs escaping my chest and hot tears trickling down my cheeks as I buried my head in my pillow, with the hopes that my broken heart would somehow be remedied with the comfort of soft cotton. Minutes passed by, transpiring into hours. And with my heart broken, I was more hurt and upset at the prospect that I would never speak to you again, I would hear you laugh again after fumbling over a jumbled sentence or something silly, and I would never see you smile again at me. I hated that even more than whatever it was we were arguing about; that wasn't as important as much as I liked you. Or loved you, even without me knowing what it was I feeling. I jumped out my bed, flung a thin jacket on, and biked to your dorm building. While setting my bike beside the brick wall, I caught a glimpse of your face. I had never seen you appearing so grim, so defeated, so sad, as if you lost the most important thing. Your brow was furrowed, your eyes drooped, and your frown was deep. You've never looked sadder. I realized then that I never wanted to see you like that again, so utterly dejected. I approached slowly and when you heard the crumpling snow, you looked up and our eye contact was met with a sense of urgency and homecoming. We ran towards each other and wrapped my arms around you. I never wanted to leave your arms again, to depart from your embrace. You placed your hands on my face and whispered only a few words that still remain embedded in my memory. "Let's never depart from each other again." You hugged me once more, your arms tighter against my waist and your head resting on my shoulders. I felt like I was returning home. I was being welcomed home.