I was just reading through a few old posts and came up against my past self again. Sassing all over this blog with my snappy declarations about haute couture (including gushing over some looks that have me looking cock-eyed at Past Rosie and saying '...really?'), posting wishlists, oh, too much, so much. Hours of writing and thinking and scrolling through pictures online, hours of falling in love with clothes in pictures and half-dreaming about hazy future times in which I lived and breathed in those clothes. Imaginary fabrics on a younger me, Rosie at 24, at 25, and now I am two weeks shy of 28, two weeks shy of submitting my thesis. I have thirty pages left to proof and have written a final 'to do' list, probably the last of literally dozens I have written throughout this process. For those playing at home, I have to write two footnotes, add a couple of sentences tying an example to another article, and whip up a conclusion that is already murkily drawing muscle and sinew together in the... I have to follow this metaphor through... primordial swamp of my mind? Which, I guess, makes me conclusion super-advanced in the evolutionary process because it is has bones... And if you're wondering how we got to this point in the sentence, I am truly not quite sure myself.
What am I sure of? I like what I have written in my thesis- I think this is no small achievement, as I always wanted to still be interested in my object of study at the end (I am) and find reading my writing enjoyable, if a slog at parts (you always have that, surely, with a doctoral thesis? All the qualifications and explanations of bias and things you can't get to. Well, anyway, yes, it's all right. I like it. So that's satisfying.)
What else? I want to keep thinking about clothes and fashion and selves and bodies and performance. I want to keep reading and writing and teaching.
And I'm grateful to you for reading along with me, with all the gushing and the thinking through, the sighing over Proenza Schouler and Dries Van Noten, the draggy distracted times, the cryptically-written elated times. I'm sorry I've been so invisible over the past year. Writing about my life would pretty much have looked like this: 'sat at my desk for another twelve hours today, but I eventually overcame my loathing of my ideas and forced them out and then was pleasantly surprised that they didn't suck when I read back over them. I might get out of my pajamas tomorrow but who knows?' Which might have been v. interesting in a kind of warts-and-all portrait of my working style but 1. ew, and 2. not v. interesting in general, I don't think.
So I leave you now, but I will be back in two weeks with some photos of me holding the printed and bound beloved beast and some kind of teary sign-off summing up of this experience? Or maybe just a chat about how I can't stop looking at coats. Especially coats I can't afford and don't really need, but it's a mania, a mania I tell you. And Haider Ackermann's perfectly perfect AW 14 show didn't help at all, thank you very much Haider.
But also, I always have my dream world, in which I am currently dressed like this-
-and my next lecture is already entirely written. And yet in the absence of the world's most perfect grey coat (no exaggeration, obvz) and with more writing to do, I can still dream, can still write my heart out and will, and will, and will.