Come On, Vogue

Something you may not know about me (especially if you’ve seen me lately, since my new favorite uniform is knee length skirt, t shirt, hoodie, flip flops) is that I get Vogue magazine.

 

I’m faintly embarrassed by this, mostly because of WHY I get it. You know how a lot of fine upstanding fellas say that they read Playboy for the articles?

I read Vogue for the … ads.

I know it’s weird. I’ve mostly cancelled my fashion magazine subscriptions because I (again, mostly) don’t care what someone in New York or LA thinks that my New Hampshire dwelling self should be wearing. As much as I like pretty clothes, I don’t care that this is the year of the wedge boot, or the whatever else it’s the year of, since I’m pretty much going to be wearing my Wellies all winter long to keep my feet dry and cozy.

But oh MAN do I love a fashion advertisement. I love the choices involved – where does the product go? How is it featured? What’s the colour palette? Is there text? What does it say? Where is the text placed? I LOVE this kind of thing; I think it’s a holdover from my stint as the editor of my high school newspaper when I had to think about where the words and images would go on the page. It was fascinating. I loved it almost as much as I loved the writing.

The writing in Vogue? I don’t love. It annoys me. It’s the 1% writing for the 99% as though we should care about what the 1% do, where they go, and what they have. Frankly, most of that makes me feel gross about getting the magazine at all, like I’m lightly coated with slime. HAMPTONS slime, no less. Tossed at me from a Birkin bag by a woman who’s only famous because her daddy has money. Wheee! It’s off-putting.

The ads though. They’re amazing.

When I went to my mailbox this morning, the new issue of Vogue was hogging up the inside, forcing the rest of my mail to cower resentfully in the corner (the Kittery Trading Post flyer looked MAD) behind the 916 page (yes, you read that properly: nine hundred and sixteen pages) beast that is the fall fashion spectacular. 

 

I do love me some Lady Gaga, I won't lie

 

It’s thicker than my phone book, and frankly – since I mentioned the 1% -- I feel like it’s a demonstration of the excess and frivolity that both the 1% and Vogue itself represent.  There is NO REASON for a fashion magazine – especially a high fashion magazine, which includes clothes the average subscriber couldn’t possibly afford, especially in this economy -- to be 916 pages. NONE.  It’s a gross waste of trees.

Even if it is 80% of glorious, pretty, brilliantly designed ads. (Oh and it is—let’s not kid ourselves.)

So, I’m embarrassed.  I realize that by purchasing the magazine, I’m perpetuating what it stands for and also, sort of saying that I’m okay with cutting down an entire rainforest so that I can see the newest Chanel ad. (Which, by the way, is visual POETRY. I’m just saying.)

When this subscription ends next month, I’m not going to renew. It’s too much. I’m too embarrassed.

But until then? Prada ads for everyone!