I was home for the holidays last week, which is to say I was reunited with all of my crap...all of the magazines, all of the oversize printed shirts and overlooked awkward sweaters and pants that were hemmed too high and art from college and art from the years immediately after college (that looks like it's from middle school) and books (and yearbooks), knick-knacks and tchotchkes. Old plane tickets, old movie tickets, travel pamphlets, pay stubs, three pairs of scissors, a rogue beanie baby...what have you. I rooted through it all, trying to exorcise years of bad taste and questionable life choices, whittling it all down to one box that I wouldn't want to lose in a fire.
And then there are the tear sheets. From the magazines. The stacks and stacks of magazines, seven years worth of Personal Fashion History that I can't part with. This is just a sampling of that madness. Literally less than half of half of all the images I've pulled from W, Vogue Paris, Vogue Italia, V...Karlie, Christy, Kate, Eniko, Isabeli, Mariacarla and Daria, Daria, Daria. I'm thinking I might do a little video of my collection someday soon, partially to better explain myself and hopefully come across less like a hoarder and partially because I think, if you're reading this, that maybe you also have a stack or two of magazines laying around that you can't seem to let go of.
Also: I'm still doing this to organize a lot of my favorite clippings, mostly interiors though, and think it's far superior to keeping everything in a shoebox—Binder Finder makes these incredible wooden binders that I'm loving right now, in case you're in the market.
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