Vienne Molinaro is a second year student, studying Fashion Journalism and Public Relations. Her work is a summation of her interest in music, style, and the intersection of the two, and how they translate into popular culture.
Vienne Molinaro is a second year student, studying Fashion Journalism and Public Relations. Her work is a summation of her interest in music, style, and the intersection of the two, and how they translate into popular culture.
“11/20” is a short, creative work inspired by sprawling thoughts Molinaro has had that have taken place speaking to Brooklynites, the interior worlds of therapists and their spaces, and dreaming of someone you’re not sure you want.
11/20
Yesterday, Libra Moon. Two floors high on the corner of Myrtle and Cypress, her couch disappears under the blankets and artifacts she’s accumulated from her travels over the past thirty years.
I tell her about the decline of my mouth, how it always makes me look like I’m frowning, and about the man that I met waiting in line outside Elsewhere last weekend. He had the face and the charm that men in their early twenties often have, debris of Los Angeles cool in the way he spoke.
People like him, the ones in ringer tees, camping out for punk shows, were the ones I often befriended on the buses back home after a few seasons. It’s almost two am now, and there are no buses around this time. If there are, they’re filled with girls in lithe slip dresses, sheer and delicate and so wistfully out of place. Most of them don’t even know each other. They regroup in their homes, sprawling from Greenwich to lush Chelsea townhouses, giggling through rosé and tall tales about their old heartbreaks.
I was in constant danger of comparing myself to these women as a teenager, nailing myself to a cross at the strike of any insecurity. I’ve been told it’s wrong to pray during eclipse season, that the moon and the sun drape the sky with each other’s light, or demolish each other’s shine. I turned my back to those beliefs for just a moment, hoping that the cross on the fireplace still had some magic left in it.
In that apartment, steeped with Bushwick echos, are the endless photos of her numerous weddings. Next to the couch, there are more resting on the table. In each one, more demure than the next, she writes on the back of them.
“No one will love you more than the right wedding dress will.”
And it finally clicks why those sartorial delights were more fulfilling than an inevitable separation.