ralph rucci ad for God only knows what
Welcome to Vogue Sep 2013, 902 pages of over-the-top, aesthetically displeasing ads that I DO NOT GET. I still regret paying $1 for it. All I wanted was some perfume samples.
Look, I liked Vogue as a youth. I enjoyed models and high fashion and keeping up with the trends, perusing through the modern and artsy pages. Perhaps they were even inspiring at one point. But now? Now I cannot get past these ads. Vile.
Spare me any comments about how high-concept or fashion-forward Vogue is; you’ll only sound pretentious or as tired as Madonna’s antiquated song. Ads don’t happen by accident; I’m 100% certain this contrived androgynous look was exactly what they were going for.
All I know is, somebody, please FEED HER. (Not Jennifer Lawrence, but the topless one). And make sure she keeps it down, if you know what I mean. And while you’re at it, throw a shirt on her and trot her to the closest neurologist to see if those dopamine receptors are down, because this one’s smile is broken.
Ralph Rucci, this makes me feel uncomfortable, and discomfort does not buy your product. In fact, it makes me want to ralph into a toilet bowl (where you should put your flowy too-long skirt, fur muff, belt, gloves and bad eye shadow). And take that hairdon’t back to Moe from the Three Stooges. But props to you for getting celebs to buy your clothes! Rich folk love them some runways. Cha-ching!
And I apologize to Crispin Glover, who is actually much easier on the eyes (yet arguably as eccentric) than the aforementioned shemale.
