The walls of the bedroom I slept in during my heady high school years were plastered with words and with images. I had photos of my friends affixed high above my scrolled headboard and I’d look up at them even in the dark and remember the heightened feelings that rushed through my body and my brain and my veins during the weekend we all went to Montauk and slept piled atop one another on the frozen beach. I had the same glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling that everyone I knew had, and even at three in the morning I could see the outline of my pictures on the wall, the formation of all of our heads curled close together, the moment of a sharing of a secret or a laugh captured forever in a manner perhaps more poignant than even a memory.
I had posters on my wall too, but most were actually advertisements that came from W, a magazine I recognized even then as aspirational living to the extreme. Those were the days of Christy Turlington and Linda Evangelista, of Barney’s ads that I thought of as pure art, of an understanding settling forever inside of me that glamour took effort and I that I was someone willing to make that commitment. I wanted to be glamorous – but I also knew that I should make it look like I wasn’t even trying, that it all just happened naturally, that of course I woke up looking this way.