In case dreams do come true
You know how they say “don’t bite the hand that will one day feed you, your family, and your extended family”?
Yea, I don’t either.
Magazines that influenced me (as written for The Editor’s Vision class just a few weeks ago)
I have always read Vogue for the wrong reasons. The same reason I’d remain friends with the popular girl who made me feel fat, or keep dating the hot guys who’s clearly better off with said friend. Vogue made me feel part of something extraordinary, exquisite, classy, out of reach. Out of my league.
It felt like a prerequisite for adulthood, as if only grownups can appreciate the chic seeping out of the glossy pages, and nodding in agreement will qualify me as one.
But what I really thought and dared not speak about was that the endless amount of ads bored me, that the writing was not particularly witty or clever, and that the clothes were not only light years from what I could afford but also not always to my liking.
I took this juvenile need to be a good sheep even further when I asked one of my best friends to get me a subscription to Vogue for my 25th birthday. This was Israel, and subscriptions from overseas were (and probably still are) four times as expensive, or in other words: totally not worth it. But she did, and each month a brand new shiny mag landed in my provincial mailbox, a rose between thorns, a reminder there’s something grander out there.
More often than not, the issue sat for weeks on the coffee table, in my feeble attempt to appear sophisticated. I only flipped through it when I realized next month’s issue was about to arrive, and I should probably get it over with.
A year went by, and my friend asked me if I would like her to renew my subscription. I didn’t. The dozen magazines already stacked up made me feel and appear stylish and in the know. But I really couldn’t stand staring at another model’s vacant eyes, feeling guilty I had yet to read about how she was ugly growing up and did not see it coming, even though she walked 26 runways this past Fashion Week.
I know I’m a minority for not bowing before her majesty Anna Wintour, but I honestly think Vogue is overrated. It’s cluttered, more often than not it’s neither important nor interesting, it sets boring trends and it elevates those already on top.
Don’t get me wrong, I still subscribe to it. I’m not quite ready to be my own shepherd. But thinking which magazines influenced me made me realize I’ve never admitted this before. This is the first I am admitting wholeheartedly that I just don’t get it.
There are so many magazines out there that are more worthwhile: Nylon is a lot more daring in its clashing ensembles and quirky features; GQ, sometimes Esquire, can make me laugh out loud — not the meaningless acronym but a good ol’ “that was brilliant” chuckle; W is a lot more spacious and easy on the eyes; and though confessing this is like proclaiming my undying love for the hairy kid with acne, Cosmo and the likes made me realize magazines don’t have to be condescending. Granted, they also don’t have to list 50 ways to make your man squeal, a month after they shared their 50 tips on how to make him moan, but they also don’t make you feel like there’s an awesome party going on you’ll never ever get invited to.
And the clothes, though mostly not to my liking either, are within a reasonable price range. If I were to slip, fall, hit my head, and think Selena Gomez’s top is pretty, they actually let me know where I can get it, or the cheap knockoff version thereof.
I have a dream, and it isn’t as earthshattering as Dr. King’s. I want to start my own magazine, preferably in Israel where both quantity and quality are subpar, and I want it to derive from all of the aforementioned, and then some.
Sure, I don’t have it fully figured out yet, and what I do have is under lock and key and in risk of becoming a full body tat a-la “Prison Break.” But the essence, the soul, has recently begun beating.
I want it to be edgy and original, like Nylon; I need it to have great writing, that most men’s magazines have and women’s usually lack; and I want it to be real. Not Snooki-esque real, as I do appreciate ethereal photo shoots and bigger-than-life designs, but I want a girl to flips through it and think “hey, I can do this.”
I want my magazine to be that inspiring. I want my reader to dare, to laugh, to care, to feel like the party is on its way up the stairs, about ready to knock on her door. Not the other way around. The way I see it, women’s magazines either stupefy you, or make you feel stupid. Mine will do neither.
Oh, and I want it to be the thing to read, of course. You know, like Vogue.
