The Selfie as feminist art.

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I live from the insight out, from my feelings towards my intellect, it is always a journey from action to insight, from the emotional to the rational.

I recently found myself deconstructing my fashion photos and selfies.

And I began to wonder why…

The process of elimination means finding the “other”  A.W.

The process of elimination means finding the “other”

A.W.

I transformed my fashion images into arty expressions; allowing my curious inner child to play or going deeper into my dramatic essence, my hidden soul.

Art evokes the mystery without which the world would not exist.  Rene Magritte

Art evokes the mystery without which the world would not exist.

Rene Magritte

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Emotional content became important during the Romantic movement with artwork expressing a definite feeling, as in the sublime or dramatic. Audience response was important, for the artwork was intended to evoke an emotional response.

The world didn’t applaud my up-cycled outfit pictures as in “OMGoddess so crazy cool…” My followers on IG were more like ?? or “interesting approach”, and “what the heck is she up to now?”

“It’s half your usual likes,” argued Mister rational.

“I like it though,” said my little rebel angel.

“Why?”

“Probably because we have said WE ARE ART so many times.”

I show funky outfits with the motivation to inspire to step out of ruts and old beliefs, to free ourselves from limitations our souls suffer under. Deconstruction is the next, more radical level. My reasoning didn’t convince me though. Should I continue?

The Universe listened.

I got a card in the mail from my friend Charisse, her handle on IG is Let go NOW. A huge surprise as postcards have become super rare occasions. Her card said loosely translated

It’s the rebel who moves history and advances societies.

Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time.  Thomas Merton

Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time.

Thomas Merton

The Universe had answered. It empowered me not to care about likes but to do what I feel is right for me in this moment, to let go of my doubts and be my arty self NOW, however it might look.

There still was the why? Was I just bored of my “regular” shoots? Was there more to it?

One inspiration had been time travel: Writing the memoir of my rebellions I had walked through Paris visiting Anais Nin and Gertrude Stein lighting up the Parisian salons; breathing in the beautiful vibrations of rebelliously confident, liberated, feminist female artists I felt their past as vibrantly as I had felt it 30 years ago in Paris. They saw life in new ways and bravely presented it, no matter if right or wrong.

Life is an exploration.

I discovered that women in past centuries fought to be seen by claiming the art of self portraiture to announce themselves to the world.

My months-long fashion explorations, my outfit performances of my many roles from inner child to broken diva through Instagram selfies is my truth wrapped into theater and it was born in the tradition of women before me daring to reproduce their likeness as art.

“We are art” is revolutionary.

“Every artist paints himself,” said the Renaissance. Himself, not herself. Women weren’t allowed to be successful public figures.

The self portrait became a way for women to present a story about themselves for public consumption; I am a female artist, a worthy woman. They often painted themselves with their tools, their canvas, brushes and paint in the act of proud painting while still being dressed like the proper bourgeois women against whose restrictions they rebelled.

I resist invisibility.

I am devoted to my art. (business, message..)

I deserve to be rewarded for my talents and expertise.

Does this sound familiar?

Hundreds of years ago those self portraits were marketing; to gain painting commissions usually given to men.

The Selfie as marketing of our story is embedded in centuries of women power.

In the 17th and 18th centuries women bravely painted themselves and grew into the 19th century more openly demanding the right to be accepted as valuable artists. It manifested itself in more daring paintings like the one of a group of women drawing a male (!) model. Okay, in the painting he covered his nudeness with a towel….

In the 20th century the taboo of sex and pregnancy was fiercely introduced by Paula Modersohn Becker and Frida Kahlo demanded dignity and respect.

Interested in the subject? Greats book to read are “Seeing Ourselves” by Frances Borzello or Mirror, Mirror by Liz Rideal.

Art is not what you see, but what you make others see.  Edgar Degas

Art is not what you see, but what you make others see.

Edgar Degas

“The self-portrait is an artist’s most intriguing vehicle for analysis and self-expression. Serving a dual role as both creator and subject, artists are offered unusual freedom.”

Modern daily self-portraits, our often judged as “vain selfies”, offer a journey into our truth; what are we showing to the world and what’s our intention?

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, aging needs magic like a totem post.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, aging needs magic like a totem post.

Those of us evolved from showing our pretty ME ME ME just for Ego kicks show the best of our selves in social media, our powerful, entertaining, inspiring and uplifting energies and qualities with the intention to inspire, “ if I can do this, you can too.”

We rarely show the crap of life, maybe mention it as a jumping board into our newly revived power. I cry in secret and show the results of my tears; a new insight. I fret about my wrinkles and write about the new device I got from Nuovaluce, I spill the action I took not the pain.

We have learned to be more real, more authentic yet we show our polished side, not the raw form roughly hammered into the marble but the, sometimes even meticulously, chiseled one. Even when we show our wrinkles we set our selves into scene.

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We move the sculpture of our self creation into the best possible light.

And that is just fine; we have a message, most of us want to make the world a better, not sadder place and - the best possible light might be imperfect beauty in a junk yard. The story we wish to tell requests the form in which it wants to be expressed.

My visuals are who I am, what I see and what life points me too. For my posts I learned to listen, to be guided by messages, comments, post cards, vibrations of outfits, street art and even junk yards. I want to be guided to what truly matters to me and to the best way to inspire others without pleasing the status quo.

When I dare to be me, I feel my inner rebel and the daring women before me. They created themselves when they had the courage for self portraiture. When I deconstruct my images I feel that creative joy and their permission to be different. Gertrude and Anais both tried many approaches around the master pieces of their writing.

The first female selfies were fierce rebellions.

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Our selfies today are rebellions on a different level; women over 50 demand to be seen like the women centuries before us, teenagers demand to be heard as eco-rebels, body shapes ask for acceptance and talents in all arts fight for equality. Women in general are far from being regarded equal.

Deconstructing my pictures is a different level of my truth; they say to have a look, I am the creation of myself.

My IG is my avatar, my alter ego where my cracks and failures, vents and tears are chosen to support my story and message. My authenticity lies in showing you the best of me; from dreams and desires to actual actions of what I fight or live for. My adventures are deep and banal but always make sense in my bigger picture. Of course, I feel first and act before I analyze so surprises of the contrary are part of the deal.

Our power lies in using IG as a rebellious journey; when we explore our true confidence in our talents and virtues not our vices we commit to the virtues, we step into our truth one selfie at a time.

By creating our best on IG we are becoming our best in real life.

I fragment my body and put it together in a new form. My form.

That’s our journey. We take the pieces from decades and create you and me.

We are infinite stories and new inventions.

We are art.

Art is the pursuit of beauty and to express our emotions. In the romantic period spirituality and free expression were celebrated. I’m a romantic but also Avantgarde as I push the boundaries of ideas and creativity in fashion and words. Ageless Rebels celebrate innovative approaches to life-making and the originality of vision is part of it.

Art is the pursuit of beauty and to express our emotions. In the romantic period spirituality and free expression were celebrated. I’m a romantic but also Avantgarde as I push the boundaries of ideas and creativity in fashion and words. Ageless Rebels celebrate innovative approaches to life-making and the originality of vision is part of it.

We are the art… (Nico Vega)

Stand up for what is beautiful,

give it up for the ones who try.

Oh the art is the reason that we came here,

take a bow together we fight.

Outfits talk, fabrics feel. Use their power.

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Nothing bothered me, not the honking and slamming of car doors, revving of motors and people yelling on the huge parking lot of this enormous supermarket in Los Feliz, LA close to my tiny organic cooperative. Not even the people passing by, eyebrows raised were of my concern.

What the heck is she doing there?

I followed my spontaneous calling to shoot my outfits.

The friendly mural of the shop’s grungy driveway was perfect for my colors and the satin on my skin felt cool like rain in the spring, like a shower under a garden hose on a hot summer day or a warm bath in the winter.

Like magic I experienced the peace of water.

I was in the satin smooth, non-disturbance Zen zone of the many rivers running through this country, in flow with my surroundings.

I was the pink piece of sea glass on the shore, my edges softened by decades of being tossed around but also warmed by hands holding me like a treasure.

But it was the element itself that got me. I always loved the psychology of water; it flows around obstacles and finds its way through the most strenuous circumstances; continuously effortless. I was the sweetness of a slow flowing creek not the waves of an ocean but even when we fear the tidal wave, embodying it ourselves we are pure power without destruction in mind.

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The thin vinyl of my glossy puffer jacket is light like cotton candy and felt protective nevertheless.

Fashion therapy tip

When you’re facing a tough day of any kind with possible arguments and iffy challenges and your goal is to focus on the self love of a peaceful warrioress wear a communicative color like blue, the unconditional love of pink or the white of new beginnings and chose a soft and cool fabric, a satin type. Every move and touch will remind you that you can float around any obstacles, dance like.

If you have to become the waterfall thundering down on whatever it is, you know that in the end you’ll land in a pool of calm waters.

Stiffness makes us break, a flow like water will make you invincible.

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Fear and loathing on the way to the enlightening power of White.

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I always believed that our lives are written like screen plays packed with challenges that get us to the final goal, with sweet sidekicks, fierce opponents and wise supporters. In my recent outfit journeys I discovered that we also have a wardrobe stylist, an intuitive inner costume designer.

Please enjoy excerpts of my journey in and out and back into this magical color from my upcoming book “FRINGES.” When outfits talk magic happens.

Three petticoats made the skirt of my white lacy dress stand up impressively. My mom was happy; her little girl was seen; I stood out. Matched by my fluffed up, curled Shirley Temple hairdo held by a white bow I was a princess flower girl and so much more stylish than the other, sad looking girl. I felt silly and proud, embarrassed and cute. I made sure my white socks stayed white this time, behaving perfectly well mannered like in a good-housekeeping book. I tried hard to be the girl my mother envisioned after I had failed to be the boy my dad had wanted. I had been a brave 5-story-high walls climbing kid playing trucker and race car driver with my doll’s stroller but whatever made a boy a cool dude made me the uncontrollable misfit girl. The impeccable proper of white would show that I can be the little angel my name demanded.

“You walk like a wood cutter,” my mom commented on my perfect flower girl style. “You’re just missing a tool box.”

I smiled harder.

For my 12th birthday dress up party my mom’s silver sequin jacket added the royal touch to the long white silky night gown she let me borrow, held by her silver belt. I was mesmerized by my mom’s wardrobe especially her bottle green Taffeta dress with black netting overlay and black velvet neckline. It rustled so mysteriously. The kids in school had mocked me; my mom always wore pretty dresses and lipstick. Their mom’s wore aprons.

I was the reluctant white princess of my birthday theater wondering why wearing a tiara was supposed to be an honor. One of the girls, dressed as Prince Charming, kissed my hand. I blushed, giggled and took my hand back quickly; I didn’t like to be touched. I took the jacket off, slipped out of the gown and focused on the toy cars my one boy visitor had brought. He was a nerd with glasses and Bavarian “Lederhosen”, he didn’t count as a real boy.

“You have no diplomatic bone in your body,” exclaimed my mom later, ”you’ll never be a woman.”

I always felt the the pebble in her shoe.

If I was not allowed to rebel against my female fate I would fulfill it with grandezza; I’ll show you, mom. I’ll be the best wifey material ever. But as you will never take the rebel out of my princess I ‘ll also get my revenge for the jail you put me in.

I screwed with the heads of my parents male friends, husbands like my dad who didn’t care about my truth either. Their buddies had no chance not to be painfully aware of me, I made them tremble with desire in their polyester socks. I had no intellectual awareness of what I was doing but the revenge of being a tease filled me with confidence and joy. I had a dark little secret my mom couldn’t take away.

On a mild Sunday morning in May I flaunted my 16 year young untouched virginity in a white two piece suit; a vest and pencil pants adorned with a thin golden necklace and matching bracelet flaneusing our small town’s promenade. The sun was out in gray, rainy Germany and people looked much more relaxed than usually enjoying their umbrella free strolls.

Happy with my halo I sometimes took care of a three-year-old kid, the out of wedlock daughter of my sinful cousin, condemned as the family “whore.” With Katie on my hand I was hoping to be seen, maybe even discovered; my photos plastered the local photography studio, owned by a woman who liked me and had even created my modeling set card for free. The rumor was that she wanted me to date her glasses and suspenders wearing math genius son. She couldn’t possible think… ? Naaa. I negated it as small town gossip.

Mirror obsessed since a kid checked up on my self in every shiny surface. Am I really here?

“Look Katie, aren’t we pretty?”

She wore a short white dress and fit perfectly to my suit, which was sassy in its tameness. I was vain like my mom and put a lot of effort into forgetting about my shortcomings. I made up for them with my vivid sense of style which I had inherited from my dad’s mom, grandma Maria, an elegant Catholic lady with butt long white hair who I adored. She let me comb her beautiful wavy mane and revel in the magic of her vintage velvets and silks, her lace gowns and fur coats. Her musty smelling crocodile leather handbag held love letters, postcards and photographs from her past; she was my romantic royalty and her unconditional love for me kept me sane.

I saw the red convertible in the mirror; so rebelliously attractive. Look at me, you two wild guys!

“Hi pretty lady,” one the guys called out,” is this your daughter?”

I smirked, shaking my head. “No.”

 “These men are silly,” I told the kid,” they can’t see that I’m sixteen.”

Luckily. They looked like students, I wanted to be important and being accepted by students was the way to achieve that. When they stopped at the red light it felt like my opportunity, they were the 68’ revolution I had not been allowed to take part in.  When I had danced with Mick Jagger in front of our black and white TV my dad called me spastic and him a monkey.

“Turn this weirdo off”.

I did but freedom was in the air in the 70’s and I couldn’t help breathing it. It wasn’t my fault, it was right there!! The two young men in the sexy car were right there. They looked like the morning after a party, unshaven, messed up hair and dark sunglasses. So inviting.

“You look gorgeous,” the driver said.

“Very pretty.” The other guy chimed it.

I liked the driver; he seemed taller and more elegant with a stylish red shirt matching the car. My dad didn’t have a driver’s license and we were traveling everywhere on bicycles, trams or trains. A convertible spoke of luxury, fun and freedom; they got an easy 10 for that. When I was on my own I usually brought my notebook with me on my walks; I listed how many whistles and compliments I got and taxed my admirers on a scale from 1-10 for looks, style and originality. The hot driver got a ten, the other guy? A 7 minus.

Green light. The duo waved and drove off.

To make the story short, I dated one of the two students, the 7 minus. My mom did not let me date teenage boys and my heartbreak caused by her mandate to “never see this silly drummer boy” ever again was still fresh; I had been so in love with him. He sang “wild thing” to me when we were dancing to the Troggs in a barn, it was the day I tasted my first coke and my first very shy kiss.

Mom loved the idea of the student guy.

“How charming,” she said,” he is seven years older, the same age difference as your dad and me. He will make a proper woman out of you.”

The man who had the same name as my father served my vanity, my body and my curiosity. I did not love him, I did not fancy him. I even cried when he shaved his beard off because I found him so ugly. But he had to be it. The Damocles sword of intercourse had hit me. My upbringing said that I had to marry the first man I had sex with; number 7 minus became my chastity belt.

Good-bye, handsome piano player. The dream to ever catch his friend’s attention was dead; I had to get engaged to my boyfriend instead. It felt like a funeral.

There was no “I love you forever”, falling on his knees, nothing, just a ring that appeared to seal that I was officially owned now. I kept the engagement a secret; I was still in my all girl high school and none of my classmates had long-term boyfriends, not to talk about being engaged. I was ashamed and tickled at the same time.  The ring proved my value, I had no girl friends but I had a guy who wanted to marry me. I wore it sometimes for them to wonder. Nobody cared about my attempt to be a rebel with a ring; this bizarre “secret” made me, the weird math loving smart ass, even weirder; in a time of communes and free love I got engaged.

It was a rebellion in the wrong direction; I was going backwards.

Very backwards.

I overheard my fiance telling my mother that he wanted me to finish school; Germany gives you a Baccalaureat after 13 years. But that would be it. That would qualify me “to entertain his business guests in the future.”

I had always been sexually reluctant and the year after the engagement his sexual needs became pushy and unbearable to me. I didn’t give in. In a bed and breakfast on a vacation I heard this weird noise in the morning. Curious about what it was I got out of bed and saw him in the bathroom. He masturbated. I had no idea men did that. Now I knew. I felt nausea for days.

“How do I tell him to stop pushing me?” I asked my father for help.

“Men are like that,” my father said.

I was alone in this and this felt terribly wrong. I had to be brave.

“I want to be wild like the hippies and flower power girls with their amazing clothes and crazy cool hair and I want to go to college,” I told me fiance in a bar.

He patted my head like a pet’s and chuckled.

“Little sweetheart, “ he said in a calming voice, ”you are much too good for that.”

I was too good for all the good stuff?

I stared at him. I did not want to be his little angel.

Ha, ha, ha,” I said with a grim grin.

His bewildered face reminded me of the disgusting cow’s tongue in cream sauce I had to politely accept not to insult the uncle who had cooked an expensive meal. It had made me storm the bathroom to throw it up. It was time to summon my powers to spit out the man who was “given” to me, screw holy condemnation.

I am a good Catholic girl, I thought sarcastically, I will admit to my sins and after ten paternosters I will be pure again.

My mother told me that you see our future in a nice house with four bedrooms,” I said, smiling.

Happy that I changed my tone he answered, “Yes, maybe even five? And you will have your own car.” He added a generous smirk, relieved that a possible fight had been circumvented.

“So that I can drive our kids to school,” I commented.

He explained that I could also go shopping, as he would give me an allowance for outfits.

“Nice,” I said. “Do you still think that my high school degree is enough to help our kids with homework and serve your guests? Would I be smart enough for your doctors and engineers?”

“Of course,” he answered, eager to be accommodating, “that’s enough. If you don’t know an answer you smile and swing your sexy hips. College these days just screws with women’s brains.”

There was something about this black leather dress with its long fringes that made me feel strong and safe.

I got up.

“Where are you going?”

I threw a kiss at the handsome guy at the bar and walked towards the entrance door.  The fiancé rushed after me grabbing my arm. I pushed his hand off. 

“Don’t touch me or I make a scene.” He looked panicky now as guys from his doctorate class hung out at the end of the bar. He let go.

Opening the heavy exit door I added, “Don’t follow me.”

It was raining but I didn’t care. I would walk home. He ran after me grabbing my arm again trying to push me towards his car. 

“I am driving you home,” he demanded.

“No.”

 I pulled the engagement ring from my finger and tossed it into the next puddle.

“You are not driving me anywhere ever again. I hate everything about you.”

I walked. Yes, damn hell, I am walking.

“You will always be bound to the first man you had sex with,” he yelled after me. “You will never forget me.”

Now I ran, cursed by his Catholic karma, the water splashing onto my shiny black plateau boots. At the corner I looked back, he was not following me. He was digging into the puddle to find his investment.

I had exercised my right to say No and was not hit by heavenly punishment.

Drenched, swirling around myself like a Dervish I felt my wings, dripping wet wonderful wings.

Two weeks later I signed up for college. Two months later I moved into my own apartment, ten minutes away from my parents yet it felt like light years away.

It had taken my black leather dress two days to dry while my wings morphed into those of a fierce black rebel raven.

I would never get married and I would ever wear white again.

……………

After being a fierce independent entrepreneur for two decades in Europe, my stubborn fate pushed me into being a wedding planner for 15 years, a rather funny moment for my friends. I got used to the world of white princesses, some of them proper but none of them “pure”. I always felt a little sarcastic but I loved many of my brides so I pushed my past under the carpet.

I kept the promise of my 18 year young rebel girl; I did not get married and never wore white.

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I recently did.

I had gone through a fashion journey of a colorful phoenix rising from the ashes of her past in fiery red, I wore Kill Bill yellow, world embracing pink and other pastel colors I had never accepted; they opened my heart and my eyes.

In August 2019 my inner stylist put me into a monochrome white outfit with lavender Barbie booties. I wore it for a photo shoot. I had out of body experiences before but this was a “landing in my body” experience; at 60+ I am returning to my innocence, a song from Enigma that had filled my heart in the 90’s. Circles are closing and when I say I feel like 16 it is because I am at a new start, one that includes the words I had lost on the way; believe, trust and faith.

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In color psychology white is innocence and purity but also balance, fairness and neutrality, the color of new beginnings, of pouring out the full glass to fill it with new thoughts, perspectives and experiences. I pour my heart as much as my pain and limitations into my memoir, which happily ends in a new journey believing my visions and dreams. My next book is the blank canvas of my life waiting to be conceived and written by me.

I am the black raven, the red phoenix, the multi colored peacock and the angel, I am the princess and the rebel; my white angel wings are adorned with colorful sparkle of crystals, my kind of wings.

White is complete and pure, the color of perfection; it has it all, all probabilities.

Let white open your eyes; dive into it, feel it, let it talk to you. What is your story with white?

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Go giggle and dress silly. When your story, style and message align you will be seen.

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“Control yourself,” my mom said honoring my dooms display of “sudden death” on the kitchen floor with a brief glance. I was 16 and unsuccessfully playing a heart attack was the moment when I decided not to push anymore; I gave up on my mother ever listening to me. I bent myself to the shape of my parents’ ideals and became the good girl.

Tantrums reveal the truth of our hidden desires. As a teenager I wanted to be seen and accepted as who I was; an adventure loving girl with a lot of fantasy, strange ideas and too many words. As a woman over 60 I wanted to be seen and accepted as who I finally understood I was. I wanted to be free of age constraints and preconceived aging notions; I am my ageless essence! I declared that there is no age appropriate clothing nor should there be age restrictions for careers. We are not irrelevant because we’re old but relevant because of the amazing years of experience we have accumulated.

My teenage mini skirt, hot pants, Barbie outfits or princess dresses became my call for freedom and were “offensive” to some of the women my age.

A woman in a styling over 50 group commented on one of my posts,

“You are desperately trying to look like 20,”

I answered, “I’m going for 16 actually.”

I felt fierce like a teenager finally telling mom to shove it. Yay.

I wore mini skirts in the 60’s and 70’s with matching boots, adoring Twiggy and dancing in discos. Heart racing I stepped down the stairs to the dance floor in the dark and grunge place where my favorite soul music rocked my heart. Each time I had stage fear and each time I bravely conquered it looking into mirrors on the way; “I am pretty enough.” I walked the main street of my small town on Sundays with a little booklet taking notes of how many boys and men were hitting on me. I judged them on a scale from 1-10 for looks, outfits and the uniqueness of their approach. Just whistling got a -1. I loved my notebook; I was seen; I was somebody.

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Outfits talk and 4 decades later the mini skirt reminded me of, “You are pretty enough”. The sweater saying Tomboy, the tee whispering that “I am a member of a secret internet girls cult”, tops with anime designs or crop tops showing my belly said, “you’re brave.” With 60 some of my outfits became weapons; I called them daggers cutting through the bullshit. Yes, I was angry to be pushed into a corner of “old” and was cursing limiting beliefs.

You expect me to look like a typical grandma? I show you. I’m a spice girl instead.

I’m not delusional, my skin has seen decades but my soul is just the same. My essence is that of unwavering eternal ageless joy, a feeling children experience until they’re told to control themselves, to grow up. All successes in my life were born in the innocence and fearlessness of youth not in my later “rationality” and fear of survival, which caused hesitation and doubt.

Outfits can be reminders of our fearless (dreamy, happy, romantic…) past. I reclaimed my power wearing rebellion infused ripped jeans with patches and holes my knees fit through, plateau boots and wild fringes, studded jackets and lots of plastic fantastic, naughty vinyl. Role playing outfits are invitations to your inner child to show herself and remind you of your true essence.

“It’s my soul who wants to play,” I said to my friend Barbie and made her get into a leopard bib overall on a “style my soul happy” outing. Our Tammy Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn outfits made for an amazing photo shoot.

Women need theater stages where different roles can be played, where “NO” to what hinders us can be rehearsed and the YES of who we are is discovered.

Fashion is such a stage.

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We don’t need rebellious outfits to be happy but we need the feeling that we can wear them at any time without feeling embarrassed; that’s where their therapeutic effect sets in.

My teenie bopper outfits often got less likes on Instagram, the barometer of being seen and related to. My followers like me better rebelliously sophisticated and yes I like myself as that also. But I have different personas; my soul is a multiple character playground.

Never give up, never surrender” in being who you truly are no matter the approval rate.

Your truth will set you free is so right on.

In the process of staying authentic, I became the queen ruling my queendom of style and inspired many women to be more daring in their approaches to outfits and discover the empowerment they can provide.

Experiment how you feel in short skirts or puffy dresses; let them talk to you, they might surprise and enlighten you. If they fit to your essence and your message; show them off and use your IG as a vision board styling your power. I was sometimes shocked of what fit to me; I never thought pink or ruffles would be part of my life.

When your story, style and message align you will be seen.

“My wife still loves fashion like when she was young”, the presenter at the “Ageist” conference chuckled, “only now she wants class.”

My inner rebel ground her teeth.

The jovial remark suggested that his wife now had his money to spend on expensive fashion. When you’re old, you’re rich or you have a hubby to pay for your pleasures.

Not everybody is the same, dude.

I’m not rich nor am I married.

Sure I would love to own a wardrobe packed with Alexander McQueen’s and Dolce’s theatrical robes; but not having thousands to spend on outfits pushes me to be innovative. I create similar feelings of eccentricity on a shoestring budget.

“Women of a certain age” can be but don’t have to be classy and designer clad. Too be upmarket and elegant often comes with the demand to behave properly and to be above our wild and silly youth. I cringe at these common and outmoded expectations.

Go, stomp your foot and say NO.

Go, giggle and be silly.

Dig through Forever 21, Top Shop, Nasty Gal, Betsey and Dolls Kill and mix it with your Guccio, Calvin, Diane or Donna; I do and feel more powerful and “rich” than when I was wealthy and pretended to be grown up. Wear thousand bucks’ pearls on a I.Am.Gia dress and enjoy your sandbox.

We all need the freedom to be fantastic, cartoonish, punk, rock, hippie or sex kitten; we need the freedom of play to be complete. Child’s play at its best is an innocent, fully immersed, judgment free experience.

“Everything you are offends me,” commented a woman on a main stream styling site. She did not see my plunging necklines yet…

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Flowers talk

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“What’s the flower you resonate with?” I asked on Instagram today.

Some of my women friends said they’re sunflowers, dandelions and daisies; women who feel grounding to me. Others are invigorating daffodils or sensible Gardenias, which my own Orchid child feels related to.

Who might Rebecca be? Or Christiane?

My innocent posting became another journey; I began associating flowers with my women friends. Wow, that’s what I see and love in them? Flowers became mirrors of the energy they are to me; I saw sweet, embracing and happy pink baby roses in my friend Barbie or elegant, confident beauty and depth in Helene’s Dahlia.

Ron, the one man who responded named the Tulip as the flower he resonates with, “because of my heritage.” Part of his family came from Holland and he was touched and impressed when seeing the Tulip fields on a visit.

Flowers talk; so I checked on the flowers of my heritage.

The Cornflower is the unofficial national German flower and was once regarded a weed. When people began to see her unique beauty she was elevated into the flower state and her wild sisters are now protected.

I relate to the weed state of “not being good enough”. When I finally began to own my truth and expressed it in my looks people began to see me.

Chamomile is a healer, especially for insomnia and stomach pains.

My stomach is my weak organ, where I hold my fears and anxieties, it sometimes cause insomnia.

The Spindle grows on bushes and transforms from green, yellow into light fuchsia, which takes her months and then produces poisonous decorative berries.

To step into my true colors took my six decades. I love to enrich people’s life with fun, creative outfits. Most of my life I protected myself; look at me but don’t touch.

It was the Edelweiss that blew my mind in her fairy tale way.

Edelweiss (Leontopodium alpinum) is a popular alpine flower related to the sunflower family, which grows in the mountains of Germany. In German, edelweiss means “white noble"; its white color is a symbol of purity. Edelweiss typically blooms during the summer months and prefers to grow on cold, rocky terrain that’s rich in limestone. Edelweiss is easily grown from seed and is often found in gardens throughout the country. Medicinally, edelweiss was used to help treat stomach pain and respiratory diseases.

I had frictions with Edelweiss; it was a song in the Sound of Music, sung by Julie Andrews. I disliked her goody two shoe attitude and the nationalist text “blessing my country” of the lyrics; I’m into blessing the whole world equally. I rejected white, a color I found as simplistic in its vibe of “clean, holy and good.” I always flirted with the drops of my blue blood from my noble revolutionary Huguenots fore-people. Even when I was broke I never felt not noble as a person.
We find the purity of our hearts and minds in challenges, in rocky terrain. I am on the conscious journey to be “real” and walk my talk since I began posting my “styling from the insight out” adventures on Instagram. And at the end of three years I have begun to love the color white and to live the childlike purity of my heart without my protective shield.

I wrote this poem five years ago.

Orchid Kids

I am an orchid living in a scruffy corner

Wrapped in darkness my colors are faded

My blooms died and dropped into the dirt

Too much rain suffocated me

Too much sun burnt my leafs

Life is not fair

I am ashamed of how I look

I am nothing

Nobody sees me

Nobody adores me anymore

 

A little girl picked me up last week

She put me in her window

She gave me clean water

And just enough light

There is a new leaf she smiled

You'll see soon

You'll blossom again

I think she loves me as I am

 

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Blossoms have come and gone; I own my complicated self these days and often I even love her.

Enter the game; find your flowers here and your vibe reveals itself.


 

Yuk, she said. I will report her.

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“I am effing immortal,” I thought on my photo shoot, feeling a naughty giggle like a kid wanting to make things true by stomping my foot. I don’t usually swear in writing but the f-word wishing for a forever life and spelled out in Swarovski crystals made sense to me. People have crazy dreams and this is one of mine. I felt empowered and the photo shoot was a kick in the butt of my doubts.

“Fucking immortal.” There. I said it.

“Haha”, the Universe responded.

Back in the car I turned around to my dog, I thought she was scratching herself as the car was shaking lightly. She was motionless in her Zen mode.

The car was shaking heavier now… this… was… an… earth… quake…. I envisioned the huge power poles crash on my car. The shaking of 30 seconds felt endless. I was holding my breath, there’s nothing else you can do. Think positive thoughts but I was too numb for that.

“Haha”, the Universe had responded to my big mouth and sent me an earth quake. Okay, the earth quake was for everybody but I take things personally.

For a woman who takes life as a movie script with clues and cues and lines to learn, with supporting actors, heroines and heroes and opponents who push, shift and guide me, this was a biggy. Nothing crashed, only a clothing rack fell off the door at home but the earthshaking moment became me-shaking.

I felt fear, powerlessness, the need to connect with friends, create a back up system, create safety, hug my loved ones. I texted my son, what now? I felt flight, “I move to Seattle” and fight, “I fulfill my Los Angeles dreams and face my fears.” The series of emotions ended with a bang of immense gratefulness. Thank you for protecting me.

Did veils fell off my eyes?

I realized that I am not ready. Looking at the sold out shovels, earth quake putty and first aid kits at the local hardware store and empty water shelves at Gelson’s not many people are.

But for me it’s not just being prepared for a disaster but for life; for opportunities. I had talked about it often, wrote it in my morning pages; be open! But to be open we have to see clearly, remove the clutter. My physical action was to start cleaning up my act from papers to tons of script notes and piles of outfits to legal stuff and those boring bureaucratic needs. No wonder the posts of my declutter friend Rebecca are poking my soul since weeks; get organized, babe. Clean up and write the outlines for your books and your life.

Get ready.

Remove the boulders, sticks and pebbles.

Be open.

It’s the context, it’s always the context in which things happen that tell their story and reveal their message; I posted the immortality picture and my earth quake story in my social media.

Angie Weihs F Immortal.jpg

“Yuk,” a woman called Mary said in an online women’s group. “I will report her.”

Mary hated my guts; she hated my swear word, the audacity of immortality and called me classless and awful. I had behaved badly, like a teenager and I all I heard in her yelling was her parents reprimanding, stifling her.

Did the Universe reprimand me? I say that I am immortal and she answered “shame on you?” In my old ways of thinking where I was “guilty to just be a girl” and everything was “my fault” it would have been just that and it came up as the first thought. But I wasn’t punished, I was shown that I was safe.

Many women jumped in online to defend and protect me from Mary’s and two other women’s attacks of the improper behavior for a woman your age. My old beliefs of having to apologize for who I am squealed loudly and were silenced by women’s empowering voices.

“Do not apologize for your truth,” they said.

“Some of us (including some churchgoers who have seen our 60th birthdays) think Angie Weihs looks positively fierce in that outfit. So very nice that we live in an age when women our age can take a pass on the orthopedic shoes and granny pin-curls and wear whatever pleases us,” commented a different Mary.

And so the online world interfered as my my Guru again; I encounter philosophers, priestresses, mothers and medicine women, sisters and warrioresses who hold my hand or swing the sword for me. Because I hold the banner of our empowerment high up and intend not to be hindered by those who throw stones at me and would love to see me burn on the stake. “I will report her,” to whom? The FB inquisition?

“See,” said the Universe, “you are protected, your are untouchable as long as you believe you are.”

I never believed in growing old and I never did; I am over 60 and move, think and feel like a 30 year young person, sometimes like a teenager, other times like 1000 year wise.

I believe that I am ageless and in agelessness lives the magic of immortality.

Maybe the Universe shivered because I had finally owned my power? Maybe I am immortal, as a human, a soul, as a writer or all the above? It was Marianne Williamson who said years ago that humans are more afraid of their greatness than of their mediocrity.

What I experienced again is that my social media tribe is one of the most mindbogglingly beautiful think and feel tanks a woman can ask for.

The earth shook and told me to be open my eyes and see the beauty and love we extend to each other.

Did veils drop?

Yes. I am connected to the bigger picture.

Yes, I am not alone.

My next IGTV is about fantasy and fairytales in LA and her gorgeous walls.

Storytelling magic.

Storytelling magic.

OUTIFIT

I felt my Cinderella in this outfit but also my love for magic and the power of my imagination.

I added the ribbon sleeves to the top, and the handmade angel wings belt from the 80’s to the skirt I bought from a friend; her mom made it for her theatrical ventures and my friend sewed the flower bundles when she was a kid.

Magical morning clothes

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“I don’t know what to do…” she texted.

“Try wearing morning clothes,” her friend answered.

“What are morning clothes?”

“The Ageless Rebel does some of her videos in hers but they are princess morning clothes…”

“Oh right! Yes, I def need morning clothes. Especially pink ones!”

Morning clothes are mantras that help us frame our day.

I had just posted a video in which I praised the liveliness of videos for connecting with our friends and followers. Even if not live broadcast, which adds spontaneity and intimacy, video allows us the 3D of a person, their gestures, mannerism, voice and laughter.

“You can witness me in my princess morning dress,” I had said.

The short dialogue referring to my fall-out-of bed-and-into-my-princess-dress sparked in return the idea of framing our days not only with morning pages, the thoughts and feelings we write down, but also, playfully with what we wear right there and then.

Morning clothes usually are composed of your night wear, pajama, tee shirt, maybe a bathrobe. I always wondered, as hoteliers complain those and their fluffy towels are so often taken as souvenirs, who of my friends might, grinningly, own a bathrobe from an expensive hotels they stayed in.

Morning clothes are not for every day; they are for mornings in which you feel open to dive into what you might be missing; to be more feminine, forgiving, playful, rebellious or esoteric and feel that the belief in magic is totally yours to have. They are for you alone, in your sacred space with time to spare for dreams. They fit into moments in which you trust that outfits have power and that they love to talk to you; when you feel playful enough to let your childlike curiosity fly back into your still wavering dreams. Mornings are often graced by innocence because our inner critics snore and intuition can guide us to an outfit that spills tales of your desires, funky feelings, fierce wants or silly moods.

Don’t think, just feel and wear the cozy cashmere, the witchy black sorceress skirt or the grungy old pullover and workout pants with holes. It’s a fairy tale moment, a child’s play not the adult who says I need my suit as my goal today is to achieve…

You can prepare the night before what you know you’ll need the next day; I once slept in a soft silky sexy long dress that made me feel like a tall glass of water, sensually smooth and feminine with crystal clarity. I felt like a water goddess in it, able to move around any obstacle and managed a confrontation like a gracefully defensive Kung Fu warrioress.

It might just be colors you wrap yourself with; from the black of protection to the pink of unconditional love. It might be dresses or robes…

Outfits on your skin and words in your diary create a powerful alchemy.

Example for morning outfits

  • exotic kimono

  • elegant smock

  • naughty rebel hotel bathrobe

  • a king’s house coat

  • a boyfriend’s tee

  • a vintage negligee

  • a cozy wraparounds

  • a boho dream dress

  • a hollywood peignoir

  • a color of your dream, literally

  • a girly princess dress

  • a tough statement tee



Awakening hurts like hell but hey, you are a movie star.

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“Life is hard when you don't know who you are. It's harder when you don't know what you are. My love carried a dark shadow of pain, guilt and fear. I was lost for decades, searching while hiding my vulnerable truth only to find that the origins of my story will set me free.

I won't hide my true self anymore. I will live the life I choose.”

I adapted and modified the premise of the TV show Lost Girl, which ran from September 12, 2010 for five seasons until October 2015. I binged the first three season not in love with Bo, their super natural heroine but her human side kick Kenzie who, gawd, so totally talks and dresses like my inner 16 year old.

But I am fierce like BO; I won't hide anymore. I will live the life I chose before I entered this reality.

Who says we are NOT super natural?

My role is a detective like Bo’s; finding my tribe, my family, those who resemble my own powers of fantasy, vision, deep love for our world and a passion for truth that tears me up and lifts me into unknown heights. Like most cool heroines I was pushed into impossible obstacles and re-emerged like Phoenix from many ashes.

The best TV shows for me are those that kick their heroes to the curb and when we think it can’t get worse it freaking gets s o m u c h w o r s e…. and their path gets clearer and clearer.

When we’re slapped enough we awaken. If we are open to it. Not everybody is. Life is story; some like it deep, dark and hilarious, others want the pink and polished route. It’s all good, because it’s our movie, our role. Play it to perfection. And bad guys? They are there to be defeated. If you’re one of them acknowledge the experience and go for redemption.

Mine was the role of Cinderella knowing that she’s got the princess in her, somehow, somewhere. My Cinderella fought and rebelled herself into mansions only to turn around and smack, sabotage it and go back to the original belief. I’m guilty of something and have to repent. Growing up Catholic was a perfect part of the plot.

I landed in Topanga, California, in a job I called my purgatory. I took the “lessons”, accepted humiliations thinking I needed to learn to be “humble” until I exploded… actually my car exploded into a nearly fatal accident. Luckily only metal was damaged.
It was in 2013, a year after my dad had left the planet, my challenger and yet my safety cushion. The totaled car, (it is all my fault) was my last slap in the row of many smaller slaps and cartoon like situations asking me to wake the hell up!!! See your disappointments, woman, face your angry martyr beliefs.... but I trotted on until I was forced to fess up.

When I shivered and cringed but finally admitted I was responsible for my “crap” I was breathing hard into my “sins”, not the ancient ones from the myth that had ruled my life - I’m making a rad movie out of that story - but the worldly ones from my past decades. Those I did not want to see. Like super natural Bo I sucked the life of a couple men, not being able to love them, like Bo I was confused as to what my role was and made mistakes trying to find it. I laughed and danced and stumbled and fell and gosh, it hurt others too.

I cried, moping in my cozy arm chair, “sitting in it” until I was able to see clearly through the veil of sadness and - forgive myself.

Angie awanening 3.jpg

Only then could I open a new chapter.


From Elefant Journal:
“Awakenings tear us open. They expose all the yucky stuff, the shameful stuff, the secrets, the dreams that were never given a voice, the relationships that imprison us, the words left unsaid. Awakenings are a mirror we can’t turn away from, even in our ugliest, most tattered gown. They force us to get real, to get honest, to get transparent. They ask us to up level.

Awakenings don’t just come for anyone. They seek out those who are strong enough to take a hit. Awakenings don’t f*ck around, because they have a mission: to help us arrive. To arrive at our deepest place of love and compassion. To arrive at our endless inner wisdom. To arrive at the tender crossroads of accepting ourselves and loving others. To arrive at the place in which we are in full trust of who and what we are. To arrive at our shattered places and pour some light over them.”

The author of the article, Elizabeth Gordon, says that life isn’t like a movie but I say it absolutely is. My life is proof. I’ll show you in my memoir, working title “White Powder” Nothing is what it seems.

The script I followed is like that of a game where we can manipulate our avatar to a certain degree, an interactive script. We receive the blueprint, the character traits and talents, the back ground stories and the location - and wing it, make the best of it. The best means to follow the clues, see the winks and messages, to find our road map. We repeat levels until we get it and collect powers, weapons, tools and coins on the way.

The treasure is our fulfillment; owning our true essence and standing up for our self, be it total weirdness or utter normalcy.

My life is a dramedy series called Mea Culpa in which “dark nights of my soul” episodes are training grounds and provide cliff hangers for the next seasons. It premiered six decades ago and is still running.

“Mea Culpa” follows the life of an esoterically inclined rebel played by Angie Weihs, as she learns to discover her myth, the ancient blue print that controls her feelings, thoughts and every step but also contains the gifts of her abilities. Being torn between fierce rebellion and pampered princess she enters the castle of a super natural queen of wisdom.

In the scrolling credits I thank my many supporting actors, the director of eye opening situations, the countries providing dramatic locations and the stylist who created a wardrobe with foreshadowing and manifesting powers.

If I wrote my life’s script I took the screen writer’s rule of “killing her darlings” to heart, if I wrote this I am an amazing writer.

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Life is a TV script. I’m about to write the happy end.