It took all the confidence I could muster just to try it on, but the moment I passed it over my shoulders and down the length of my torso I knew this was a definitive piece that you wear like a bad attitude.
The evening slips away. A fantasy comes undone. Yet I remain. The dress remains.
Looking at it from above, I see a dress of exquisite proportion, texture, and immaculate style. And then I see myself, naked beneath a second skin. Which is the real one, after all is said and done? Is a woman authentic, or does she only become real in the compliment of the dress? What is she without the dress, and what has the dress caused her to be responsible for? Does she have to live up to an expectation she otherwise cannot fulfill? Is the dress a compliment or a cover up for truth? Or is it an entity all its own? What is the cause that creates the effect?