Yesterday, I was in a book store called, "Indigo" just browsing in the bookshelf labelled, "fashion", when I stumbled upon an interesting book titled, "Blow By Blow." As I read the back summary I become more interested. I sat down at a table and read the first three chapters. It was basically a detailed autobiography of Isabella Blow.
Now, I'll let you know that before I took this book, I had absolutly no idea who in the world Isabella Blow even was. Thus, after reading some of the book, I discovered she was a Fashion Magazine Editor. She was the women who discovered many famous people, in the UK. She was the one who discovered one of my favorite, and worlds most famous fashion designers, Alexander McQueen (who saddly took his own life on Feb. 11, 2010).
Another reason why this book really grabbed me, was the fact that she was born on November 19, 1958. I myself was born on Nov.18. My birthday is a day before hers! Isabella had two sisters and a brother named Johnny, who tragically died accidentally at the age of two. He drowned in the family's pond. Her parents became depressed and eventually divorced. My parents are separated but it was for a different reason. However, what really shocked me was the way she died. In numerous attempts to kill herself she finally succeeded when she drank a weed-killer substance. She killed herself deliberately. I had a step-brother last year in April --long story.
Clearly Isabella was unhappy with her life, and was constantly in battle with depression. But she lived a dream of fashion, a dream where I hope to get a bit of. How could she do this to herself? Similarly, I feel as though I am often depressed. It may be because my childhood is just as screwed up as her was. My parents separated when I was very young. In fact, I don't even remember having my dad as a father at all. I didn't even know what a father was till I was in grade one. I thought it was a new "trendy thing." Then I discovered EVERYBODY had one, except for me. One the first day of school in grade 1, I would see moms and dads bring their little children to school. But me? My mom had to work, so my grandpa brought me. That old man was more of a father to me than my biological father ever was. I would sometimes cry in the middle of the night, thinking of what life would be like is I had a normal family. Once my mom caught me and she turned on the lights, she wanted to know why I was balling my eyes out. i didn't want to tell her. I hated talking about myself, and I just didn't want her to know. I was a rather private person who mostly kept to herself. I admit was a bit of a cry baby, when I was young.
NOW, I'm eighteen years old, and my dad is starting to become a father. But I feel as though he's more than a decade too late. When Dario took his life last year, he finally became interested in mine, and my sister's, and my brother's. Whatta dick! It had to take someone else's life to realize that he wanted to finally become a dad to his first family. Through first my reaction, I feel senses of sad and mad at the same time. Sad because this child age of 13 had committed suicide and mad because that's what it took to finally open up his dusty eyes. My sisters reaction was all like, "Go f*** yourself." My older bro didn't say much he was more of the one to stick out his hand and as soon as the green bill came out of my dad's pocket on touched his skin he left the room.
Anyways I feel a sort of real connection Isabella's life and mine. She was in conflict with her family, and with her negative thoughts. In the book, it suggests that Isabella may have blamed herself for what had happened to her brother, resulting in her great depression. I remember when I was about 16 years old and my mother wanted to talk to me, but I was to busy watching a movie, to come to her. She said she wanted to discuss something. I yelled from my seat, "what are you dying?" These words I regret saying, because after the movie I came to her, she was sitting on her bed, with my brother at her side. That's when she told me; "I have cancer." To this day I just cannot forgive myself for those words that came out of my mouth. My mother had breast cancer and she could have died. However the doctors caught the disease before hand, she went though surgery and today she lives to see another day. But what bugs me is the reason why she even got that disease. We have no family history of breast cancer. The doctors suggested it was from stress. I can believe that, because if you look at her whole life from a third person perspective, she was an immigrant who came to Canada, got married to a guy who drank to much and later cheated on her. She ended up as a single mother raising not one but four children all by herself. Yeah, that's stressful.
After I came home from Indigo yesterday, I decided read a few autobiographies of Isabella online. I found out that in 1979 she moved to the big apple (NEW YORK!) so that she could study ancient Chinese Art. She attended Columbia University. She also meet two of my favorite artist that I would kill to meet: Andy Warhol and Roy Lichenstein.
In conclusion, I want to go back to the bookstore and maybe buy the book so that I can finish, her story. She and I seem to have a lot in common. I wish I could have had the chance to meet her. Any who, I hope she rests in peace.
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