The Eighties…there was so much room for glitter and glory, for pointy shoes and shoulder pads.
There’s still a feeling of clean and genuine power whenever I put on a shiny blazer with enormous shoulder pads or when I try some forgotten party dresses from girls who used to be 20 during the 80s. Oh, and how I envy those Americans who used to be 20 then, their strong legs running and dancing in high-waisted jeans.
I cry when I listen to powerful songs from the 80s and I laugh when I listen to their sad love songs. People were really feeling they would actually go somewhere, that’s why they weren’t afraid to wear flashy jackets, flashy hair-cuts. Everything seemed to be going way up, from their hair to their buildings or their stocks.
Tom Cruise used to show his long white teeth and his wide smile and he would play in movies that told stories about how basically “anyone can make it”. I saw “Cocktail” one evening and I hated it, I hated the character’s confidence, the whole “he gets the girl” part, I started to laugh but the laughter was so bitter. They you told me that I should be more gentle with those people, oh those pink cardboard people, moving their hands and their feet gracefully while dancing, running on the streets and hoping for the best.
The music was so loud, their chins so high, their knees not trembling yet.
This is not a nostalgic reflection upon an era I want the present to be traded for. That would mean that I can’t understand anything from the past.This is a random and distorted mirror put in front of the beautiful mistakes and right choices of those shiny years populated by powerful weak loud dancers and singers and actors and bankers and politicians and highschool girls. It is never a lesson of impersonal “history” with capital H the one that really gets to be locked inside our hearts. We achieve true intimacy only with some captions of the past like the unconvered shoulders of young mothers in photographs hidden around the house or glowing headbands you yourself used to wear while playing with dolls before even starting to pronounce words like “fashion” or “style”.
I used to eat while browsing through fashion magazines or catalogues, swallowing handed spoons of mashed potatoes, naively pointing at golden bracelets, smiling with satisfaction, covering those beautiful ladies in food and saliva. I don’t remember it, but I’ve been told this story so many times that I almost believe to have lived it.
My mother and I have stopped buying magazines at some point. I used to obsess over every number of COOL GIRL in the 90s. Somehow I still do. I don’t buy them anymore.
There were days in Bucharest when I would go and just sit next to expensive Vogue magazines, tempted to skip dinner and buy one, just like Carrie used to. I never did it and know I’m picturing myself tearing the whole magazine apart, page by page, slowly chewing the glossy wonderful paper, the glossy wonderful writing, the glossy wonderful life a glossy wonderful magazine could never buy for me.