I've been reflecting -- a lot -- on higher powers lately. A while I have reconciled many quandries within myself, I've also concluded that -- to be frank -- there simply isn't a just God or any kind of spiritual legitimacy in a world where that gorgeous fox Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy is dead, gone, forever, and yet still that...Kate Middleton lives.
Talk about a snooze!
Waity Kaity! I dutifully follow this limp noodle's daily la-di-das around the UK because I get all my news from the British tabloids.
And enough the ringlet-y curling iron curls. Do you Hot Tools that mess yourself? Because I know you do your own daytime eyeliner (and must I say -- whoa).
And don't even get me STARTED on the the Great Disappointment of 2011. The sister. She could have been anyone! So much for THAT. I'd rather interview Jennifer Lopez's Downsy-looking Polly Pocket 'tween boyfriend Casper Smart (actually, Jane -- can we get Casper Smart? [On it. ]). I'd rather interview a String cheese!
Pippa. Give that bitch some meow-meow or something! Marry her off to Jeff Koons and make her an art project like La Cicciolina! At least make her go on one date with Kanye West for five seconds -- it would make Kim Kardashian's LIFE, believe me. Who is handling this girl's fame trajectory? I could put her into the stratosphere in about six days!
No, the good news with those two is that I believe that they are destined for long, non-gloomed-glamour lives. Like Camilla and Fergie. Hooray.
Anyway. What am I talking about today. Right -- Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy. I am dressed in my tribute photo shoot to celebrate her above! Yes, the whole fucking image is ridiculous, but what was I supposed to illustrate a story about Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy's favorite beauty products with at six in the morning when I live alone and I'm supposed to be IN THE PHOTO -- and it's a story about HER?
This job is so stupid sometimes; I swear to God. I hate this picture-of-me-required thing. Look at me. LOOK AT ME. Look at what my LEGACY will be. Thank God I take so much Plan B.
I wasn't going to try to take some SERIOUS photo. Instead I represented sartorially as follows: with a little bit of class (Chanel blazer), a little bit of flash (the sequined miniskirt -- she was a downtown club chick who loved gays, dancing, and was obsessed with that bimbo Baywatch actor UNDERWEAR MODEL who climbed her fire escape like a methed out LABORATORY CHIMP, for God's sake), and a little bit attention whore, as represented by the Page SixSixSix T-shirt from my good friend that I just WORSHIP Chrissie Miller's awesome line Sophomore. (More on Chrissie, as ever, in upcoming stories! She's a glam one. Google her. She teaches me half the shit I know.)
Oh, you think Carolyn didn't want attention? You think she was so private? It's funny, then, that she dated so many celebrities -- Mr. Baywatch/Underpants, Allessandro Bennetton, future N.H.L. star John Cullen -- and then MARRIED the most famous bachelor in the world.
I mean, when you so don't want a certain thing, you don't catch it, you know? Like I'm not going to make out with a man that has that same big cold sore, and then another man with that cold sore. Because I don't want it for life, motherfuckers. Durr.
I'm not trying to criticize Carolyn; I obviously didn't know her. I don't know anything! I'm just remembering her as someone besides the person who hated the fame (BREAKING: 99.99999% of famous people are famous BECAUSE THEY WANT TO BE) and then died horribly in the plane crash. She was a fucking fox and she was fun and beyond chic! So so major!
We don't need to whisper her name the way Mick whispers "Angie" in the Rolling Stones song! If you died today, would you want that hushed tones nonsense? I wouldn't want that!
I'd want to be "WOOOED!" You know, like dead pop stars get to have their songs played at clubs and everyone loves them. And someone like Carolyn only gets these TENSE images of her looking strained in the perfect clothes on the street with the blowouts and flawless makeup and hair (done at the loft by pros in the morning, of course), or those photos of her in a wedding dress or leaning against the husband.
It's time her iconography was REFRAMED.
"The Private Princess." Whatever. The media-trained wife for a year. If you think she wouldn't be in black and white giggling over on Terry's Diary today in the age of Internet you are dreaming. She wasn't an old Fifth Avenue lady like ol' Jackie. John didn't marry his mother!
Can we all stop keeping her memory so precious and sacred and instead start celebrating her legacy as the babe we know she was?! We know all this now -- that she was a New York City nightlife girl who loved the clubs, the coke, the climb!
That's not to say she wasn't incredibly glamorous -- I'm just saying she wasn't untouchably so. There are so few fun stories and photos of her and that sucks. Those beautiful best city girls are my literal favorite people in the world; they're like glow-in-the-dark creatures in my head. Can't you see Carolyn or Edie's white hair, bright in a dark club, if you close your eyes?
I see a lame celebrity every like 14 hours in New York (last night: Macauley Culkin on Great Jones Street) and no one is exciting, no one gives me a thrill. As someone who worships at the altar of glamour iconography of all things, I would have loved to see Carolyn -- not like I would die to see Edie, but still -- just once on the streets of New York. I never got to.
Anyway, here are Carolyn's favorite makeup and beauty products, which I discovered through my friend Charlotte who knows everything about everything, and she found them on some creepy website "that was up for one day", and then she ordered them all, and we were playing with them at her house (the musk oil is REALLY good).
And talking about them is just a fun little way to remember her and talk about her and love her iconography, her girly memory, in a way that we don't need to be sad about. We can enjoy her beauty and style now -- it's cool, baby! She was apparently a pretty nice chick. She liked to get down. She'd probably share her makeup bag with you in the bathroom at Le Bain or whatever. And here's what she'd have in it:
This, Kiehl's Creme With Silk Groom, is a cult product and always a favorite leave-in of mine as well -- God, it's been so long since I've used it! Basically, it conditions while it silkifies without being too slippery or silicone-y at all. Instead, it's a cream, but not a mushy one: more dense, so you warm it on your palms before distributing through the length of your hair. It makes air-drying look better, and it makes blowouts smoother. A fantastic all-around product.
This is how the truly wealthy, elegant women of New York did it (click here for a refresher on a similar story I did on Edie and Marilyn and thieir skincare doctors and products in New York): they stick with one person, get gentle but very thorough regimens from that person, and then get lots of treatments in between. In addition to this simple soap, Carolyn liked the brand's White Astringent for blemish and oil control, and both the brand's Pressed Powder Compact Foundations and Loose Powder product for her senstive, pale -- and obviously very lovely -- skin.
Carolyn also loved Face Stockholm's Cranberry Veil Lipstick. The shade is pretty self-explanatory. Face Stockholm makes fantastic lipsticks, and in different intensities: this one is the sheerest -- the most balm-like, so to apply, you almost don't need a mirror (or maybe that's why people are always telling me I have lipstick on my face). She also used two of the brand's two beautiful creamy highlighters for face and eyes: Dignity, an off-white, sugary moon-glow, and Radiance, a shimmer rose.
Of course the queen of minimalism used this neutral makeup must-have, Bobbi Brown Bone Eye Shadow: a perfect, just barely shummer-flecked vanilla that works both solo and as a base under other shadows to make every eye makeup look polished, perfect, and so pretty.
Finally, how did Carolyn smell up close? That is always the best and creepiest question, and I have the answer for you! She smelled like Abdul Kareem Essential Oils Egyptian Musk, which comes in tiny bottles and is sold on Amazon.com inexpensively. It is lovely -- basically impossibly for anyone, male or female (because you KNOW how obnoxious men are about perfume) to dislike. You put it on; it dries down onto you skin, and then your skin just smells like you skin, but much better, somehow....though oddly not perfumed, per se, at all. So gorgeous.
So, who should I do next? I heard that Cleopatra injected diamonds....
Cat's on Twitter @cat_marnell.