Vintage Fashion: Diamonds and Rust

Words+Photos: Mike Blanchard, Model: Michon Barbagelata

Somewhere in the foothills the sun blazes down on hot, greasy, old metal; once discarded but now treasured. Snatches of recognition and sense memory play like a flickering film strip. The smell of a hot summer field and raw overturned soil play the bass note under a furry-rust-lichen-metal tune overgrown with star thistle and brush. The familiar musty decay of old car interior escapes from sun bleached glass to add its bitter note to the symphony.

Michon immediately recognizes the potential of shapes and what she can play off of. The cool dark of James’ shop invites escape from the blazing eye; invites you to scan the walls and pay homage to forms that have slumbered through a century of plastic progress.

Metal demi-gods have not lost any of their power embedded like molecules in our cultural DNA. Sleek sculptures formed by men long dead, lost in somnolent velocity waiting for a woman bold enough to make them her own.