Lesley Burr

A selection of my creations from Rusted Revolution’s 2012...

lesbabyles — Mon, 19 Nov 2012 22:54:00 -0600

A selection of my creations from Rusted Revolution’s 2012 jewelry collection. Styling and photography by me, Lesley Burr.

Rusted Revolution is a fashion, culture, and lifestyle blog that...

lesbabyles — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 23:27:05 -0500

Rusted Revolution is a fashion, culture, and lifestyle blog that was was founded in the fall of 2010 by myself and Lucy McBride. Since then it has grown into a brand with a jewlery line on Etsy, has produced two fashion shows (one in conjunction with Her Campus and Rent the Runway), and created a satellite blog called Boston College for Rusted Revolution (BCxRR) with 10 student interns who are contributing writers.

> Read Rusted Revolution

Below is a small sampling of posts Rusted Revolution has done:

> Features and Collaborations

My blog Rusted Revolution initiated a cross-promotional...

lesbabyles — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 23:19:51 -0500

My blog Rusted Revolution initiated a cross-promotional partnership with Her Campus’ Boston College chapter. Rusted Revolution published weekly articles on fashion and beauty for Her Campus.

Read my Her Campus articles.

Teaser of the “Visit Lincoln’s Chicago”...

lesbabyles — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 23:09:36 -0500

Teaser of the “Visit Lincoln’s Chicago” interactive touchscreen activity at the Chicago History Museum. Created in conjunction with Mightybytes. I assisted with overseeing the development, and was actively involved with the design review and user testing process.

Visit Lincoln’s Chicago from Chicago History Museum on Vimeo.

Aside from managing the Chicago History Museum blog, I also...

lesbabyles — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 23:07:35 -0500

Aside from managing the Chicago History Museum blog, I also write for it. Here are two selected blog posts I have published.

A Preview of Charles James

The Chicago Fire: Whodunit?

A clip of an article I wrote for Venus Zine’s print...

lesbabyles — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 23:01:53 -0500

A clip of an article I wrote for Venus Zine’s print magazine, Winter 2010 issue.

Four Looks to Look For

If 2012 was the year of rebellion and ’90s-grunge revival, in 2011, designers will clean up their acts. Certain styles (tough boots, maxi skirts, and dark colors) will stick around, but overall, we’ll see a move toward more sleek, tailored, and sophisticated styling. Here are four trends we expect to see next year.

Minimalism

The most prominent trend for 2011? Simplicity. Printed pants, sequins, and mixed patterns give way to to neutrals, one or two-piece looks, and spare accessories. Look out for a focus on fabric, color, and cut — because, let’s face it, sometimes less really is more.

Anti-Sex

A lot has changed since Britney first flashed the top of her pelvic bone back in 2001. Nearly 10 years later, the industry is moving toward more conservative and elegantly styled looks. Menswear-inspired and highly structured pieces in delicate fabrics — which keep the look from getting dowdy — have flooded recent runways.

1970s

For the upcoming spring season, designers are moving back in time to the quirky-cool late-’60s and glam ’70s. From the distinctive cuts — bellbottoms, wide-legged pants, trench coats, Grecian dresses — to graphic and ethnic-bohemian prints and plaids, The Brady Bunch and disco divas are back in action.

Glam Goth

Despite all of the whites, soft neutrals, and bright patterns, fashion’s dark side will remain next year in the form of long and sleek late-’90s silhouettes, a la early seasons of Charmed and Buffy. Sheer black, sophisticated leather, and cutout dresses will replace shredded tees and holey jeans.

As the Venus Zine Fashion Intern I had the chance to blog about...

lesbabyles — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 22:52:03 -0500

As the Venus Zine Fashion Intern I had the chance to blog about style, celebrities, and beauty. During my time with the magazine, I also became a Contributing Writer for the print magazine and website. Below is an article that was published online:

Gear Up: Summer Festival Essentials
By Lesley Burr
Published: August 2nd, 2010
Read the article on Venus Zine.

Selected clips of blog posts I wrote on behalf of Venus Zine in conjunction with their partner site, Shoptopia.

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

I created an original 72 page mock-up of a fashion magazine,...

lesbabyles — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 22:46:58 -0500

I created an original 72 page mock-up of a fashion magazine, which I named Hook and Eye, for my senior year Magazine Editing and Publishing class at Boston College with Professor Ricco Siasoco. The project entitled me to come up with a business plan, editorial and design plan, and to execute and print copies of the magazine’s first issue.

Below is a feature article I wrote for Hook and Eye. It is an interview with the then Editor-and-Chief of Venus Zine, a publication where I worked in 2010 as Fashion Intern and Contributing Writer.

Print a Fashion Faux-Pas? Not according to Venus Zine

In an age where the Internet is dominating the media market, countless magazines have been downsizing, or closing their doors entirely. Is print going out of style? Jill Russell, editor-in-chief of Venus Zine, an international quarterly arts, fashion, and popular culture magazine, begs to differ. “Print is still relevant in my eyes,” explains Russell. “Internet is all about the immediate. Print is more thoughtful, can take more time to ruminate on something and explore it. Those features and profiles in the New Yorker [are] tens of thousands of words… you just can’t get that type of thing online.” Does her profession give her a biased perspective? Maybe. But there’s nothing wrong with that. To her, and to masses of people around the globe, nothing beats holding the tangible object in your hands, despite the cliché. She sees Venus Zine’s print issues as collectibles for the die-hard fans out there, and to her, web and print compliment each other. With such a strong faith in print media, Russell is an inspiration to seasoned professionals in the journalism area, and to those that are just beginning their careers.

Venus Zine, founded in college coed Amy Schroeder’s Michigan State University dorm room in 1995 and now headquartered in Chicago, was recently revamped this year under new owner Sarah Beardsley, with the help of hip and young Jill Russell acting as editor-in-chief. The magazine, though over the course of fifteen years has evolved from a simple black and white stapled fanzine to a high quality colored magazine and daily updated companion website, has stayed true to its original spirit. Russell explains what lies at the core of Venus Zine: “It’s a vibrant community of tastemakers and influencers known for identifying up-and-coming, edgy artists and innovators and the legends who inspire them. By combining creative and compelling editorial with a distinct point of view, Venus Zine delivers the smart, unique cultural commentary that empowers each member of our audience to make her own playlist for life.” A “playlist,” meaning a personal list of what one listens to, wears, and what excites one creatively.

The magazine is at the forefront of the emerging indie scene and lends a feminine perspective to that world by writing about women in music, fashion, culture, and DIY entrepreneurs. The female voice and witty, edgy content are what appeal to its target audience – young women who are creative, smart, free-thinkers, and influencers – and is what makes it stand out in a world so focused on top forty pop hits, mediocre mainstream blockbusters, and Ugg boots. “You know the friend who always introduces you to new bands, films, books, and artists?” Russell asked. “That’s our reader.”

Russell is just that type of reader. A self-proclaimed under-the-radar honors’ student nerd from the west side of Detroit, when Russell wasn’t playing soccer or creating “sandwich art” at her Subway job, she ventured out to see a lot of local punk rock and indie bands. (She’s narrowed down her favorite concert experiences to Rancid with Dance Hall Crashers in ’95, the band Hum’s hypnotic live show, and Radiohead on their Kid A tour in Chicago.) She obtained a degree in graphic design at Wayne State, and after graduation, started working in the marketing world. Unsatisfied, she moved on to designing print ads in Philly, and then moved on once again to study magazine publishing at Emerson in Boston in hopes of possibly pursuing a career in photo editing or art directing. Her curriculum was a mix of design, editorial, and literature, and it was then that she got attracted to writing and editing. A little ways further down the line, Russell found herself where she is today, the editor-in-chief of Venus Zine.

Though perhaps Russell never planned on her career taking the exact path that it did, she always had a love for magazines. At around the age of ten she discovered Sassy magazine. Russell says the magazine had a clear message for her that said, “It’s cool to be different, it’s cool to be an individual.” While Sassy introduced her to fashion, music, and movies, it was of the alternative sort. Russell describes the magazine as having “made fun of YM and Seventeen and all of the teen mags that were all about getting boyfriends and looking cute,” which was something she could never relate to. Since her Sassy discovery, she was able to envision herself working for a magazine. As for the future, Russell says that it is “so wide open at this point!” She enjoys working with lifestyle content in magazines because it’s creative. Her dream jobs of “books editor of New York Times or the New Yorker or beauty editor at Lucky” along with working at GQ, Esquire, or More magazine (which she believes to be one of the smartest women’s titles around) definitely fit her broad range of interests.

A gal with so many ambitions and interests must have had some role models, right? Venus Zine features so many strong women who are all different but beautiful, and Russell’s role models are just that. Growing up, her female role models were the witty and savvy Sassy staffers, but now she looks towards current magazine staffers for inspiration. She lists Kim France and Andrea Linnett of Lucky, Lesley Jane Seymour of More magazine, and Cindi Leive of Glamour as a few. Aside from being central to such successful magazines, Russell loves that they are all now depicting models who look like real women.

Venus Zine is all about portraying great role models that strong and talented, but in a realistic light. Aside from the people featured, the magazine also strives to feature unique music, art, culture, and fashion in an accessible way for their female audience. Fashion plays a central role in the magazine. It focuses on both up and coming and lesser-known brands, designers, and retail stores. Russell’s own sense of style reflects the magazine’s. She describes her style as relaxed, practical, and budget. She loves vintage clothing, especially bags, boots, and accessories, but she loves affordable-chic chain stores like H&M and Zara as well. She draws inspiration from fashion icons such as Rachel Bilson, Kate Moss, Charlotte Gainsbourgh, but she admires French girls the most because “they manage to look sexy without showing a ton of skin.”

This sentiment, that women can be sexy in atypical ways, resonates in the magazine’s content. This could be the reason why in an age where print seems to be dying, Venus Zine continues to thrive and grow, slowly but steadily. For now, the magazine plans to stay quarterly, though in the next year there is a possibility of expanding to six print issues in 2011. Russell believes the magazine will always, in some form, stay in print, though Venus Zine is technologically savvy and uses social networking channels and blogger outreach as two ways of promoting itself. The fact that the content stays positive, and only presents critical articles when well-argued, is another smart move for Venus Zine. The witty, edgy, yet complimentary tone the magazine takes minimizes drama and complaints from celebrity publicists and the public. Russell seems to think it isn’t worth the time and energy for a magazine to post negative remarks, a wise move indeed.

Where does Russell’s magazine business wisdom come from? Experience and long years of dedication in pursuing her interests. Before Venus Zine Russell was the associate editor at Body+Soul. She describes her experience as being “totally different having a huge corporation like Martha Stewart behind you – a lot of creative people working on everything together. In an environment like that, your job is much more singular in focus.” Now, according to Russell, she has a ton of different hats to wear, as she is one of only three full-time staffers at Venus Zine. Though the two magazines covered different topics, she says that one “can’t help but be influenced by [the] environment on a personal level. But in terms of what I do in the day-to-day… that sort of ‘editor’ mindset doesn’t differ too much no matter what type of subject you’re working on.”

For someone with as much varied experience in creative and publishing fields, Russell has a lot of advice to give to students aspiring to work in fashion and art journalism. To her, being inquisitive, highly organized, detail-oriented, driven, and dependable are key to a good journalist. As for editor-in-chief? An ability to see the bigger picture while honing in on the tiniest details is essential for the job. But for whatever aspect of the magazine industry one wants to work in, according to Russell, being a sort of jack-of-all-trades with a wide range of interests and a willing to work hard is the most important. The number one key to break into the magazine business, Russell says, is internships. They are “worth a thousand classes,” and as someone who interned for Body+Soul at age twenty-seven, she says, “never be too proud to do it,” and it might just lead to a job, like it did for her. Pitching ideas, writing clips, asking to help editors, meeting deadlines, and proving your indispensable can lead to a career at the place you intern.

Despite fact that Venus Zine has many voices from various departments behind it – interns, free lancers, full-time staff, and photographers to name a few – it is both Russell’s experience in graphic design, advertising, and journalism, and her optimistic outlook that lend a certain youth and freshness to the magazine. With Russell’s skills as an editor and creative mind and her firm belief in the magazine’s editorial mission, there’s no doubt that even if print media does fade, Venus Zine, and it’s take on fashion and the arts, will not.

I went through Groupon Academy; only one percent out of...

lesbabyles — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 20:18:00 -0600

I went through Groupon Academy; only one percent out of hundreds of applicants make it to this stage. Groupon’s training program teaches applicants how to write in the company’s unusual, humorous voice, and treats them like freelancers. These two particular deals I wrote about were very well-recieved:

$25 for a Half-Day water Tour at Sea Kayak Georgia (a $55 Value)

A long, long time ago in a desolate region of the Arctic Circle, the Eskimos decided they needed a vacation from all the snow. Bored with mundane weekend ice fishing trips, late nights at the slushie bar, and working out at the local country ski club, they yearned for milder climates, water that was actually liquid, and daisy dukes. Thus, the kayak was born, a revolutionary method of transportation that allowed them to travel down to SoCal, Tiujana, and even Georgia. Make like an Eskimo today with Groupon’s latest offer: for $25, you get a half-day water tour at Sea Kayak Georgia valued at $55.

Take part in the time-honored water sport and kayak along costal Georgian beaches to Little Tybee Island while learning about the terrain, waterways and natural beauty of the Deep South’s wilderness. March through October, tours take place everyday from 9:00 a.m. until 12:00 p.m. and 1:30 p.m. until 4:30 p.m. November through February, tours are every day from 11:00 a.m. until 2:00 p.m. Reservations and half-hour orientations prior to the tours are required. Half-day tours prove exciting for even the most experienced Eskimo, but are tailored to suit beginner paddlers as well. Since 1994 Sea Kayak Georgia has provided for the needs of paddlers in every imaginable way. Be it paddling lessons, educational nature tours for students, custom trips for schools and families, boating supplies, or a lunch date on the beach with the dolphin Flipper, Sea Kayak Georgia never forgets the brave and ingenious peoples of the Arctic Circle and the sacrifice of money, sleep, and seal skin, to develop the kayak.

Kayaking has remained a sporting tradition that all can enjoy thanks to Sea Kayak Georgia’s founders, Marsha Henson and Ronnie Kemp. With a bit of training, a natural history tour of salt marshes, and a complimentary alligator self-defense class courtesy of frequent Tybee vacationer Bear Grylls, not only will you gain a greater appreciation of the great outdoors, but you’ll gain double the mass in your biceps and perhaps, even a new hobby.

$30 for One Second Tier Seating Ticket to Carmen at Seattle Opera (a $75 Value)

The origins of opera are rooted in forgetful Shakespearean actors who would burst out into improvisational song and dance routines in hopes of distracting their audiences from missed lines. Thankfully, with today’s Groupon deal, at least you know that the performers are singing on purpose. $30 will get you one ticket for second tier seating at Seattle Opera’s Carmen, valued at $75.

Experience the sensory delight, Carmen, which Seattle Opera has earned the right to brag about. Highly experienced singers with a variety of impressive repertoires perform Carmen without auditory assistance or amplification. At McCaw Hall, function takes precedence over fashion. Put your contacts in, leave the monocles behind, and bring a hard hat that best compliments your ball gown – the ever-popular Carmen promises to deliver glass-shattering arias, so come to think of it, earmuffs might be a good idea, too. Bizet’s tragic love story of a soldier obsessed with a free-loving gypsy woman is complete with smugglers, soldiers, and toreadors, and is chock full of Spanish culture. Sung in French with subtitles in English, Carmen is a multicultural delight that will require a pocket language dictionary, a clip-on book light, and lightning fast reading skills. Carmen is three and a half hours of drama that both aficionados and opera-newbies can appreciate, for the music, but mostly because it means not one, but two blissful bathroom breaks.

Though the story of Carmen centers on a rogue soldier and a femme fatale, Seattle Opera has a zero tolerance policy for outlaws. Take care to be on time to the show –audience members cannot take their seats after the performance has begun until intermission. Seattle Opera has taken care to provide accommodations for such circumstances; latecomers can watch the show live on television monitors from Tardy Time-Out. In addition Seattle Opera has a highly trained team of specialized spies in the theatre ready to apprehend the chatty-Cathy culprit in the top hat who is unwrapping candy whilst flipping though her program, adjusting her bangles, and perfuming her crying baby’s diaper, as all such behaviors are strongly discouraged. Seattle Opera’s house rules cater to the performers’ needs and ensure for the most enjoyable performance possible. Carmen runs from October 15 through October 29, 2011, with performances going on sale September 19. Select performances on October 22, 26, and 29 are on sale now.

Chapbook Selected poems from my 2010 chapbook final project for...

lesbabyles — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 20:06:42 -0600

Chapbook

Selected poems from my 2010 chapbook final project for Advance Poetry Writing with Professor Andrew Sofer at Boston College. “Under,” a short story — inspired by the Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, Christian teachings about suicide and Purgatory, and Dante’s Divine Comedy — written for Creative Writing with Professor Sophie Powell, follows.

Dream

Met an old man high in a field –
missing teeth, cracked fingers, shiny-bald.
If we couldn’t leave our bodies
our spirits would die sooner
starving caged up,
he said grinning that crooked grin.
He pointed to the house
on the hill. It was sad,
skeleton wood, blackened windows,
because he was not inside. Now
who’s there to answer the doorbell
for the lonely solicitor
with a nervous tic that he sells
along with bad habits
and fake body parts?
The old man said there’s no need for
things like those to escape. When you’ve
got a wild rhythm in your heart,
there’s a wilderness behind your eyes.

Icarus

Why do you stand so poised on the window edge
arms outstretched as if the wind could catch you,
sweep you from this prison, over oceans?
There are no witnesses to see a feat of grace, you say.
Your arms are straight and narrow,
the hollow bones beneath your shoulder skin strain.
You
dive
heavily down-turned
towards the lapping dark waves,
but then you jerk,
caught by the beaten air.
Your father-made wings do the climbing for you.
Daedalus did everything out of love,
not that you ever saw it,
even when he gave you artful flight.
He glides beneath you as if his waxed feathers
could keep you suspended should you lose the current,
Higher and faster you are a bird god now.
Just past the rim of the sky is heaven, hot to the touch.
Feathers fill the jagged horizon as
the weight of truth sweats out of you.
You reach for your father but all you can do
is watch the melted wax and sweat of labor
drip down his face (or are they tears?)
you wonder one moment what keeps you here
as limbs thrash, grasping
for things that anchor you to the earth.
But instead your life rips apart
and
down
to earth
you plunge,
dripping feathers,
sinking
into wild water,
wishing you were a perfect ghost.

The Patient

Wires thrust out of your chest,
drip-drip in your ribs.
Mom’s palm pressed against yours.
I lie sideways, my feet against your pillow.

Drip-drip in your ribs.
Later they’ll take you to another room.
I lie sideways, my feet against your pillow;
maybe if I wait long enough I can sleep again.

Later. They’ll take you too. Another room:
burn away the flesh of history.
Maybe. If I wait long enough I can sleep. Again,
your time-beating keeps machine sounds breathing.

Burn away the flesh of history.
Mom’s praying palm is pushed to yours.
your dreaming keeps machine sounds breathing,
as wires point out of your chest.

Chicago

The watching men, sinew and bone,
that work in the rusting metal
forest flex their crocodile-skinned
knuckles and grin when floral skirts
and leather heels strut past.
Thank goodness for the fence, otherwise
the men might topple right over each
other like cockroaches scrambling
for crumbs on the linoleum
floor of a blue-collar kitchen,
but instead the men turn their eyes
and laugh as the innocent turn
jade, and the lover and her
other just stand and are lost in
the rattling of the train tracks
overhead; below ground. Down
the block a bum rattles his coin
instrument in a desperate
dance on the edge of the granite
fountain. He wishes the water
were bluer than the cerulean found
a hundred feet from the lake’s
surface, bluer than his bloodless
fingers in winter, than the map
of veins beneath his cellophane
skin where pulse is faint. Sometimes he
wants needles to make it slower
or faster, but then he has to
start his dance all over again.
The skyscraper smells
and broken rain clouds leave no
room for his imagination,
except for beneath the raw
steel beams of his bridge-house
that save everything
from crushing the city of his
childhood that is mist.

Under

When he learned his mother was dead, it felt like someone punched him in the stomach. The wind was knocked out of him and he staggered back in shock and disbelief, as if he couldn’t quite fathom why someone would have done such a thing to him. But then, the pain of the punch subsided, and he was left with a numbing sense of anger, wanting nothing more than to scream and kick and fight back. Except, there was nothing left to fight, nothing but the emptiness that plagued him, and so he suppressed it, learned to live with it even as it fed on him, and tried to forget.

But it was his Eurydice this time. The feeling that came now was not sharp and quick like pain induced by a thin, stabbing knife, but slow, intense, and raw, like acid burning away at flesh until all that was left was bones – bones that didn’t quite hide the organs – the throbbing broken heart that was now exposed to grief. His bones, his last protection against what he could not avoid, began to melt and he slid to the floor like liquid, collapsing in on himself until even his drawn up knees, arms wrapped tightly around them, and curved spine and bowed head could not restrain the great heaving of his shoulders that racked his whole body, could not stop the great gasping breaths that came as he struggled for oxygen and control.

He remembered, when his mom had died, how he had lost all train of thought, couldn’t understand a word anyone was saying, was unable to process any information. But now it was like everything was sharper and clearer and faster and more.

Sounds: the “I’m sorry she’s gone” mixed with the clatter of a wheeled gurney as it burst through the swinging doors at the end of the hall, and the sound of his breathing and the doctor’s murmurs in his ears, all interspersed with the heavy thud of his heartbeat.

Smells: Eurydice’s rose-lily-shampoo scent still clinging to his sweater and the sterile saltiness of the saline that drip-drip-dripped in and through patients, combined with stale coffee breath and coppery blood.

Sights: the blur of colors that ran together all under sickly fluorescent lighting, highlighting the gold in his watch on the arm his face was buried, and the dark, wet splotches on his jeans onto which his tears were falling.

Tastes: the bitterness of the bile that rose in his throat to mix with the grief and flavorless gum that had been chewed for a good hour, with the blood that escaped from his lip where he bit down hard trying to keep the sobs contained.

Touch: His arms wrapped around his shoulders like an iron vise as if he could contain his grief and keep it within himself as he curled in on his own body, his hands fisted against his concave chest, unsuccessfully holding in the violent tremors that sent shockwaves down to his toes and through the floor to rock bottom where he was sure he had landed.

His senses were magnified all at once and he could barely distinguish them. He could hear the doctor’s voice floating somewhere above him – “Sir, are you alright?” – but he barely acknowledged the person in front of him. It was too much. Suddenly he pushed up from the wall and thrust his way through the meandering crowd of people waiting in the lobby. He burst through the hospital doors, taking great heaving gulps of the sharp winter air, letting the cold and pain in his lungs calm him down.

Between his sobbing breaths and the clatter of a gurney being unfolded from an ambulance, there was a sudden still silence, as if the world itself was taking in a big calming breath. Time had stopped, just for a moment, and then he heard it; the song was the most beautiful he’d ever heard.

Haunting city sounds – the rhythm of train cars clapping on the tracks overhead, the pitter-patter of a raccoon sifting through trash, the rumble of a car with a broken muffler, muted music seeping through the brick apartment building across the street – sifted through the air around him like a low murmur. It entranced him immediately, urged him forward, though to what, he did not know. All he knew was that he had to follow. And so he staggered down the steps as if a man possessed, past the E.R. entrance, past the parking lot, down a dark alley full of barbed wire and broken bottles.

The wind cut at his throat and wrists where his worn denim jacket didn’t cover skin, but instead of pulling it around him tighter, he closed his eyes, welcoming the cold. The wind was a pair of hands, pulling him forward, enfolding him, and undressing him. He reached up and unfastened the buttons on his jacket, letting it blow open.

Soon he found himself past the main street of town, heading towards the pier. The urgency within him grew as the wind gathered strength and speed. He could have sworn the wind itself was trying to carry him forward. And then suddenly, he was there, at the end of the long wooden pier, the toes of his boots pushed almost to the edge of the structure. The song – the wind, his sorrow, the pounding of his heart – crescendoed as the crash of waves against the wood and metal support beneath the pier clashed like hollow cymbals.

He looked to the left, where the land extended out just a bit past the pier. The waves clawed at the shore hungrily, the black fingers of water grasping at the rocky sand before retreating back into the wet darkness dragging the earth along with it. Only a thin slice of the moon hung in the sky, savage clouds hovering around it and in the air. He gazed into the darkness, wanting to run out on the water to what he could not see.

He sat, perching precariously on the edge with his feet dangling down. He gazed into the rolling black ocean, letting the motions and shadows entrance him. It looked so soothing to be water, ceaselessly moving back and forth, like a cradle. Forest green kelp floated towards the surface of the water, catching around a metal pole that supported the pier. The leaves undulated back and forth with the tide; if he squinted, it almost looked like her hair in the wind – jet-black silk.

It would be so easy to join Eurydice – her spirit and image trapped in her water prison. She couldn’t actually be gone, not after having only been his for a short while. It seemed too cruel. Mesmerized, he continued to watch the seaweed, as it slowly unwound from the metal and drifted out from under the pier a bit, its leaf-fingers extending out, almost as if beckoning to him. They had become arms outstretched, waiting for him to come into them, to wrap around him in a suffocating clench. It would be so easy for him to let go, so let himself be taken by the cold, black oblivion, for the ocean’s kelp arms to hold him, to drown him in its embrace.

And so he slouched down, scooting closer and closer to the edge of the pier, sliding down and down until he had slipped into the water. The water rolled over his head, his eyes closed, his head burying into his water-spirit’s leafy hair. And as the numb cold suffocated him, taking his breath and pain away, he remembered joining in with the song with the simplest melody of all, chanting her name over and over again – Eurydice, Eurydice, Eurydice – as darkness took him.

- - - - - - -

When he came to, all he saw was grey. It was like the sort of grey light that leaked through heavy curtains just as dawn approached. He was rocking back and forth. He was the ocean, he was the waves, he was rolling and rolling forever, and nothing had ever felt so peaceful. It was dim and hazy, and his eyelids immediately drooped involuntarily.

He was in sweet dark oblivion once again.

When he woke for the second time, it was white. The undulating motion had stopped; all was quiet and still. The numbness of the cold had left; he could feel rocks beneath his back and heat seeping through his damp denim jacket. He staggered to his feet blindly, ripping the jacket off, squinting against the harsh light. Where was he? There were no landmarks, nothing to give him a sense of direction. For all the light, there was no sun – he didn’t even know which way was east or west. A vast plane of hazy white light and cracked, charcoal earth stretched around him in all directions.

He couldn’t hear the song anymore. There was no wind, no water – even his heartbeat seemed to have ceased its steady rhythm. But he knew he had to find her. She wasn’t gone, just lost, and he was going to find her and bring her back home. And so he turned, and suddenly a great gate loomed above him, rusted wrought iron twisted and warped. There was seaweed caught on the metal structure, limp and withering in the heat.

He spotted her just beyond the gate, walking carefully towards a group of jagged rocks in the distance that broke the line of the horizon.

“Eurydice,” he called out to her, his heart leaping. The breeze ruffled his hair slightly, but offered no relief from the intense heat.

She paused, then turned. She cocked his head to one side, seeming almost curious. The girl’s long locks were pulled back into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, limp stray wisps of crow black hair brushing against her temples and cheeks. One hand was shading her eyes against the painful glare of a nonexistent sun, the other toying with the locket he had given her. She was wearing a sheer white dress. Against the oddly pale sky and dark earth, she looked like a film negative.

Don’t come any further, she warned. For some reason she didn’t have to speak aloud for him to hear her, even though they stood yards apart. You’ll burn your feet like mine.

He looked down at his feet. They were bare now. The ground around them was grey and cracked, but as he gazed over to her, he noticed the ground by her looked no different. But her feet were sooty and grey, the skin dry and peeling, the tips of her toes painted red. Or was that blood? His feet were pristine. He was wearing all black, and the paleness of his skin was stark against it, his bare feet like strange-shaped spiders against the dust.

He gingerly placed a foot forward, touching his toe to the ground as if he were preparing to jump into a pool and wanted to test the water first. He jerked back sharply as a white-hot bolt of pain ran up his foot. Eurydice was right. The ground would burn.

See, I told you so, she said. Oddly enough however, she didn’t sound as sassy as usual. Just serious. Dead. This isn’t normal earth.

“Then what is it?”

In-between. The place you go when you die. Purgatory.

The truth hit him like a train. She said the word, “die.” Death. Dead, she was dead. It finally sounded real.

I have to leave soon. They’re calling me. Her voice was flat.

“Who’s calling you?” He asked. “Why do you have to go? Where are you going?”

Her locked eyes with his for a moment, brown on grey. Well, she said finally, avoiding his question all together, I’ll be going now.

“Wait!” he cried out again, his voice cracking as it left his burning dry throat. It felt as if he hadn’t used his voice in years, his vocal cords strained, his exclamation sounding unnecessarily loud in the silent, ocean floor-desert. He lurched towards her. The ground sizzled beneath his feet sending pain lancing up his body, but he managed not to cry out. “Take me with you.”

She gave her a sad sort of smile. I can’t. There are rules. You aren’t supposed to be here, it’s not your time yet.

“And it’s yours?” He gritted his teeth and took another fiery step closer. “Who’s to say it’s your time? I say it isn’t. I’m not ready to give you up yet.”

Eurydice shook her head. I have no choice. Neither do you. I’ve accepted this, and I have to go.

He swatted the air about his face irritably, as if there were bothersome flies buzzing in the air. “Get out of my head.” He inched forward, and she stepped back. “I’m here. I’m here. It is my time. I’m dead too, and I won’t leave you.”

She pointed upwards, towards the decrepit gateway. You haven’t passed into In-between yet. You aren’t technically dead.

“Then I will. Two steps, and I’m through the gate. If I can’t save you, if I can’t bring you home, then at least I’ll be with you.”

A look of pain, or maybe fear, flickered across her face. You can’t, she said firmly. It won’t work. Please don’t.

He took another determined step forward. The heat radiating through the cracks in the earth seemed to grow hotter with each step. Stubborn even after death. It was infuriating. What did she want? For him to go about living his life without her? To find someone else to become his wife, to have children with, to grow old alongside? He wouldn’t, it would never happen. Living was useless without her.

He was at the gate now. It looked even more massive standing right beneath it, and yet, cast no shadow. He fleetingly wondered why the gate was there at all when there was no fence. From a distance, it looked deceptively strong and powerful; the kelp that decorated it made it seem larger, and more ominous. Up close, he could see the limp browning leaves, smell the sweet rot of it that reminded him of damp autumn mornings, see where ocean salt had corroded the iron. Patches of dry white salt still rimmed the edges of the holes where rust had eaten away the metal. He met her gaze with intensity. “I wouldn’t be happy unless I was with you. Isn’t that how you feel too, Ceci?”

She sighed, pushed back the strands of hair like swipes of ink that had fallen into her face. She looked at him with a bitter sort of wistful smile. She loved that nickname. Loved that he was the only one who called her that. I can’t imagine being without you, and yet, I have to move on. So do you. You have to stop this. You have to stop trying.

“No.”

I know you think you can save me, but you can’t. I’m gone. And we can’t be together here. She stared at her feet a moment, and drew a deep breath. When she looked up at him again, she smiled then, a flash of white teeth against pale skin, black hair, grey earth, alabaster sky. Blinding yet tender. I do love you. Her expression wavered, and in the next moment, her face was serious again. But go home. Just go home.

“How can you say that? We can be together.”

No. You don’t understand. We can’t be together here.

He watched as she turned away from him, striding towards those rocks in the distance with a sense of determination, her steps strong and quick. Her feet sizzled quietly as they touched the packed, baking earth. Her spine was straight, her shoulders square, and she did not flinch. She was beyond pain. It hurt less and less with every step towards the horizon.

His Ceci had given up, that was all, he reasoned. But he wouldn’t. She was trying to save him, save his life, but he was going to save hers. He blew out a deep breath and stepped through the gate.

Fire lanced up his feet, more agonizing than his previous steps had been. He bit down on his lip to quell the whimper of surprised pain that threatened to escape his mouth. Purgatory. Trial by fire. If that’s what it took, he’d suffer through it to bring her back to his world. His fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white, he walked forward as quickly as he could, half leaping so as to stay off the ground as much as possible.

His skin sizzled, blisters forming and bursting as the slowly he gained ground. Droplets of blood from where his fingernails dug into this palms fell into the cracks in the earth, a sweet metallic scent mingling with the odor of burning soil. But the closer he got to catching up with her, the hotter the absent sun glowed, the more the earth scorched, the slower he walked. He was stumbling now, his flesh burned so badly he was half-crawling, singeing his hands, his clothes. He was weeping in painful torment, yet it was not the fire – but the hopelessness and despair of never reaching her, of not being able to save her – that tortured him the most.

At last, he gave a great shuddering sob and collapsed to the ground. Eurydice turned at the noise, the calm resolve turning to absolute horror on her face. She ran to him, throwing herself to the ground beside him. She lifted his head from the ground, pulled his body up until he was half on top of her. Gently she brushed soil and soot off his sweaty skin, and pushed back his singed hair away from his forehead. He was trembling, clutching at her in desperation, in anguish.

He coughed, his lips chapped, as he pulled at her arm, urging her to bend her ear closer to his mouth. “Why don’t you burn?” he managed to say. Even his voice sounded full of ash and smoke.

She swallowed hard. I’m not a suicide. I was on my way to Heaven.

He coughed once more, a little blood welling where the corner of his mouth split open. “But…” He trailed off as a tremor of pain coursed through him. Realization struck him, his eyes widening and his grip on her growing stronger even as his body trembled in shock. “You said we couldn’t be together.”

Tears welled in her eyes.

And that’s when, suddenly, a sharp gust of wind blew over them, blowing her hair out of its bun until it was waving behind her like a banner of silk, undulating like the kelp in the black water. The blinding white light grew dim; the sky had become the sooty color of the earth.

There was a metallic clash as the iron gate was torn out of the earth and flung across the vast plain. And then he heard the song again. The chorus of winds, the chime of ripping metal against ripping metal, the syncopation of their heavy heartbeats. The song had not lost any of the fierce beauty from before, and yet it had become louder and quieter all at once, exotic, sensual, heart wrenching in a new and violent way. Shades of grey and black swirled around them as the air became a haze of no-color. The wind grew louder and louder, roaring in their ears.

The earth started to shift, and rain suddenly started to pour, flooding the burning black desert in just moments. The waves crashed as the wind roared in their ears and the last thing he remembered hearing was Ceci’s voice, finally escaping her throat as she released a long, bone chilling cry. It sounded like death, because surely this is what this was – a second death. A wave rolled over them, and he was torn out of her grasp and sucked deep into the rising flood of black water. As the song reached its peak, her screams blended in with the song. And then he saw a ripple of silk in the remaining light. Perhaps it was her hair, or maybe a piece of kelp caught furiously in the current, but he reached out and brushed his fingertips against it before the darkness consumed him.

- - - - -

Touch, taste, sight, smell, sound. One by one his senses came back to him slowly. The tingling burn that spread across his skin. The taste of bitter salt and sand in his mouth. The blurry florescent lights on the ceiling that zoomed over his head. The smell of seaweed and sterile linen. The sound of the steady beep of the heart monitor, and of the murmur of voices around him.

He let all of this course over him, numb and confused. He was vaguely aware of someone telling him he had slipped and fallen off the pier into the water below. That he was lucky to be alive. That his best friend was in the lobby waiting to see him.

He turned his head to the side, closing his eyes tightly against the light. If he concentrated enough, he could still feel the rocking of the waves as he rolled with them, could see her picture negative image imprinted on the backs of his eyelids, could feel the soft stroke of kelp against his skin. And as he drifted off to sleep to the sound of his pulse keeping time with hospital noises, another song began: of remembrance, of new life, of healing.

A sampling of shots from the Rusted Revolution Spring 2011...

lesbabyles — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 19:59:00 -0600

A sampling of shots from the Rusted Revolution Spring 2011 Lookbook. Photography by Lesley Burr and Kylie Montero. Styling by Lesley Burr and Lucy McBride featuring Rusted Revolution chainmail, feather, and fringe jewelry.

Go behind-the-scenes of Rusted Revolution’s Spring 2011...

lesbabyles — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 19:57:14 -0600

Go behind-the-scenes of Rusted Revolution’s Spring 2011 Lookbook photoshoot! Filmed documentary style entirely on a Flipcam. Remember those?

Video and sound editing by Lesley Burr. Styling by Lesley Burr and Lucy McBride featuring jewelry from Rusted Revolution. Directed and Produced by Lesley Burr and Lucy McBride.

Rusted Revolution and Her Campus Boston College launch party...

lesbabyles — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 19:56:11 -0600

Rusted Revolution and Her Campus Boston College launch party fashion show with Rent the Runway. Videography by Stone Yu. Direction by Lesley Burr and Lucy McBride. Styling by Lesley Burr and Lucy McBride, featuring Rusted Revolution jewelry and designs.

Watch Part Two.

Rusted Revolution feature on Calm Clothing NYC. Photographed by...

lesbabyles — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 19:52:00 -0600

Rusted Revolution feature on Calm Clothing NYC. Photographed by Lesley Burr and Lucy McBride. Styled and modeled by Lesley Burr and Lucy McBride.

Read the feature written by Lesley Burr and Lucy McBride.

Rusted Revolution photoshoot for Soon Is Noon. Photographed by...

lesbabyles — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 19:49:00 -0600

Rusted Revolution photoshoot for Soon Is Noon. Photographed by Lesley Burr & Lucy McBride. Styled by Lesley Burr & Lucy McBride. Modeled by Lesley Burr, Lucy McBride, and Connor Corrigan.

Read the feature on Soon Is Noon, written by Lesley Burr and Lucy McBride.

Select photos and a video clip from Boston College’s 2010...

lesbabyles — Wed, 05 Oct 2011 21:02:00 -0500

Select photos and a video clip from Boston College’s 2010 Slam Fashionation. Four complete looks from the show were designed and constructed by Lesley Burr with assistance from Vivian Burr. Styled by Lesley Burr.