Go giggle and dress silly. When your story, style and message align you will be seen.

“Control yourself,” my mom said honoring my dooms display of “sudden death” on the kitchen floor with a brief glance. I was 16 and unsuccessfully playing a heart attack was the moment when I decided not to push anymore; I gave up on my mother ever listening to me. I bent myself to the shape of my parents’ ideals and became the good girl.

Tantrums reveal the truth of our hidden desires. As a teenager I wanted to be seen and accepted as who I was; an adventure loving girl with a lot of fantasy, strange ideas and too many words. As a woman over 60 I wanted to be seen and accepted as who I finally understood I was. I wanted to be free of age constraints and preconceived aging notions; I am my ageless essence! I declared that there is no age appropriate clothing nor should there be age restrictions for careers. We are not irrelevant because we’re old but relevant because of the amazing years of experience we have accumulated.

My teenage mini skirt, hot pants, Barbie outfits or princess dresses became my call for freedom and were “offensive” to some of the women my age.

A woman in a styling over 50 group commented on one of my posts,

“You are desperately trying to look like 20,”

I answered, “I’m going for 16 actually.”

I felt fierce like a teenager finally telling mom to shove it. Yay.

I wore mini skirts in the 60’s and 70’s with matching boots, adoring Twiggy and dancing in discos. Heart racing I stepped down the stairs to the dance floor in the dark and grunge place where my favorite soul music rocked my heart. Each time I had stage fear and each time I bravely conquered it looking into mirrors on the way; “I am pretty enough.” I walked the main street of my small town on Sundays with a little booklet taking notes of how many boys and men were hitting on me. I judged them on a scale from 1-10 for looks, outfits and the uniqueness of their approach. Just whistling got a -1. I loved my notebook; I was seen; I was somebody.

Outfits talk and 4 decades later the mini skirt reminded me of, “You are pretty enough”. The sweater saying Tomboy, the tee whispering that “I am a member of a secret internet girls cult”, tops with anime designs or crop tops showing my belly said, “you’re brave.” With 60 some of my outfits became weapons; I called them daggers cutting through the bullshit. Yes, I was angry to be pushed into a corner of “old” and was cursing limiting beliefs.

You expect me to look like a typical grandma? I show you. I’m a spice girl instead.

I’m not delusional, my skin has seen decades but my soul is just the same. My essence is that of unwavering eternal ageless joy, a feeling children experience until they’re told to control themselves, to grow up. All successes in my life were born in the innocence and fearlessness of youth not in my later “rationality” and fear of survival, which caused hesitation and doubt.

Outfits can be reminders of our fearless (dreamy, happy, romantic…) past. I reclaimed my power wearing rebellion infused ripped jeans with patches and holes my knees fit through, plateau boots and wild fringes, studded jackets and lots of plastic fantastic, naughty vinyl. Role playing outfits are invitations to your inner child to show herself and remind you of your true essence.

“It’s my soul who wants to play,” I said to my friend Barbie and made her get into a leopard bib overall on a “style my soul happy” outing. Our Tammy Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn outfits made for an amazing photo shoot.

Women need theater stages where different roles can be played, where “NO” to what hinders us can be rehearsed and the YES of who we are is discovered.

Fashion is such a stage.

We don’t need rebellious outfits to be happy but we need the feeling that we can wear them at any time without feeling embarrassed; that’s where their therapeutic effect sets in.

My teenie bopper outfits often got less likes on Instagram, the barometer of being seen and related to. My followers like me better rebelliously sophisticated and yes I like myself as that also. But I have different personas; my soul is a multiple character playground.

“Never give up, never surrender” in being who you truly are no matter the approval rate.

Your truth will set you free is so right on.

In the process of staying authentic, I became the queen ruling my queendom of style and inspired many women to be more daring in their approaches to outfits and discover the empowerment they can provide.

Experiment how you feel in short skirts or puffy dresses; let them talk to you, they might surprise and enlighten you. If they fit to your essence and your message; show them off and use your IG as a vision board styling your power. I was sometimes shocked of what fit to me; I never thought pink or ruffles would be part of my life.

When your story, style and message align you will be seen.

“My wife still loves fashion like when she was young”, the presenter at the “Ageist” conference chuckled, “only now she wants class.”

My inner rebel ground her teeth.

The jovial remark suggested that his wife now had his money to spend on expensive fashion. When you’re old, you’re rich or you have a hubby to pay for your pleasures.

Not everybody is the same, dude.

I’m not rich nor am I married.

Sure I would love to own a wardrobe packed with Alexander McQueen’s and Dolce’s theatrical robes; but not having thousands to spend on outfits pushes me to be innovative. I create similar feelings of eccentricity on a shoestring budget.

“Women of a certain age” can be but don’t have to be classy and designer clad. Too be upmarket and elegant often comes with the demand to behave properly and to be above our wild and silly youth. I cringe at these common and outmoded expectations.

Go, stomp your foot and say NO.

Go, giggle and be silly.

Dig through Forever 21, Top Shop, Nasty Gal, Betsey and Dolls Kill and mix it with your Guccio, Calvin, Diane or Donna; I do and feel more powerful and “rich” than when I was wealthy and pretended to be grown up. Wear thousand bucks’ pearls on a I.Am.Gia dress and enjoy your sandbox.

We all need the freedom to be fantastic, cartoonish, punk, rock, hippie or sex kitten; we need the freedom of play to be complete. Child’s play at its best is an innocent, fully immersed, judgment free experience.

“Everything you are offends me,” commented a woman on a main stream styling site. She did not see my plunging necklines yet…

Dress up for your ghosts, not just on Halloween

“Aieeee.”

The witch’s white hair swooshed over my face when she dropped from the ceiling dangling on the chains that stopped her right above me. I was an elementary school kid at a haunted house and giggled relieved while the ghost train rattled on its old rails around squeaky dark turns where skeletons and monsters waited to scare me further.

Such fun to feel fear knowing that it isn’t real and I was in control but as I was a nerdy kid the novelty of boos wore off fast. I was a child of the Old Continent, of deep and dark Europe with its long and tempestuous history, frightening legends, and century-old castles and dwellings. I was steeped in the mysterious vibes of old Catholic churches, Latin Sunday sermons and wafts of Frankincense evoking yearning and medieval magic. Fairy tales of the Brother’s Grimm with poisonous apples, murderous wolves, forever disappearing children, boiling cauldrons, chopped limbs and warped witches had wrapped me into their dark wings; I wasn’t into easy scares. I was also a ponderer of reality at a pretty young age and pretty sure of being an alien. I rolled my eyes at silly humans afraid of mechanical puppets with big teeth.

I had heard whispers though of ghosts coming alive at midnight on “all martyrs” day and, open to believe in the impossible, I pulled my covers over me and made sure I was asleep before midnight. I wasn’t ready to meet any ghosts or wear crazy costumes to fight them off. Ghosts who could appear in my reality would be too smart to mistake my mask for the real me. Why didn’t people get that?

Two decades later I met the ghost of my diseased mother staring at me from an arm chair like an evil empress.

“Leave me be. Stop judging me.”

She scared me.

I was always more into my “real” of things, which also means that I see visions, fantasies and desires - and costumes - as “real” or real opportunities of gaining insight and strength.

The theater of fashion is my daily art and a story book of discoveries.

I didn’t need Halloween. I was in character on social media every day dressing my thoughts and feelings; my truth with all her ghosts and magical creatures.

I didn’t need sugar highs and crazy parties lit by plastic jack-o-lanterns where I’d meet men and women mostly in prefab costumes from big warehouses; witches, Cleopatras, Wonder Women and many pirates. Where was the sense of that? To loosen up for this kind of lighthearted fun I'd need a bottle of Tequila.

Let go of what you think you know….

I felt compelled to go on one of my spontaneous photo outings in the afternoon of October 31, a shoot featuring my new storytelling leggings. I like black and yellow and chose yellow leopard boots, a yellow belt and hey, this French ancient looking coat sported yellow tie dye. I could finally show this one too.

The perfect backdrop called me into an alleyway, to the gates of a mysterious church back yard. The black Angel’s wings backpack had arrived today from China after ordering it on IG - and then forgetting that I did - half a year ago. I loved it; it was the perfect accessory for my mysterious storytelling dark side.

One of the pictures expressing my surprise turned out to be perfect for the day. I gave in to Halloween.

Why so serious? I thought. My pants talked gibberish already. I’ll make this into my Halloween costume. I stayed true to my independent rebel princess; let the pig tails scare away those grown up suitors.

““If you want to be the queen of your life you have to be the rebel against your limitations first.””

I slung my vintage power coat like a cape. The location and the feeling of the coat warped me into the Count of Monte Cristo’s Paris. The metal gates and crosses of my Catholic childhood let me feel the flames of pyres and requested that I’d “rattle my limitations.” I wrote under the picture;

“If you want to be the queen of your life you have to be the rebel against your limitations first.”

Comments on the photos on IG described me as a “heroine in her cape.“ I paused and looked again. I felt a story unraveling.

Was there more to Halloween?

Were there indeed souls peaking through from the other side whispering wisdom? Was the separation between “here and there” thinner on this night like the ancients believed? I always proclaim that “outfits talk to me”. My ghosts made me play with clothes on Halloween, “Believe it, we do!!” Pretty damn obvious “on the nose” as the screen writer says.

I read up on Halloween’s history. In the old days people made their costumes; they were individual power suits to fend off the scary and completed by masks hiding or augmenting the identity of their wearer.

Theatrical exaggeration is a cool tool for awareness.

“They had nothing better to do,” you might say. Who has the time today to get into the full blown spirit of this spooky night, meditate about the absolute perfect dress up and then make it too?

When I walked the trick and treat streets of my neighborhood last year with my dog, a spectator passing dozens of witches, Wonderwomen and pirates I felt that I was right to avoid Halloween dress up as too trivial. Yet I also felt elevated by the joy of smiling faces and embraced by the feast of passionate colors and flickering lights form candles in lanterns and bonfires.

After many pink princesses, toddling tigers and tiny batmen I met a girl in a black petticoat dress, a crown on her cute blonde head.

“I’m not a princess,” she said with a piercing glance into my questioning eyes and right into my soul,

“I am a black queen.”

Girl you’re maybe ten. I wasn’t that woke with forty!

Her image stayed with me. Like on time release for when the time is right, I looked her shadowy royalty up this year. I found the Black Madonna and Lilith but no black queen. The girl had created her. She had walked her story in black lace and velvet ruffles as an avatar of her dreams. I had started my avatar on Instagram two years ago slowly reviving my truth and magic like in a sorceress lab; cleaning up and organizing my Queendom to come.

I was the “heroine in her cape.”

The little girl had foreshadowed my path. I had become my own, rebelliously reinvented queen.

I had intuitively styled my Rebel Queen with her sword of fearless uniqueness and the scepter of a mischievous smile, the woman I had arrived in after many journeys and so many temptations to leave my truth for the pretty little lady pictures my followers rewarded me for with many more likes.

Everything is always there but we have to look at it with open eyes to make it real.

Schroedinger’s cat is a Halloween cat, I thought as my middle name, Regina, the queen sparkled. I had disregarded the name, disliking the regal archetype as a traditionally stiff, regimented ruler in uptight robes and weird hats. The sexy princess was rebellious fun at the beginning of my IG journey but I never wanted to be a queen. I would never feel incomplete without a king, which was part of her annoying description.

I stayed true to my rebel girl in my Halloween picture; let the pig tails scare away boring grown-up-ness and grown up suitors alike.

“Are you coachable?” asked a business coach on the phone in a loud and threatening voice.

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

I didn’t book her but I took it as a sign to be open, to listen and observe. My life not offering me an effortless throne to my inner majesty had caused my rebellion through decades. I had felt entitled to ‘more’ but aristocracy isn’t inherited it is earned. I earned it with fierce selfies, by fashion&stories embodying my 16 year-young self, my wild and sexy, my aversions against lady-like and age appropriate behavior. I earned it by fighting for my real against the odds. When I found the treasures of what I really wanted in my formerly tantrum throwing princess, I grew up. My way. I accepted the idea of the queen, a woman in her power.

There was more to Halloween.

Now I was alerted. There must be a message in the gibberish on my storytelling pants. It took me a couple minutes to turn them up and down before I found a few real and coherent words.

“Chaos is a ladder. Some are given a ladder. The climb is all there is.”

I stared at my wild cat booties.

“You’re standing in your untamable spirit,” they said.

Halloween is a celebration of our harvest.

Don’t be so serious. Dress your child-like innocence. Play. Believe in magic. Those had been my messages throughout the year. My ghosts messaged me: Rake in the empowerment of your affirmations; you are your avatar. Believe in your own creation.

A warrioress will earn her royalty in many journeys and battles.

I look at Halloween different now; it can be an amazing storyteller getting us to plunge a little deeper into our human make up; how many hidden ghosts swirl in our psyche, bullies or beneficiaries alike and influence our daily actions and outlook on life?

Only when they’re visible we can scare them away or harvest their gifts.

Questions for Halloween 2020

What did the costume you wore this year mean to you? Why did it matter to you? Did you feel your lineage of witches, the power of Poison Ivy, the mischievous of the mermaid? Do they have a message for you?

1. What attracts us to a costume and its inherent archetype?

2. Who would we be as a powerful person to scare away evil? Which evil? What’s hindering us?

3. What would we wear to express our deepest desires, the not yet fulfilled?

4. What mask would we chose to hide our truth or show our truth?

What can Halloween costumes do for us?

1. Scare away ghosts, inner and outer ones

2. Evoke power

3. Feel connected to magic, to a deeper meaning of life

4. Connect to other witches, Aliens etc….

5. Message our deepest thoughts

6. Reveal our secrets in a playful way

7. Dress up a hidden self

8. Attract your like minded tribe

What can “costumes” for us in daily life?

See above.

Life is like the Legend of Zelda.

After the harvest comes winter. I am in a new “map” with new challenges and monsters, new allies and oracles. I love the eerie sound of the Occarina of time and who knows what can happen without the pigtails of resistance.

“There’s no stopping for the wanderer on her path to fulfillment.””

Here’s an idea for 2020, https://www.festivalofthedead.com/witchesball/

It is the heart behind your branding that makes the BAM.

“I am a Rebel Queen,” I said, “but let me give you a couple pointers….”

Peta Sklarz, the artist on her creative way to paint my very own inner Queen took the notes and thanked me for the pictures I pointed her to.

The Queen archetype is what describes our unique power. So here you, go Peta.

Look, this is me.

This is my powerful rebel femme rattling the proverbial limitations, my emotional, psychological “jail bars” on Sunset Boulevard shaking my old mindset.

“Okay, great,” Peta answered.

“Would you like to see the painting? It’s done,” Peta texted a month later.

The painting was PINK.

My first emotional response was to mess up my hair or give her an eye patch. Then I let it sink in.

I had been surprised by pink before. A black fabrics and edge loving woman, identified with the warrior and the sword of independence I had stumbled over pink in my Instagram gallery about a year ago. What’s with all this girly stuff?

In the beginning of my exploration of “ageless” via outfits with my rebel in angry bloom against ageism I had declared that we “wear what we want.” The basic idea was to find and show outfits out of my comfort zone. After that declaration I let my emotions and intuition take over. Out came pink, feminine, even girly and sexy styles; my inner Barbie took over. I didn’t know I had an inner Barbie. It was a giggle; my friend with the doll’s name whose first boyfriend was to high schoolers’ delight, called Ken and I did a photo shoot called Rebel and Barbie. Life is theater and this part of my script had turned out pink.

It was fascinating to me, the tough single mom and self-made former entrepreneur to finally fess up being a girl, a woman, a femme formidable. I never wanted to be a “sweet little angel.” But…. I obviously had phases like an artist.

Months of intuitively chosen sexy, edgy, risky, rocky fashion between princess and warrior and matching dramatic, challenging, funky and fun life explorations later I was confronted by pink sweetness again, Peta’s drawing.

When you stumble over things twice they gain importance.

I remembered how I had remodeled my ancient house in Portugal; I let go of planning and rational thinking and listened to the whispers of a deeper knowing. My house told me a medieval story of betrayal, passion and magic, which showed up in the design of sacred geometry windows, an eccentric fireplace, a bed on a pedastal, bronze angels holding lamps and many niches for statues. A guest commented, ”it looks like a church in here.” Much later I found that it had been the home of heretic monks 700 years back.

Now I had been remodeling and reinventing my self. What will my outfits continue to tell me? Where will they point me to? Who will they attract?

Artist Peta became one of the messengers in my discovery of my authentic self, also called personal branding if we look at it the mindful, heart centered way.

The queen is our ruler, the archetype of ownership.

My pink rebel queen became a path and they begin with questions.

We are made of many stories, some were explored in our past others are still to be discovered or perfected and felt in their depth in our future. My pink painting tells some of my stories; it shows the bustier of the courtesan of my medieval memories, the loyal dog symbolizing my journey to trust and the fierce yellow boots with the Fleur de Lys of royalty, high above the ground and so easy to stumble in.

We often identify with the roles we play. Our inner queen wants us to see our truth, the “more” or the beyond. She is the much talked about authentic Self we all want or should meet; the answer to so many questions.

Sure, we are the roles we played in our lives’ scripts but we are ruled by a main energy, our powerful essence. Because I see life as a movie script I see the queen as our agent, director and producer. She gives us our roles with a plan and purpose, which we’ll discover one day if we’re getting out of the princess slumber. The queen finds the locations for our battles and triumphs and casts our supporting actors. She kicks us to the curb when we’re too stubborn or to “into the game” to see the truth.

When we don’t listen there will always be the doubt or even this underlying anger that lashes out bitching when we least expect it.

The queen painting made me aware that I now have stepped into my compassion, understanding and unconditional love which always waited under the attitudes, fights and struggles, rebellions and resistance of my princess on the pea and her fierce rebel companion. I am a rebel alright but not against this “so freaking unfair!!! stuff” but for the cause of self love and to inspire others to be all they are made to be. I will always question the status quo and rearrange the colors inherent in “truth” towards freedom, fiercely exploring, discovering and mixing it up. My goal is to show and to awaken feelings in others not to tell what’s right or wrong; there are many interpretations and stories to tell and to chose from.

The queen is a branding coach and as such gives us the clarity to pursue our happy end.

It’s the heart behind everything that counts



If you haven’t met your queen yet play with me.

Brain storm

What does “queen” mean to you?

What does it have to do with you?

To envision and evoke your queen might be the piece you’re missing.

1. Envision your queen

What clothes does she wear to express who she is?

What are her colors, her main energies?

What’s her attitude? How does she walk, talk?

What accessories does she carry?

2. What does she own?

What is in her treasure chest to share?

Wisdom, experiences, talents and powers…

3. Who does she rule?

What are the roles she gave you?

Who do you identify with most?

How do your personas fit or fight each other?

How would you describe the persona you are in right now?

Is she your queen or a tool of your queen to get you to places and aha moments?

Who are your supporting actors, lovers or foes?

4. How does your outer queendom look like? For branding purposes let’s call Instagram your queendom.

Is it hilly, coastal, serene? Are there rough roads, stumbling stones, thought laboratories and treasure chests? Is it like Halo or the Legend of Zelda, a racing game or runway?

What feeling do your landscapes evoke?

Is it inviting or threatening, fun or salesy?

Easy to navigate?

Are there road maps to your message?

Banners with your knowing?

Do you offer daggers of truth, chocolates of unconditional love and jewels of innovative thoughts or your raw truth?

5. How do you rule your queendom?

Unconditional or demanding?

Ruling or giving?

Do you preach, chat, sell, tell stories, discuss or converse?

Do you guard your treasures? Share them freely?

How do you interact with other powerful queens? Do you see your own powers in their mirrors or is it the “who’s the prettiest?” competition?

My script writing queen loves foreshadowing and synchronicity.

When I was trying to find a place for my new painting on my walls packed with art work, integrating the queen into my life, a memory from exactly a year ago showed up.

On September 21, 2018 I had posted a poem on Instagram.

Lost and Found

by Angie Weihs

And suddenly you find yourself

grateful

for the pain you ate

the insults you swallowed

the demons you dared

and the mirrors you broke.

You find yourself

praising your enemies

whose daggers exposed your soul.

You find yourself

loving it all.

You are a damn amazing

Rebel Queen.

She became my avatar for the next year. She meant doubts and pulling my hair, passion and searching for purpose, giggles and Tequilas. The new phase of creating my Self took place for and on Instagram where I built my Queendom the way I do things; intuitively and asking questions after pictures and proclamations were posted. I learned to understand, navigate, nurture and polish my own queendom while building it.

My Rebel Queen asked me to step into my sassy rebel booties. The boots are high and I still stumble but I wear them bravely; after the blue of truth I am walking the yellow of sunny embrace and the responsibility of the Fleur de Lys.

My boots are my Passport to the world.

I would love to hear from your Queen.

The Selfie as feminist art.

I live from the insight out, from my feelings towards my intellect, it is always a journey from action to insight, from the emotional to the rational.

I recently found myself deconstructing my fashion photos and selfies.

And I began to wonder why…

The process of elimination means finding the “other”

A.W.

I transformed my fashion images into arty expressions; allowing my curious inner child to play or going deeper into my dramatic essence, my hidden soul.

Art evokes the mystery without which the world would not exist.

Rene Magritte

Emotional content became important during the Romantic movement with artwork expressing a definite feeling, as in the sublime or dramatic. Audience response was important, for the artwork was intended to evoke an emotional response.

The world didn’t applaud my up-cycled outfit pictures as in “OMGoddess so crazy cool…” My followers on IG were more like ?? or “interesting approach”, and “what the heck is she up to now?”

“It’s half your usual likes,” argued Mister rational.

“I like it though,” said my little rebel angel.

“Why?”

“Probably because we have said WE ARE ART so many times.”

I show funky outfits with the motivation to inspire to step out of ruts and old beliefs, to free ourselves from limitations our souls suffer under. Deconstruction is the next, more radical level. My reasoning didn’t convince me though. Should I continue?

The Universe listened.

I got a card in the mail from my friend Charisse, her handle on IG is Let go NOW. A huge surprise as postcards have become super rare occasions. Her card said loosely translated

It’s the rebel who moves history and advances societies.

Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time.

Thomas Merton

The Universe had answered. It empowered me not to care about likes but to do what I feel is right for me in this moment, to let go of my doubts and be my arty self NOW, however it might look.

There still was the why? Was I just bored of my “regular” shoots? Was there more to it?

One inspiration had been time travel: Writing the memoir of my rebellions I had walked through Paris visiting Anais Nin and Gertrude Stein lighting up the Parisian salons; breathing in the beautiful vibrations of rebelliously confident, liberated, feminist female artists I felt their past as vibrantly as I had felt it 30 years ago in Paris. They saw life in new ways and bravely presented it, no matter if right or wrong.

Life is an exploration.

I discovered that women in past centuries fought to be seen by claiming the art of self portraiture to announce themselves to the world.

My months-long fashion explorations, my outfit performances of my many roles from inner child to broken diva through Instagram selfies is my truth wrapped into theater and it was born in the tradition of women before me daring to reproduce their likeness as art.

“We are art” is revolutionary.

“Every artist paints himself,” said the Renaissance. Himself, not herself. Women weren’t allowed to be successful public figures.

The self portrait became a way for women to present a story about themselves for public consumption; I am a female artist, a worthy woman. They often painted themselves with their tools, their canvas, brushes and paint in the act of proud painting while still being dressed like the proper bourgeois women against whose restrictions they rebelled.

I resist invisibility.

I am devoted to my art. (business, message..)

I deserve to be rewarded for my talents and expertise.

Does this sound familiar?

Hundreds of years ago those self portraits were marketing; to gain painting commissions usually given to men.

The Selfie as marketing of our story is embedded in centuries of women power.

In the 17th and 18th centuries women bravely painted themselves and grew into the 19th century more openly demanding the right to be accepted as valuable artists. It manifested itself in more daring paintings like the one of a group of women drawing a male (!) model. Okay, in the painting he covered his nudeness with a towel….

In the 20th century the taboo of sex and pregnancy was fiercely introduced by Paula Modersohn Becker and Frida Kahlo demanded dignity and respect.

Interested in the subject? Greats book to read are “Seeing Ourselves” by Frances Borzello or Mirror, Mirror by Liz Rideal.

Art is not what you see, but what you make others see.

Edgar Degas

“The self-portrait is an artist’s most intriguing vehicle for analysis and self-expression. Serving a dual role as both creator and subject, artists are offered unusual freedom.”

Modern daily self-portraits, our often judged as “vain selfies”, offer a journey into our truth; what are we showing to the world and what’s our intention?

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, aging needs magic like a totem post.

Those of us evolved from showing our pretty ME ME ME just for Ego kicks show the best of our selves in social media, our powerful, entertaining, inspiring and uplifting energies and qualities with the intention to inspire, “ if I can do this, you can too.”

We rarely show the crap of life, maybe mention it as a jumping board into our newly revived power. I cry in secret and show the results of my tears; a new insight. I fret about my wrinkles and write about the new device I got from Nuovaluce, I spill the action I took not the pain.

We have learned to be more real, more authentic yet we show our polished side, not the raw form roughly hammered into the marble but the, sometimes even meticulously, chiseled one. Even when we show our wrinkles we set our selves into scene.

We move the sculpture of our self creation into the best possible light.

And that is just fine; we have a message, most of us want to make the world a better, not sadder place and - the best possible light might be imperfect beauty in a junk yard. The story we wish to tell requests the form in which it wants to be expressed.

My visuals are who I am, what I see and what life points me too. For my posts I learned to listen, to be guided by messages, comments, post cards, vibrations of outfits, street art and even junk yards. I want to be guided to what truly matters to me and to the best way to inspire others without pleasing the status quo.

When I dare to be me, I feel my inner rebel and the daring women before me. They created themselves when they had the courage for self portraiture. When I deconstruct my images I feel that creative joy and their permission to be different. Gertrude and Anais both tried many approaches around the master pieces of their writing.

The first female selfies were fierce rebellions.

Our selfies today are rebellions on a different level; women over 50 demand to be seen like the women centuries before us, teenagers demand to be heard as eco-rebels, body shapes ask for acceptance and talents in all arts fight for equality. Women in general are far from being regarded equal.

Deconstructing my pictures is a different level of my truth; they say to have a look, I am the creation of myself.

My IG is my avatar, my alter ego where my cracks and failures, vents and tears are chosen to support my story and message. My authenticity lies in showing you the best of me; from dreams and desires to actual actions of what I fight or live for. My adventures are deep and banal but always make sense in my bigger picture. Of course, I feel first and act before I analyze so surprises of the contrary are part of the deal.

Our power lies in using IG as a rebellious journey; when we explore our true confidence in our talents and virtues not our vices we commit to the virtues, we step into our truth one selfie at a time.

By creating our best on IG we are becoming our best in real life.

I fragment my body and put it together in a new form. My form.

That’s our journey. We take the pieces from decades and create you and me.

We are infinite stories and new inventions.

We are art.

Art is the pursuit of beauty and to express our emotions. In the romantic period spirituality and free expression were celebrated. I’m a romantic but also Avantgarde as I push the boundaries of ideas and creativity in fashion and words. Ageless Rebels celebrate innovative approaches to life-making and the originality of vision is part of it.

We are the art… (Nico Vega)

Stand up for what is beautiful,

give it up for the ones who try.

Oh the art is the reason that we came here,

take a bow together we fight.

Outfits talk, fabrics feel. Use their power.

Nothing bothered me, not the honking and slamming of car doors, revving of motors and people yelling on the huge parking lot of this enormous supermarket in Los Feliz, LA close to my tiny organic cooperative. Not even the people passing by, eyebrows raised were of my concern.

What the heck is she doing there?

I followed my spontaneous calling to shoot my outfits.

The friendly mural of the shop’s grungy driveway was perfect for my colors and the satin on my skin felt cool like rain in the spring, like a shower under a garden hose on a hot summer day or a warm bath in the winter.

Like magic I experienced the peace of water.

I was in the satin smooth, non-disturbance Zen zone of the many rivers running through this country, in flow with my surroundings.

I was the pink piece of sea glass on the shore, my edges softened by decades of being tossed around but also warmed by hands holding me like a treasure.

But it was the element itself that got me. I always loved the psychology of water; it flows around obstacles and finds its way through the most strenuous circumstances; continuously effortless. I was the sweetness of a slow flowing creek not the waves of an ocean but even when we fear the tidal wave, embodying it ourselves we are pure power without destruction in mind.

The thin vinyl of my glossy puffer jacket is light like cotton candy and felt protective nevertheless.

Fashion therapy tip

When you’re facing a tough day of any kind with possible arguments and iffy challenges and your goal is to focus on the self love of a peaceful warrioress wear a communicative color like blue, the unconditional love of pink or the white of new beginnings and chose a soft and cool fabric, a satin type. Every move and touch will remind you that you can float around any obstacles, dance like.

If you have to become the waterfall thundering down on whatever it is, you know that in the end you’ll land in a pool of calm waters.

Stiffness makes us break, a flow like water will make you invincible.

Flowers talk

“What’s the flower you resonate with?” I asked on Instagram today.

Some of my women friends said they’re sunflowers, dandelions and daisies; women who feel grounding to me. Others are invigorating daffodils or sensible Gardenias, which my own Orchid child feels related to.

Who might Rebecca be? Or Christiane?

My innocent posting became another journey; I began associating flowers with my women friends. Wow, that’s what I see and love in them? Flowers became mirrors of the energy they are to me; I saw sweet, embracing and happy pink baby roses in my friend Barbie or elegant, confident beauty and depth in Helene’s Dahlia.

Ron, the one man who responded named the Tulip as the flower he resonates with, “because of my heritage.” Part of his family came from Holland and he was touched and impressed when seeing the Tulip fields on a visit.

Flowers talk; so I checked on the flowers of my heritage.

The Cornflower is the unofficial national German flower and was once regarded a weed. When people began to see her unique beauty she was elevated into the flower state and her wild sisters are now protected.

I relate to the weed state of “not being good enough”. When I finally began to own my truth and expressed it in my looks people began to see me.

Chamomile is a healer, especially for insomnia and stomach pains.

My stomach is my weak organ, where I hold my fears and anxieties, it sometimes cause insomnia.

The Spindle grows on bushes and transforms from green, yellow into light fuchsia, which takes her months and then produces poisonous decorative berries.

To step into my true colors took my six decades. I love to enrich people’s life with fun, creative outfits. Most of my life I protected myself; look at me but don’t touch.

It was the Edelweiss that blew my mind in her fairy tale way.

Edelweiss (Leontopodium alpinum) is a popular alpine flower related to the sunflower family, which grows in the mountains of Germany. In German, edelweiss means “white noble"; its white color is a symbol of purity. Edelweiss typically blooms during the summer months and prefers to grow on cold, rocky terrain that’s rich in limestone. Edelweiss is easily grown from seed and is often found in gardens throughout the country. Medicinally, edelweiss was used to help treat stomach pain and respiratory diseases.

I had frictions with Edelweiss; it was a song in the Sound of Music, sung by Julie Andrews. I disliked her goody two shoe attitude and the nationalist text “blessing my country” of the lyrics; I’m into blessing the whole world equally. I rejected white, a color I found as simplistic in its vibe of “clean, holy and good.” I always flirted with the drops of my blue blood from my noble revolutionary Huguenots fore-people. Even when I was broke I never felt not noble as a person.
We find the purity of our hearts and minds in challenges, in rocky terrain. I am on the conscious journey to be “real” and walk my talk since I began posting my “styling from the insight out” adventures on Instagram. And at the end of three years I have begun to love the color white and to live the childlike purity of my heart without my protective shield.

I wrote this poem five years ago.

Orchid Kids

I am an orchid living in a scruffy corner

Wrapped in darkness my colors are faded

My blooms died and dropped into the dirt

Too much rain suffocated me

Too much sun burnt my leafs

Life is not fair

I am ashamed of how I look

I am nothing

Nobody sees me

Nobody adores me anymore

A little girl picked me up last week

She put me in her window

She gave me clean water

And just enough light

There is a new leaf she smiled

You'll see soon

You'll blossom again

I think she loves me as I am

Blossoms have come and gone; I own my complicated self these days and often I even love her.

Enter the game; find your flowers here and your vibe reveals itself.

Yuk, she said. I will report her.

“I am effing immortal,” I thought on my photo shoot, feeling a naughty giggle like a kid wanting to make things true by stomping my foot. I don’t usually swear in writing but the f-word wishing for a forever life and spelled out in Swarovski crystals made sense to me. People have crazy dreams and this is one of mine. I felt empowered and the photo shoot was a kick in the butt of my doubts.

“Fucking immortal.” There. I said it.

“Haha”, the Universe responded.

Back in the car I turned around to my dog, I thought she was scratching herself as the car was shaking lightly. She was motionless in her Zen mode.

The car was shaking heavier now… this… was… an… earth… quake…. I envisioned the huge power poles crash on my car. The shaking of 30 seconds felt endless. I was holding my breath, there’s nothing else you can do. Think positive thoughts but I was too numb for that.

“Haha”, the Universe had responded to my big mouth and sent me an earth quake. Okay, the earth quake was for everybody but I take things personally.

For a woman who takes life as a movie script with clues and cues and lines to learn, with supporting actors, heroines and heroes and opponents who push, shift and guide me, this was a biggy. Nothing crashed, only a clothing rack fell off the door at home but the earthshaking moment became me-shaking.

I felt fear, powerlessness, the need to connect with friends, create a back up system, create safety, hug my loved ones. I texted my son, what now? I felt flight, “I move to Seattle” and fight, “I fulfill my Los Angeles dreams and face my fears.” The series of emotions ended with a bang of immense gratefulness. Thank you for protecting me.

Did veils fell off my eyes?

I realized that I am not ready. Looking at the sold out shovels, earth quake putty and first aid kits at the local hardware store and empty water shelves at Gelson’s not many people are.

But for me it’s not just being prepared for a disaster but for life; for opportunities. I had talked about it often, wrote it in my morning pages; be open! But to be open we have to see clearly, remove the clutter. My physical action was to start cleaning up my act from papers to tons of script notes and piles of outfits to legal stuff and those boring bureaucratic needs. No wonder the posts of my declutter friend Rebecca are poking my soul since weeks; get organized, babe. Clean up and write the outlines for your books and your life.

Get ready.

Remove the boulders, sticks and pebbles.

Be open.

It’s the context, it’s always the context in which things happen that tell their story and reveal their message; I posted the immortality picture and my earth quake story in my social media.

“Yuk,” a woman called Mary said in an online women’s group. “I will report her.”

Mary hated my guts; she hated my swear word, the audacity of immortality and called me classless and awful. I had behaved badly, like a teenager and I all I heard in her yelling was her parents reprimanding, stifling her.

Did the Universe reprimand me? I say that I am immortal and she answered “shame on you?” In my old ways of thinking where I was “guilty to just be a girl” and everything was “my fault” it would have been just that and it came up as the first thought. But I wasn’t punished, I was shown that I was safe.

Many women jumped in online to defend and protect me from Mary’s and two other women’s attacks of the improper behavior for a woman your age. My old beliefs of having to apologize for who I am squealed loudly and were silenced by women’s empowering voices.

“Do not apologize for your truth,” they said.

“Some of us (including some churchgoers who have seen our 60th birthdays) think Angie Weihs looks positively fierce in that outfit. So very nice that we live in an age when women our age can take a pass on the orthopedic shoes and granny pin-curls and wear whatever pleases us,” commented a different Mary.

And so the online world interfered as my my Guru again; I encounter philosophers, priestresses, mothers and medicine women, sisters and warrioresses who hold my hand or swing the sword for me. Because I hold the banner of our empowerment high up and intend not to be hindered by those who throw stones at me and would love to see me burn on the stake. “I will report her,” to whom? The FB inquisition?

“See,” said the Universe, “you are protected, your are untouchable as long as you believe you are.”

I never believed in growing old and I never did; I am over 60 and move, think and feel like a 30 year young person, sometimes like a teenager, other times like 1000 year wise.

I believe that I am ageless and in agelessness lives the magic of immortality.

Maybe the Universe shivered because I had finally owned my power? Maybe I am immortal, as a human, a soul, as a writer or all the above? It was Marianne Williamson who said years ago that humans are more afraid of their greatness than of their mediocrity.

What I experienced again is that my social media tribe is one of the most mindbogglingly beautiful think and feel tanks a woman can ask for.

The earth shook and told me to be open my eyes and see the beauty and love we extend to each other.

Did veils drop?

Yes. I am connected to the bigger picture.

Yes, I am not alone.

My next IGTV is about fantasy and fairytales in LA and her gorgeous walls.

Storytelling magic.

OUTIFIT

I felt my Cinderella in this outfit but also my love for magic and the power of my imagination.

I added the ribbon sleeves to the top, and the handmade angel wings belt from the 80’s to the skirt I bought from a friend; her mom made it for her theatrical ventures and my friend sewed the flower bundles when she was a kid.

Magical morning clothes

“I don’t know what to do…” she texted.

“Try wearing morning clothes,” her friend answered.

“What are morning clothes?”

“The Ageless Rebel does some of her videos in hers but they are princess morning clothes…”

“Oh right! Yes, I def need morning clothes. Especially pink ones!”

“Morning clothes are mantras that help us frame our day.”

I had just posted a video in which I praised the liveliness of videos for connecting with our friends and followers. Even if not live broadcast, which adds spontaneity and intimacy, video allows us the 3D of a person, their gestures, mannerism, voice and laughter.

“You can witness me in my princess morning dress,” I had said.

The short dialogue referring to my fall-out-of bed-and-into-my-princess-dress sparked in return the idea of framing our days not only with morning pages, the thoughts and feelings we write down, but also, playfully with what we wear right there and then.

Morning clothes usually are composed of your night wear, pajama, tee shirt, maybe a bathrobe. I always wondered, as hoteliers complain those and their fluffy towels are so often taken as souvenirs, who of my friends might, grinningly, own a bathrobe from an expensive hotels they stayed in.

Morning clothes are not for every day; they are for mornings in which you feel open to dive into what you might be missing; to be more feminine, forgiving, playful, rebellious or esoteric and feel that the belief in magic is totally yours to have. They are for you alone, in your sacred space with time to spare for dreams. They fit into moments in which you trust that outfits have power and that they love to talk to you; when you feel playful enough to let your childlike curiosity fly back into your still wavering dreams. Mornings are often graced by innocence because our inner critics snore and intuition can guide us to an outfit that spills tales of your desires, funky feelings, fierce wants or silly moods.

Don’t think, just feel and wear the cozy cashmere, the witchy black sorceress skirt or the grungy old pullover and workout pants with holes. It’s a fairy tale moment, a child’s play not the adult who says I need my suit as my goal today is to achieve…

You can prepare the night before what you know you’ll need the next day; I once slept in a soft silky sexy long dress that made me feel like a tall glass of water, sensually smooth and feminine with crystal clarity. I felt like a water goddess in it, able to move around any obstacle and managed a confrontation like a gracefully defensive Kung Fu warrioress.

It might just be colors you wrap yourself with; from the black of protection to the pink of unconditional love. It might be dresses or robes…

Outfits on your skin and words in your diary create a powerful alchemy.

Example for morning outfits

• exotic kimono

• elegant smock

• naughty rebel hotel bathrobe

• a king’s house coat

• a boyfriend’s tee

• a vintage negligee

• a cozy wraparounds

• a boho dream dress

• a hollywood peignoir

• a color of your dream, literally

• a girly princess dress

• a tough statement tee