The Emperor's Old Clothes

(Y)Saint Laurent Fall2013: Oh No (S)HE DI'INT

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Tue, 05 Mar 2013 03:17:00 +0000

Well just when you thought that voracious sinkhole in Florida had done its worst, we see that it's stretched all the way to Paris to the house that YSL built. Hedi Slimane's 3rd collection for his retreaded Saint Laurent "line" is even more unsettling than his first. What happened to Rachel Zoe? Why didn't John Galliano stop at the studio if only to apply a bit of lip gloss and use the toilet? Pierre Berge must be rethinking his praise for the savior of the house. Stefano Pilatti must look awfully attractive about now. Even Jason Wu would have done less damage. Hell, give Zang Toi a shot. What we saw was an overt f%*k y*u to the press, the industry and all the poor slobs that thought Slimane, like L.Ron Hubbard, held the secrets of the universe. Well, I for one have to say:

NO

NEIN

NON

NYET

* images courtesy of Style.com

The Oscars 2013: Rug Rats and Royalty

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Tue, 05 Mar 2013 02:00:00 +0000

The night of the Oscars I wasn't really feeling it. The day had been strange and I found myself thinking back to how exciting that show used to be. All the suspense, the glamor, the party we had for a gang of friends, all of that and more. I remember dressing nominees and presenters and the thrill of waiting to see them on the red carpet and then on stage. Even better was all the press that came from it. It seemed every magazine for days in the hands of women on the subway were turned to the pages of my stars, my triumphs.

Well, that was then and this is now. Joan Rivers almost seems quaint when you consider the numb skulls that do all the talking now: Kelly Osbourne, Julia Rancid, the guy that sounds like a girl, Kimora Lee Simmons, I can't go on. Bad, dumb, and uninformed sums up the quality of commentary. The actresses didn't look much better. Trains, too much beading, too much gratuitous breast, butt and legs showing. Tacky jewels, unattractive hair and in the case of Kristen Stewart, way too heavy on the drugs.

So the carpet was a downer, that is until the sea of sludge parted and up, up, up came Charlize Theron as if walking on water. I sat down at that point (enough going back in forth to the kitchen and bathroom to kill time) and stared transfixed. Whether it was the dress (Dior) or the fact that everyone else looked like Cinderella's ugly step sisters, Charlize took over. The show was fun with some unexpected highs and lows, but in all it was really fun. So for those of you who may have wondered who that night lit my wick, it was Charlize all the way, baby. I'm just saying...

Oscar de la Renta Fall2013: Beginning at the end.

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Thu, 14 Feb 2013 20:12:00 +0000

Such a curious collection. Before I get into it, the invitation of John Galliano to "sit in" on the final stages of this collection at Anna Wintour's urging and Oscar's acquiescence, was in itself a very daring prospect. Both designers are in essence at the end of their careers, Oscar due to his age and John due to his disgrace. Age is something that can not be turned back, but disgrace is something that can be remedied, even forgiven. To my thinking this was a soft pedaled attempt to reinstate Galliano to the only world he knows. What mystifies me is how a cross pollination of two such completely different species could produce something cohesive. Watching this show repeatedly, I couldn't help but think I was looking at a horse with a zebra's butt or vice versa. What the show did have was a lot of buzz. It was clearly the moment of the season with a front row that was unusually packed with the high, the medium and the bottom feeders. From Valentino Garavani and his partner Giancarlo Giametti to Anna Wintour, all the other lower tier editors and Fashion directors of the major stores to the likes of Rachel Zoe and her ilk, they were all there.

The music started with a creaky cover of "As time goes by"sung by Bryan Ferry setting the tone for what was meant to be an earth shift. Out came girls with high rise felt cloche hats over stringy hair with wispy ponytails and a series of draped and wrapped fischu-collared jackets in leather and cashmere over longer slim skirts and chic school marm shoes; all very sober, very sensible. The waists were caught with belts tied instead of buckled. (apparently, Galliano held a seminar at the studio as to how to correctly tie a belt, but from the looks of it no one took notes) From there the looks flipped back and forth between obvious Oscar-isms and then Galliano-isms like dueling designers. Granted the overall effect was more interesting with greater design energy than Oscar's last several seasons, but it was disjointed and chaotic. One moment there was a dowdy tweed suit, gently frayed along the edges with another annoyingly tied belt holding the jacket closed. Then came a series of Toile de Jouy printed dresses on matelasse that looked more like the result of Annette de la Renta's gentle urging. There were also other prints that were drawn from Coromandel screens trimmed in sable that looked forced and matronly in the larger picture.

Then Galliano took the ball and ran with it. Skin tight stretch leather pants under embroidered leather cardigans or YSL-ish hooded capes in chiffon and another in cashmere set yet another tone. The Oscar lady was left at the starting line and the race was on a different course altogether. Suits and coat dresses were draped and tucked in a very abstract way that were more feats of technique than anything else, clearly not an Oscar trademark. Soon it was cocktail hour and a few dresses came out that were lovely, particularly a black crepe number with illusion draped above the bodice. A Dior inspired strapless that exploded behind like a lovely chartreuse apparition from the past. An exquisite gown of black cut velvet and beads on a ground of nude net and chiffon was probably the prettiest gown of all. But then we were back to boisterous Ikat-printed cocktail dresses and gowns that fought for attention on a ground of enormous cabbage roses. That had to have been Oscar rebounding. Suddenly the models appeared with completely different hair and make-up in a series of gowns that were unmistakably John's. We were back to his bruised-eyed, marceled and greasy-haired courtesans sleep walking their way to oblivion.

This was an old trope that didn't sit well, especially when the dresses were mere shadows of what one would expect from Galliano by way of the Dior ateliers. If that's the result of sobriety then maybe this was the end. Oscar finished off the show with 2 enormous faille gowns with silver embroidery a la Versailles in brash colors. The crowd looked confused as they ran for the doors. Valentino never altered his pursed lip expression and Anna remained inscrutable behind her shades. Maybe this was a dry run for a future as creative director of Oscar de la Renta if/when he decides to retire and then again maybe not. Who knows? The End.

*images courtesy of style.com * video courtesy of OscardelaRenta TV

Carolina Herrera Fall2013: Shanghaied

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Wed, 13 Feb 2013 17:38:00 +0000

Something novel happened at Mrs. Herrera’s show Monday morning. With so many designers referencing each other and periods like the now hackneyed 60’s and 70’s, she and her excellent team embraced a fantasy of a long ago time, the 30’s, and specifically a notorious heroine of that period, Wallis Warfield Winfield Simpson Windsor.

From the very moment Karlie Kloss took absolute control of the runway in her Cheongsam cum English tea gown with that signature hair-do and taught expression I thought, “ That’s Wallis!” The models who followed, all sporting the same hair, some in printed crepe de chine day dresses with innocent black bows at the neck, peaked shouldered radzimir trench coats with glass beaded patterns floating on the surface and blouses with the most artful sleeves that rose from the shoulder and wound seductively down the arm, reminded me immediately of expat Brits and Americans who flocked to Shanghai in the late 20's and 30's where the rules of society were non-existent and all was pure forbidden fun and games. Think Pink Gin mornings, Opium fueled nights and those Sing-Song houses where nice western girls learned the secret arts to amuse and ensnare men.

It was this time and place that I imagined Wallis, on the run from her first unhappy marriage, indulging herself and dreaming of the life she would one day lead. Everything in the show, from a marvelous Herringbone cashmere sweater coat with mink collar over a man-tailored tweed pants suit and fur collared, belted and cuffed skirt suits presaged the style that would become her own. Everything sleek, rail thin and severe but in the most alluring and eye-catching way. Brown abstract printed thistles floating on a stiff silver wrapped ball skirt with a black cashmere sweater sporting a panel of degrade' mink in honey darkening to chocolate at the waist was pure fantasy. Fur appeared again and again in Russian Broadtail the colors of ash and claret and Fox that took on a myriad of shades in boleros and fluffy sleeves on charmeuse blouses. Sable was in liberal use as trim on the hems of ball skirts and along necklines of fitted tops. Sable the color of jade mixed with grey flannel paired with a slim, gored grey skirt that flared discreetly at the knee. Lots of suits in mottled grey and black and others in rich earth colors were just the look Wallis would adopt years in her future.

The evening clothes that evoked her glamorously severe style presaging her love for Chanel and Mainbocher were one after the other perfectly elegant. The blue she would be known for appeared in a velvet gown with printed blossoms exploding down the front and back. Another of ivory chrysanthemums tumbling down a tea colored chiffon gown with a jeweled panel at the waist was languid and seductive. Those same chrysanthemums caught fire with touches of flaming red as silk pyjamas under a sable bolero the color of deep claret. All of these looks would be her wardrobe once she snared her King, toppling the monarchy and taking charge of the worlds of Paris, Antibes, New York and Palm Beach.

Mrs. Herrera's collection was as focused as it was rich in ideas. Whether or not it was a fever dream of a young Wallis the end result was the same. This collection had everything and chic in spades.

*images courtesy of Style.com *video courtesy of Vogue.com

Chado Ralph Rucci Fall 2013: 6.0 6.0 6.0 6.0 6.0 6.0

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Mon, 11 Feb 2013 16:41:00 +0000

It didn't take the judges long to tally their scores. For Artistic impression it was 6's across the board. The same sea of 6's appeared with the Technical difficulty scores. There was a fight in the judges box because the Russian judge, always a wrench in the works, wanted to score higher, but there is no higher score. Rucci opened his program to music that was a symphony of static just to understate the overall mood of the competition. The other programs that had been skated with some on blades that were hopelessly dull and yet others with laces that broke with every stroke and lackluster jump combinations of single, doubles and missed jumps altogether.

His opening bars of static were a subtle nod to those skaters. But then the static died away and an insistent rhythm of polyphonic sound rose from beneath and his first pass with serene models in black leather, then a black sable coat with vinyl glided past with footwork so deft that they appeared to float above the surface of ice the color of beige leaving no marks at all. His relaxed set up for the first series of jumping passes was a perfect Triple/Quad combination: mind blowing minks in violet, nude and citrus. Without so much as a breath, he leapt into his first Quad with mink coats of shocking pink,chrome yellow, white with feathers and black, also with feathers. That's seven pieces back to back that created an ovation in the first 30 seconds of the program.

From there it was just pure joy in his ability to create shapes, textures and a total control of his metier. There were a sea of wool jersey dresses and gowns, the humblest of fabrics he employed but all with the grandeur of his signature double-face cashmere suits, coats and dresses and the shock of the unexpected in violet-dyed Sable with the skins running on the bias. The colors were so vibrant and alive in stark contrast to the drab greens, greys and blacks of so many of the other competitors. His hand is as capable of the greatest subtlety as it is the most complex cuts.

Surface decoration was achieved dramatically with a twist, knot or braid to define unorthodox seaming details. Even his beading on chiffon was as unusual in design as it was weightless. A little cocktail dress in black micro-bugle beads ran horizontally across the body giving the effect of gleaming ice. Rucci's use of black was as effective as his play with color. It showed up in embroidered leather lace, in a suit of Astrakhan and in an almost wraith-like column of black velvet divided with insertions of leather. Put simply, there wasn't anything he couldn't do and do brilliantly.

The audience was giddy from the start. There was an anticipation in the air as though everyone knew this program was going to be the one to beat. I felt an energy there that was wholly absent from previous programs from earlier in the day and the days preceding. When it was all over and the audience was on it's feet, stamping on the floor and applauding loudly. Ralph came out, took a few steps forward and acknowledged the crowd's appreciation. He seemed to take in the whole room with a humility that was dignified and then with a bow of his head and a simple raising of his hand he turned and was gone.

Black Ice - Jason Wu Fall2013

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Sun, 10 Feb 2013 15:43:00 +0000

Jason Wu's Fall presentation at a Park Avenue venue was an endless parade of tepid clothes that have the effect of Seventh Avenue Water Torture. They keep coming at you skittering on a sheet of Black Ice, one after the other, season after season, Inauguration after Inauguration until some people out there start to think there's something there. His business is apparently booming and for that I'm pleased for him. But these are not clothes for the runway. In an interview Jason Wu labels this collection as "Extreme Femininity" with a "top level" appeal for "girls who have it and have a lot of money" too. The collection is feminine in a banal way and as far as extreme, I'd have to say that applies more to the mix of looks, influences and homages to YSL, Herve (Leroux) Leger, Marc Jacobs and Madame Gres.

Again, this is a collection with little or no sex appeal. I take that back...There were about 4 looks that were honest to God hot. One was a black python motorcycle jacket over a knife pleated white Georgette skirt. Sexy. The other 3 were a series of sweaters with alternating opaque wide horizontal stripes and narrow see through ones. In bright red and black over a skirt made of a patchwork of Russian Broad tail and a swinging pleated chiffon skirt, these were hot. Very sexy. Other than that it was a long line of YSL inspired looks that went from le Smoking in a satin sleeved wool coat dress, a red wool belted chemise with epaulets and a lot of lace with satin. A lace pattern was printed on clear plastic for trench coats as well.

Many looks referenced Marc Jacobs collection last fall with monkey fur patch pockets on wool and satin jackets and coats and the same monkey fur grew out of collars and from waist to hem of jackets. Lanvin was tossed into the salad with a series of satin dresses with pleated and draped chiffon wrapped and tied and left to dangle in a haze of post-modernist caprice. He must have felt he'd struck gold with the Trench coat as it appeared again and again and again. Then it came out again just for good measure. All in all his best efforts were the simplest ones. I, for one, was just as non-plussed by the Inaugural gown this time as I was the first. Gowns do not appear to be his forte whether for a grown woman with a womanly figure or runway models with no figure at all. That's all I'm going to say on that subject.

* images courtesy of style.com Video courtesy of Vogue.com

Drifting - Prabal Gurung Fall2013

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Sun, 10 Feb 2013 15:42:00 +0000

Prabal Gurung sent out a collection that was strangely mixed. Nemo created some snow drifts that were all but impossible to get through, get over or around. This seemed like a metaphor for the collection.Right out of the gate there were dog collars complete with metal rings front and back for leads to attach and harnesses over a number of looks, lots and lots of looks. The harnessed coats with embroidery, fox circular collars and the dog collar on top, along with piping, hardware and hip interest were good looking if not a little bit busy. satin stretch suits with embroidered inserts were more brassy as if he was trying to take his elegant luxe evening roots and bury them deep in the ground.

His collection looks styled for editors who only acknowledge sportswear driven collections as important. His draped evening dresses in solids and printed silks were some of the most successful looks in the collection along with a gown or two at the end. On the surface of things , one could argue that all is as it should be. But when you look back and follow the arc of Prabal's work it starts as something personal with an emphasis on craft, a beauty still in its innocence and moves quickly to a style that seems too knowing and aggressively pointed at the editors packing the front row.

Design seems sacrificed for branding and in that sacrifice, so goes the soul of the artist. Looking back at perhaps his first collection that was a still-life at a gallery in Chelsea a few years back filled with beautiful clothes that seduced the viewer, there is almost a complete disconnect between the designer then and the personage now... but, hey. That's just my opinion.

* images courtesy of style.com Video courtesy of Vogue.com

Snow Blindness: Where am I?

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Sun, 10 Feb 2013 14:43:00 +0000

Nemo hit New York and all of New England just when the lights were dimming and the front row sucked their last bits of juice from the thirsty photographers. The timing seemed almost deliberate as though Mother Nature was saying,"Enough with this madness". With flight cancellations in and out of all three airports, she all but stopped editors, buyers and the European contingent from even entering the city. I felt for the designers who were scheduled without contingency plans. but the shows did go on with or without the important invited guests. It was probably a boon for the hordes who are usually herded into the "Select Standing"areas. Many of them scored front row seats so the press/video images would show a crowded venue. Unfortunately, it looks as though there was precious little, so far, to get excited over. If confused ideas, endless parades of tepid looks and mojo-less major players are your thing, then you scored. I've looked and looked and looked again and all I've seen is snow.

Alexander Wang just showed and the pressure of his appointment to Balenciaga shows. The cool is still sort of there , but the sex has left the building. It was like a lover that suddenly doesn't do it for you, no matter what drugs or drink you take. A sea of grey, dark grey and even darker grey was the palette and most of the jackets over skirts and knit Jammie pants fell below the hips in a twenties meets teens vibe. I liked that. What left me cold were the shapes which became arch, self-consciously studied and hard a la Cristobal but without any of the artistry or magic. It was a little like Marc Jacobs/Louis Vuitton.

The Wang collection looks like the distilled vision (the cheap one, more specifically) and his Balenciaga will most likely be the jacked up version. Even the sweaters and T-shirts that are his stand-by, crowd-pleasers were hard and awkward just like his predecessor, Ghesquierre. An origami fold at the shoulder of several jackets, coats and tops looks to be the message, his couture shape as it were. I fear there will only be more of that in the future. Not one look was sexy in a sexy sort of sexiness. If you like your sexy served up on a cold plate, all stiff and hard (and not in that good sort of way) then you can start the heavy breathing. I'm mystified because the Pre-Fall was pretty hot, kind of cool and not so leaden. I'm just sayin'..

* images courtesy of style.com Video courtesy of Vogue.com

NEWS FLASH ! NEWS FLASH! NEWS FLASH!

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Fri, 18 Jan 2013 17:01:00 +0000

Now, finally things are getting interesting. It appears that John Galliano has finally found a halfway house that's uniquely suited to his talents. According to Vogue and a very in the know, up to the moment, always in the loop insider, he's to be admitted to the Oscar de la Renta Institute for further observation and an aggressive battery of occupational therapy. Considering the Oscar de la Renta Institute has been listing in the shallows for the past few years, their star patient may be just the boost they, and he, need. Between the classes in lace embroidery, ball gowning, sweater setting and tweed suiting, not to mention intensive classes in Cha-Cha-Cha-ing, this could just be the place for him to regain his strength, repair the damage and re-imagine his future. One can not help but figure the influence and gentle nudging of Nurse Wintour, the post modern doppelganger of Nurse Ratchet. Her tough love methods of covert intimidation and deal brokering may just be what everyone needs at this juncture. I for one am extremely curious as to how this will all play out, as I'm sure many of you will be too. Until I have more intel and can decipher the coded language, I'll get back to you soon.

Fluff Chance, Candy Striper

Heidiland: An Alpine Alternative

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Sun, 06 Jan 2013 01:15:00 +0000

I’m not kidding when I titled this story Heidiland. This is the sign you see on the way to Hotel Therme Vals, an alpine getaway high up in the Swiss Alps. I think of skiing, cold, snow and treacherous routes, whether by car or by skis, when I think Swiss Alps. It’s where I learned to ski. (The kiddy hill was the parking lot) I had no idea that nestled in this skiers paradise is a thermal bath spa that takes your breath away, literally.

The adventure begins the moment you see in the distance, mountains, peaks, rock formations and snow, lots and lots of snow. The autobahn shrinks to a 2-way road that winds and winds ever upward through a valley and then like a goat herded by Goat Peter (yes, this neighborhood was his, along with Heidi and Grandfather) The car hugs the side of the mountain with a guard rail-less passenger side that drops down hundreds of meters. That part was tough to look at. Once in the tiny town we checked into a hotel that was a mid-century modern dream, complete with a 4 star restaurant. Our room looked out over the town below and up to the mountains that rose at a 90-degree angle.

As it was early evening, we put away our bags and went down for dinner that lasted 3 hours and included 6 courses, each more delicious than the other. Dessert was fantastic but not as amazing as the midnight bathing program that started when dinner ended.
Stone, concrete, slate and bronze are the ingredients to this fantasy experience. The hot water springing up from the earth fills several different pools. Some are large and others small, and all in different temperatures from ice cold to 110 degrees. The rules of the spa for the midnight session is SILENCE, so all was hushed with only ambient music playing in different areas. The water is loaded with nutrients that we all drank and bathed in. (that water one drinks goes to work on your digestive track...big time.) Sleek, spare, dramatic and elegant only begins to describe this jewel.

The most mysterious pool was the largest that sat outside under the stars that filled the sky. It was warm with a cloud of steam drifting above with jets under the surface. Inside we found a warren of saunas that started warm and progressively got warmer as you pass through. With large slabs of black granite like sarcophagi, we tested each until I could feel my bones begin to turn to liquid. This was all just in the first night.

My experience in the past with European sauna/baths is the unsettling co-ed rule. Every man, woman and child crowds together naked in the same room to sweat it out. That alone is a bit too close for my taste but being the only black man in a sea of sweating pinkies is equally unsettling. Everyone stares. They're all staring at me and I'm as naked as they are but for some unknown reason I'm the target of a whole steam filled room's roving glance. It's enough to make all of ones confidence and attributes dissolve in the haze. Fortunately, Vals was a bathing suit, bathrobe-clad crowd. My Speedo was a touch outre' compared to the surf jam wearing guys and dads, but hey...I was just feeling free to be me.

Early the next day after a breakfast that we didn’t want to stop refilling our plates we took a hike up the mountain road above the hotel for 2 hours. It was a relentless climb but the view and scenery was breathtaking. Once at the top of the route we found a tiny café nestled on the side of the abyss and had a lunch that was perfect. For the descent, we rented little one-man toboggans and skidded our way down the way we’d come. I was terrified of rocketing off the side of the road, but fortunately that didn’t happen. Before heading back to the spa for a late afternoon “cure” we wandered through the town with its ancient chalets, church and square. I’ll let these pictures speak for me.

I’m writing this from my room looking at the lights of the village, like candles, still in my robe and slippers from the spa. Early tomorrow morning we’ll have head to toe massages, breakfast and then wind our way down the mountain and back to Zurich and the airport, that is if I don’t decide to stay. I found a sweet herd of goats that I could tend and float in these miraculous steaming pools for the rest of my days. Happy New Year all. Make this year one that not only excites and satisfies, but also one that restores!

The Short Game

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Sun, 09 Dec 2012 20:17:00 +0000

When things go horribly wrong my first instinct is to choke. All I can think to do is to escape or at worst bury myself deep under the covers. This response is good for about 2 or 3 minutes and I invariably man-up and move straight ahead; smack into the oncoming bummer that can be as wrenching as a lost business/career or as truly dreadful as a death in the family, whether blood-related or chosen. Facing tragedy of this sort the reflex to flee is understandable. The fact of the matter is that once it's acknowledged, one is forever changed. There's no going back as the road we were just on has disappeared and whatever route we see in the distance is foreign and unknowable. I hate that uncertainty. I hate when things change, though some changes one knows to be for the best. It's the seemingly random changes with no obvious benefits that leave me uncomfortable and disoriented.

Spring2013 A Wang

That's what I'm feeling at this moment in front of the fire preparing to cook dinner. I'm removed from the city for the weekend but the news of PPR's appointment of Alexander Wang to direct Balenciaga, creatively, has followed me here. Though I run, I can't hide. Why do I run? In short, it's kind of like when you imagine being in the middle of an earthquake, all you can think of is survival so you seek shelter in the most absurd places. These days feel much like a symbolic quake has befallen the fashion world. A second Golden Age has come to its end. That ending has been coming for the past 10+ years but it's here now. The days of design houses with clear identities, their designers with a developed aesthetic in charge of the image, the product and the direction it would take, this is all in the past now. Most designers don't even sketch any more. It's now about product development, tech packs and stylists. It's all about branding and the brand. The funny thing is that the "brand" has little to do with the product. In fact, the product doesn't have much bearing on the bigger picture. What does have bearing is the buzz. The designer as bad boy( there are almost no girls to be the designer or bad, for that matter...) the bag as "IT", the show as spectacle and the hyperbole surrounding the proceedings parade as fact.

Spring2013 A Wang

If you can get past the fireworks of the show, hang onto the thread of reviews, resulting ad campaigns to the day the clothes land on the selling floor, you'll likely see something that vaguely resembles the initial presentation minus the Greek chorus telling you how game changing these clothes are. They're far from that. Other than some banal shopping bag stuffers, the bulk of what you'll find are a few over the top runway pieces priced to be borrowed and a slew of bits and pieces (bags, etc). Its those bits that you'll see on the street, the all important street, that birthplace and graveyard of all great design... Almost nothing else. The only thing that matters is the buzz on the street and all the crap that gets watered down and shoveled into the gaping maw of the masses. That stroll down the "street" is a grim march. And that's how I view the appointment of Alexander Wang to Balenciaga. A 29 year old club kid is not an Yves Saint Laurent who took the reins at Dior at the age of 21. Neither was Ghesqiuere. In 15 years Ghesquiere was little more an influential designer than when he started. Sure there were some great bags and shades that hit the marketplace, even a few pairs of shoes. Other than a few isolated seasons with compelling clothes and shapes, though they never hit that all important "street" unless you count the smoking area in front of Conde' Nast or the Miracle Meter that sits smack in front of MBFW entrance at Lincoln Center. There were unusual fabrics employed that were more about research and development than fashion. What did appear on his watch were for the most part aggressively de-feminizing clothes that said much more about him than it did the women he was hired to dress. I don't count editors as women, more as devices. They were all too happy to emasculate themselves in those harsh, unappetizing clothes.

Spring2013 A Wang

The one shred of hope I have is the fact that the spring 2013 collection by Wang was lyrical, technically challenging and sophisticated. Gone were the banal T-shirts, leggings, and dumb uniform we associate with redundant models and their faceless, fleshless figures. The cantilevered dresses, jackets and cool graphics played off of clothes dissected and hanging together by his force of will were a leap above and away from his compatriots. Altuzzara, Gurung, Proenza Schouler and a herd of other post grads with little identity beyond party pics and capsule collections with Target, H&M and Kohl's, didn't come close to his effort. Perhaps, there is something there that is being forced like a hothouse bloom. We'll just have to wait and see. Some critics dislike him for "trying too hard". I would say the opposite. None of these guys try hard enough. They're satisfied with a few editors, stylists, fashion directors and the model of the moment with one hand down their pants and the other reaching for clothes off the rack. Knighthood by the likes of Princess Diane von Furstenberg and Ms. Wintour is enough validation for most. The client, the actual woman who buys and wears, is left somewhere out in the cold.

Spring2013 A Wang

Many people think that Wang's appointment has everything to do with the emerging Chinese market. There's probably a fair amount of truth in that considering Mr. Pinault's statements to the contrary. (He protests too much.) I loved the statement regarding Wang's visit to the Balenciaga archives to soak up the mood of the house and sink his teeth into its DNA. He was reported to have "wanted to spend the night" there, it was all so fascinating. I guess there wasn't time as he was reported to be on the party circuit the following night in NYC... At the risk of sounding like a meannie, I hope that he makes a bolder statement than Hedi Slimane and a more inspired effort than Raf Simons. The short game is the new long shot, but, hey... this is the new game with new rules.

Monkey Business

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Sat, 10 Nov 2012 20:55:00 +0000

I, like so many other New Yorkers, am stressed out. With the hurricane, the election and our early- bird blizzard, things have just gotten to be a little too out of control. Anxiety is the new normal and upheaval is the order of the day. One doesn't have to be flooded out of their home, without electricity or heat or water for going on 2 weeks, unable to find gas or public transport to get from what was once your home to your job to feel a sense on unease. All those mornings I didn't want to get out of bed are nothing to the feelings I've had of late. Things just don't feel right.

Fortunately, the election went the way I'd hoped. That's all I'll say about politics. Except, I'm still struck by the look on Anne Romney's face as Mitt conceded. In her red Oscar or Fiandaca or whatever it was she wore, with those boulder sized rock crystal beads around her neck, she looked as though she'd been woken from some nightmare only to find that the dream was real and all of it while standing in front of millions of people. So much for smug, self satisfaction.

Smug self satisfaction is the operative phrase. Fashion today, or more to the point, the fashion business, has drowned in its own puddle of standing water. Reading the news of Balenciaga, the exit of Nicholas Ghesquierre and the machinations of LVMH to somehow show up PPR, Nicholas' supposed dissatisfaction with the lack of "support" given by Mr. Pinault, his unhappiness at the "freedom" and "license" so freely given to Hedi Slimane for his re-tread of (Y)SL, all of this "business" is stultifyingly dull and has nothing to do with fashion. Fashion, that poor unsuspecting victim, not to mention all of us who have followed her, as though she were a siren song or the pied piper, have come to a place in the forest empty of trees, water, sky or light. It's a scorched earth we stand on.

Slimane's (Y)SL means little or nothing to me. Other than editors and the conglomerate that owns and supports it and a few die-hard sheep it has no validity. Balenciaga has been the same in my eyes for years. Sure, the accessories, shoes and bits and pieces made money and noise.

lock-step editors

The gush of hyperbole from editors like Suzy Menkes at the International Herald Tribune and others at the Times, WSJ and a host of blogs/bloggers made Ghesquierre out to be the most influential design force of the past 10 years. The item he sent the world scurrying to copy was a pair of cargo pants. Gee. ( I know I over simplify, but I'm trying to make a point here. Work with me on this...) From his beginning where he "designed"a much photographed vest that was a COMPLETE copy of one by the master of collage, Koos van den Akker, put an sour taste in my mouth. Koos was my last boss before I struck out on my own. There is only one Koos, and fortunately the world is about to learn a great deal more about him thanks to an up-coming book and documentary film.

Nicholas who pointedly avoided the Balenciaga archive made one unfortunate misstep by that decision. The ethos of Balenciaga's approach to design was that the fabric, no matter its property: hard or soft, must move with the body. Never should it be in combat with the body. Despite all the creative experiments that Nicholas achieved with his fabrics, many of them man made state of the art manipulations of disparate materials they rarely worked with the body. Hard, harder and rock hardest is one way to describe them.They were the stuff of a trend poisoned editor's dream. Aggressive, self-consciously studied clothing rested on the shoulders of models like provocative sandwich boards, one moment drwing attention and the next repelling it. The rare times I came upon women in the street wearing the label it was too often re-issued designs from the original archive. They were often coats that made your heart stop. So, no tears from this corner. If LVMH now wants to give him his own label, he should remember that is in name and contract only. One need only to look at Galliano and his eponymous label to see that it is only yours as long as you have a job. The moment you're no longer essential, the name stays and you go.

There's a lot more to be said on this. I don't want to go on and on and risk boring you. The newspapers and blogosphere are jammed with innocuous stories and pathetic bits passed off as news. It's not. Tory Burch's legal problems with her husband Chris of C.Wonder fame (and the guy whose money set her up and continues to head her business' board) is all just a mammoth luxury problem. Anna Wintour and DVF climbing in between the battling parties is unseemly. Kate Moss' supposed nervous breakdown while shooting CK ads in panties sans bra with Marky Mark is simply fantasy. The prescribed Valium to help cope wasn't as effective as coke. Simple math.

Model pregnancies, break-ups and break downs isn't news. Reed Krakoff looking at the camera in a NYT's story about being the consultant to the architects in charge of building the new tower in the Hudson Yards that will house the new Coach headquarters as though he were president of MOMA instead of a handbag company and another that couldn't make a dress that storm victims would take even if it were offered for free. He can design a great bag, but that's the beginning and end of story. He knows how to buy pedigreed art, furniture and homes like the best of them. But that's not rocket science when you have that kind of money. It buys you a cozy seat on the board of the most important body of American Fashion designers, too. In the end, this is all just monkey business. The big ape getting throttled by the rabid chimp with the hairy low hanging balls. Its all just a jungle, and we're just the suckers off to the sides watching helplessly like forlorn bunnies forgotten on the sofa.

*all images shot by me at Montreal's Musee' de Beaux Arts

New York City: Humbled and Healing

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Fri, 02 Nov 2012 23:20:00 +0000

The unimaginable happened. Hurricane Sandy, that unwelcomed and uninvited guest to this teeming city of communities and commerce stealthily slipped up the coastline breaching every barrier in her path. Like so many storms in the recent past New Yorkers had become immune to worry, sure that the weathermen and women were simply hyping a flurry or drizzle to grab the spotlight from the bigger stories in the world.

Preparedness for many of us consisted of buying extra mixers to go with an extended cocktail hour and a back up of popcorn to get us through the extra films we’d rented. Many of us eschewed the nasty business of taping our windows simply because the messy residue of glue left behind was more trouble than its worth when time came to remove it. Better to just kick back, keep the yummies coming and for god’s sake have enough batteries at hand for the TV’s remote. I even ventured to New Jersey to an auction of art and mid-century modern furniture the day the storm hit thinking I’d have an edge with fewer people as foolhardy as myself to venture out. Needless to say, the sparse auction room was but a trick of the eye with 1000 people on the internet and phone lines bidding everything out from under we poor suckers sitting impotently on our folding chairs.

Well upon leaving at 7 p.m. the rain had started and there was a bit of a gust in the air. By the time we got to the Goethals Bridge and on into Brooklyn Heights (I needed to close my windows, block the fireplace, a wind tunnel for soot and wild life, get some fresh undies, my computer and my rain boots) the rain and wind was blowing sideways down the street. Staying on the UWS seemed wise considering the Mayor had shut down all public transport and closed almost all the bridges; so needlessly dramatic, not to mention inconvenient to my way of thinking. Throughout the night I kept waking up to the screaming wind and rain battering the windows but chalked it up to a noisy storm. It wasn’t.
The following morning showed me and everyone else from New England to North Carolina and New Jersey most dramatically of all that Hurricane Sandy came, saw and conquered us all. Power for many tens of thousands, if not millions is but a memory, even a week after the event.

Lower Manhattan (from 39th street down) is without light, water or heat, other than what little generators are able to muster. Businesses are shut for the time being. Underground garages, basements of buildings and lobbies and low-lying parks are submerged. The subway system to a large degree is a series of subterranean waterways. Many, many homes in the outer boroughs were burned to the ground with remaining gas lines still burning unabated. Trees are down throughout the city and suburbs taking with them essential power lines, access to roadways and internet/cellular services are compromised in unprecedented ways.

All of this is just to say that unlike the past where we all squeaked by with little more than a snow day from school or some branches and the odd tree down in a park or some less fortunate neighborhood, this time we got kissed by the big one. All we can do is exercise patience, be helpful and understanding to those around us who are suffering the same discomforts and keep an eye on how the state and national government work through this catastrophe for and with us. That is a telling and important story, of its own. The next time we are threatened with a visit by a boisterous, inelegant blow-hard like Sandy, let’s do all we can to keep her where she belongs… outside instead of in.

Frankenstorm: and Sandy was her name-o!

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Tue, 30 Oct 2012 21:49:00 +0000

the sun room with Silas Seandel (attr.) bronze table

It seems that I've traditionally reported to you all from the storm centers of the eastern seaboard. More specifically, the nerve center of art, style, finance, architecture, real estate and society: East Hampton. Well, I have an apology to make; I skipped the gilded confines of our dacha in the woods for the grittier environs of NYC and rural New Jersey. New Jersey was due to the Rago Auction of 20th century modern furniture, objects and art on Sunday in Lambertville. On an almost deserted New Jersey Thruway we rocketed our way to Rago early Sunday morning in time to preview the lots before the gavel dropped promptly at 11 a.m..

(my) Silas Seandel sculpture

The sky was a silvered grey with clouds shaped like racing chariots. The air pressure was shifting causing my feet to swell in my new Tod's. About an hour into the proceedings I was ready to cut them off and walk bare foot. Despite a light rain it was hard to imagine that a cataclysmic weather event was barreling its way up the coast. The distraction of a Nakashima furniture, Bertoia sculptures, Jensen sterling flatware, Prouve, Adnet, Parzinger lighting and Robsjohn-Gibbings chairs and tables took my mind off of the house in East Hampton surrounded by mature trees, 8-foot potted Elephant ears plants on decks, around the pool and heavy chairs and lounges here and there all over the property. The fact that 3/4 of the house is made up of large planes of glass gave me little comfort. But I turned my attention to beauty, and the game of bidding against sharp shooting collectors in the room, but also an army of bidders on the phones and Internet.The skylights overhead in the auction space kept the room abreast of the storm's progress.

Silas Seandel tables

The problem with collecting steadily over the past 10 years for a apartment, house and a studio/showroom leaves little room for more. When I've found things I love they are gotten for the long haul, not to be flipped and switched for something else. I feel the same about my friends. I'm not an up-grader by nature unless its shoes, clothes or phones. Other than lamps that could be squeezed into the mix, I was limited to small objects. There was a cast steel sculpture by a furniture maker, Silas Seandel, known for his amorphous bronze and aluminum occasional tables, like enormous kidney shaped masses. This piece suggested an armless figure in patinated steel. It drew me like a magnet and I swore to myself ( and Anton with the auction paddle) that that was coming home with us, NO MATTER WHAT. Beyond this treasure were a pair of Jacques Adnet floor lamps with the look of bamboo in cast bronze. So delicate, so glamorous and so f%*^#$g expensive. The auctioneer actually stopped the bidding to ask if I was ok, my expression was so noticeably stricken. Oh well.

Angelo Lelli for Arredoluce

The best of the day were a pair of chandeliers from 1958 ( my birth year) by an Italian designer Angelo Lelli for Arredoluce. I'd never seen anything like them. Cast bronze arms that range against the ceiling like an enormous spider with frosted glass bubble globes like enormous cultured pearls. It resembled a modernist brooch scaled for a ceiling 80" in length and 50" across. It was so striking I would have gladly eaten below it sitting on the floor. Well one sold for $18k and the second went for a song at $12k. Silently, I wept but it planted a seed. I will never forget that chandelier and from now on whenever I have a moment to dream I will search high and low to find other examples that may come available. Light is so important to me. The feel of a well and subtly lit space is essential to my piece of mind. This work of lighting art did just that with the added bonus of being a thing of beauty to behold.

So we came back to a stormy, windblown city. I shut up tight Brooklyn Heights( my love shack) and came to West 72nd st to stay with Anton. We stocked up on food, lined up a ton of films, including Season 3 of DOWNTON ABBEY (oh yeaahhhh), The Heiress, Prometheus, Marnie, The Paperboy,

Jacques Adnet lamps

the NBC Peggy Fleming specials from the early 70's, my video of my last horse show in Palm Beach with my beloved Gomer (Fandango) and the on demand lineup of Homeland, Boss and Honey Boo-Boo. The highest, the lowest and all the flotsam and jetsam in between. I called to caretaker in East Hampton for an update and though the power is out, no real damage happened to the property. A tree or 2 down on the back acres squishing the deer fence and lots of branches and leaves all over the yard, decks and floating in the pool. Fortunately, that it. I miss not being there but this time I'm glad I tempered the stress with a little auction/retail therapy. We were the first to arrive at the auction and the second to last to leave at about 8p.m. It felt good to show solidarity with other certifiable aesthetes. Just after David Rago the proprietor and auctioneer went around dispensing shots of vodka to the hard core survivors of 1400 lots that went under the gavel. Then he and the room thanked us for coming and staying the duration.


Pamela Sunday sculpture, my next find...

The city welcomed us back with rain flying horizontally. Still, as the windows rattled and wind screamed like a deranged Harpie, we settled in, in our jammies, apple-cranberry pie with vanilla ice cream and a remote control freshly stocked with brand new batteries. Though the city all but flooded and blew away, we had a sexy new sculpture, a warm well lighted place and best of all each other.

(Y)SL Spring 2013: One down...

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Tue, 02 Oct 2012 00:51:00 +0000

Fashion shows come and go. In a matter of minutes, that thing we all anticipated, argued about, took bets on and convinced ourselves would change the way we face tomorrow happens and it's as though nothing actually happened at all. Here I sit in my Paul Smith multi-striped robe, freshly showered, shaved and sipping an awesome cup of Assam tea watching the (Y)SL collection on YouTube. Hedi Slimane's debut was billed as nothing short of a divine intervention. He was the cherry on top of a cake that's been listing alarmingly to one side. Actually, both he and Raf Simons at Dior were the new Archangels of the moment. Raf's wings were not as buoyant as some predicted. There will be plenty of discussion on the strengths of Hedi's, as well. I will say this: there were moments that had a bit of zip but in the long run, the collection seemed distressingly earthboound.

The opening salvo of Smokings, jabot tied throats of billowing chiffon blouses and his signature skinny, crotch foreshortened trousers were interesting for the first 6 exits until I saw quickly that this was the big and the small of his message. The trousers looked ill suited to the models attenuated and emaciated bodies. Though he ushered in this (new) proportion 7 years ago, it no longer has the sizzle it once did. Coupled with shoes that challenged the best of the ladies to walk seductively, or to just walk at all, there was a feeling of tension in the parade. The hats didn't help. It looked like a coven of witches had descended though I know that was not his intent. Still, they looked like witches. The beaded cardigans were beautiful as were many of the jackets, both Smokings and leather motorcycle versions. But the trousers whether in leather or wool stopped the flow of the picture. Slimane's takes on classic YSL iconic styles like the long suede Safari gown, the Moroccan blouses and long billowing skirts and some tiered pleated chiffon gowns were neatly presented but didn't feel new or different. They merely referenced and failed to presage anything to come.

Black was everywhere with momentary breaks of grey/brown and a grey with a few exceptions near the end. Tailoring was the sole technique at play. The "Flou" that we all have loved and anticipated, at least I did, was basically 7 shapes in blouses, long swinging skirts and a djellaba. That's it. They were cut again and again, mostly in black and then in brown, grey, green, red and blue. Making a statement and sticking to it is the name of the game, but this was a little short on ideas, or at least new ones. I liked the black chiffon gowns for their purity and spare detail. The belts were also great. I wondered if he and Rachel Zoe had spent a few nights on the town in L.A. before he got down to work. The clothes looked distressingly like her idea of (Y)SL. I do think that it all had more sizzle than Dior. At least it was sexy. Perhaps, over time Hedi Slimane will do for women what he so ably has done for men.

Christian Dior Spring 2013: Iffy GPS

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Fri, 28 Sep 2012 18:13:00 +0000

Surely everyone and her stylist was waiting with bated breath to see how Raf Simons would follow his debut at Dior. My first response with the couture was that it was a bit light on effect and somehow oddly safe. A couture collection , certainly one at such a venerable house as Dior, should give a designer the means to soar and explore. With atelier that are capable of unimagined alchemy, why such a slim, even alarmingly stripped down offering? I don't think the world would suffer any less without yet another rack full of Bar jackets. Still, over time I came to realize that there was something beautiful and compelling in his restraint. Perhaps, it was the walls and walls of blossoms that colored my thinking. Their profusion, incredible colors, scale and probable intoxicating scent seemed to upstage the show that paraded under their exquisite noses. The severity of the clothes seemed to pale in contrast to the setting. So I sat back and waited to see what would come next.

Today is the tomorrow we all dreamt about yesterday. With his first ready to wear collection for Dior Simons has nudged the envelope a few centimeters forward. I ran back to my hotel to get a look as soon as my IPhone beeped that the images were in. I'm hanging out in Montreal for the week while Anton attends a conference. It seemed fitting to be here as it's such a French environment, even though it's still on the wrong side of the pond. I digress.... So back I ran, and here I sit.

The first looks took me by surprise. I hate to jump to conclusions, though like most humans, whether slinking on four hairless legs, or walking on two, I am not immune to quick judgements. The parade of "Smokings" felt so familiar, but not in a Dior-ish familiarity. They were so (Yves)Saint Laurent. There was a bit more volume down below in a strapless version, and the white ones were a departure, but still they didn't strike me as Dior/Simons. With all the talk of a prize fight between Raf and Hedi Slimane, this beginning felt like a theft of the (Y)SL script, an odd sort of appropriation. As the new (Y)SL is yet to debut, I seriously doubt that Slimane will opt to ape the bible we all know as Yves Saint Laurent.

Next came interesting miniatures of vintage Dior-isms in metallic organza, all draped and tucked over little black shorts. They were sweet confections but the shorts felt too derivative of so much that's been shown the last several weeks. The metallic organza also felt derivative of Armani's over heated Prive' collections of the last few years. Again, I have to stress that I don't approach fashion in order to 'relate and tag' to preceding designer's work, unless it smacks of it.

The graphic color field dresses with asymmetric panels drifting off the sides and contrasting colors appearing on the undersides were beautiful as were the crisp satins with contrasting panels of color and the stripes in duchesse satin. The embroideries were the most satisfying with shocking yellow paillette linear patterns on floating black chiffon. The trapeze shapes of several of these later exits brought back the heyday of Dior/YSL A, H and trapeze lines, but without all the stuffing. Still some of the cocktail/evening looks with layers of frothy tulle skirts looked forced. What wasn't forced were a string of very spare dresses in black with little or no decoration. A jacket or two with a small smattering of floral embroideries dancing near the the bottom were smart, lovely and felt original.

The end of the collection was vintage Jil Sander/Raf Simons with full printed skirts and black second skin T shirts. Very pretty but not much of a stretch. I'm sure the rest of the planet is going to need smelling salts today like they did with his debut couture collection, that is until Hedi Slimane shows (Y)SL next. Then they'll most likely crown him king and need smelling salts all over again. The direction that Raf Simons is charting still feels rather vague, like the new IPhone 5 maps app. The land is clearly laid out, but how to get from one place to another is any ones guess.

Kiddie Pool: NY Fashion week SPR 2013

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Sun, 23 Sep 2012 19:30:00 +0000

I put on my waders, bought through Filson's catalogue, and gingerly stepped to the edges of New York fashion week.( I know this is late considering London blew in and now we're sipping Americanos and wolfing pasta Putana in the miasma that is Milan, but I had to get this down. We all know and remember the kiddie pool. Whether it was your back yard blow up pool, the shallow end of the public/country club pools or the charming tidal pools at the beach's edge, no matter the temperature of the water, the kiddie pool, that safety zone your mother would allow you to wade and splash in, was always 30 degrees warmer. I often wondered as a kid why it was so warm, even hot. Then I figured it out.

Jason Wu

The New york shows were for the most part one large kiddie pool. With roughly 300 shows over the course of a week, everyone and his style challenged sister was having a show. Though I didn't attend them all, I did spend a great deal of time on line and on the street watching the proceedings. From my vantage point there seemed to be an inordinate amount of kids splashing around in a standing puddle that rose to boiling by week's end. Not all of them were technically kids with some well past the age of consent. Those infantalized grown ups were probably the most distressing of all. Doubtless, some of you will disagree with my list, but hey, that's ok. Others of you may find my list wanting. That's the fun of a discussion...

Jason Wu was one of the first I saw splashing around. He certainly was too busy doing his business to pay any close attention to the real business; namely his. Leather and Lace and the female as Domina was so spectacularly off base. I knew something was amiss when he opened the show with an unrecognizable Carolyn Murphy, trussed up in an ill fitting leather dress, Maria Braun hair and cheap shoes. Going to Wu for sex (appeal) is like shopping for fish at a hardware store.All the talk of his succeeding Oscar de la Renta is just a lot of mindless blather. Sad dressed as silly.

Rodarte

Rodarte was another interesting pair to watch sitting up to their waists in roiling water. Shovels, matches, dull scissors and gargantuan egos couldn't get their collection to dry land. Out takes from Game of Thrones and some pilfered looks from sophomore and junior class school projects looked like the inspiration for this uneven presentation. Hell's Angels biker jackets over tortured dresses and decidedly unsexy cocktail dresses and gowns, shows that these sisters' fantasies of sexy and eroticism is limited to things they see on a saturday night at a Sacramento roadside joint or whatever forbidden treasures they unearth in sealed boxes in their parent's basement.When are people going to wake up and smell the...the tide receding?

Peter Som

Peter Som is another water wing wearing junior lifeguard with little business being in the shallowest edges of the pool. Like Jason Wu, his clothes have always played the line between dull and pointless. His contribution to Hilfiger's women's collection is still a mystery. His own collection has been a case study of anonymity. What is a Peter Som collection? What is his identity? How can you tell a Som when it stares you in the face? Now with Spring he's chosen to take the Subway down to the land of the Hip. He proposes marriage between his Upper East Side Uptighty and his louche Lower Chelsea Gallery groveler. The end result by way of innocuous florals and awkward proportions is a confused girl, neither cool nor informed, stuck in some massive traffic jam.

Reed Krakoff

Reed Krakoff is another repeat offender in the pool. He's simply too old to play with such small children. Its unhealthy and unseemly. I credit the rise in temperature to him, directly. The collection (I use that term loosely) is still a beard for his bags.
The bags work. The clothes just don't . Perhaps they are the filler for his shop in shops whose purpose is to fill racks. I think they are for the benefit of his muse/wife, Delphine. I can't forget the New Yorker article where he stated he couldn't live a moment without being close to her; jealous of any man who'd come before him. Blah blah blah. He protests too loudly to a room full of the deaf, the dumb and the blighted. If she means that much then design something she might wear, willingly.

Proenza Schouler

Proenza Schouler were heralded this season as the new forces to be reckoned with. After a glowing profile in the NYTimes, discussing everything from playdates in their couture Teepee with (couture grade) shearling rugs to the "slushies" their new money Daddy whips up just to watch them carouse and coo, to their new boutique on Madison (impressive), we've been given a front row seat to witness their coronation. Well, it didn't happen. The show was an aggressively unattractive march filled with rat haired waifs dressed in last year's Balenciaga along with appropriations of Gerhard Richter's work printed on dresses riddled with grommets and pink nail heads. The splashing was so raucous I had to protect my eyes. I've seen collections by the duet in the past year that were far more mature and interesting. It's that same trap of where does the hunger go when suddenly you have "slushies" and "pigs in a blanket" any time of the day or night? The hunger and thirst were missing and in its place were some diapers in need of changing.

Altuzarra

Believe me, there were many more people crowding that pool than I've taken time here to mention. But the list would go on and on and even if you didn't get bored I would be. The chatter that is the new "discourse" is so mind numbing that I marvel at the ease with which these and other designers dispense it. Listening to Joseph Altuzarra talk about the sensuality, empowerment and eroticism of his clothes left me puzzled. Sensual? Sure, in certain cases. Empowering? Well, anything you put on your back making it possible to walk out the door is in itself empowering. But, Erotic? Um....no.

So wade into that pool with caution. Don't for god's sake go barefoot and whatever you do, fight the urge to sit down in it. You have no idea the things that are swimming and multiplying in the blinding glare of some clueless camera man. In the event some splashes in your mouth or eyes call your doctor.

Alexander Wang Spring 2013: The space between.

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Sat, 22 Sep 2012 21:32:00 +0000

At the show’s opening, an army of models, all dressed in white, stood black light lit creating a space-aged electric green glow. Obviously, Alexander Wang was taking us on a trip to his own parallel universe. Gone were the downtown hipster T shits and leggings of yesteryear and in marched a vision of a new galaxy of COOL.

His idea was to play with volumes that not so much hew to the body but hover and float around it. He dissected shapes that are the vernacular of American sportswear: T shirt dresses, shorts, shifts and anoraks, but in his hands they were cut into planes that cantilevered by way of invisible fishing line and tiny worms of coiled thread. The effect was arresting and even more astounding as the whole collection pivoted on this technique. His message was clear and he never for a moment wavered….

Black, white, sand and silver were the sum total of his palette. Cantilevered leather jackets over crisp white shirts were paired with python skirts using the same floating panel technique. As delicate as these pieces appeared it was clear that they would withstand wear beyond the runway. Hand knit sweaters, one of his trademarks were unexpectedly sexy by way of large cutouts at the sides and peek-a-boo openings at the chest and torso. These sweaters were paired with faux croc skirts made up of individual scales attached to the others by way of invisible threads, like puzzle pieces not quite fitted into place. It was a bravura example of his imagination and technical skill.

Some of the most memorable pieces came near the end in shift dresses that were divided into planes covering the bust, parts of the torso and divided horizontally from hips to hem. Whether by means of fishing line or as appliqués on an invisible scrim of net, the dresses looked to be held together by his sheer force of will and vision. The show was a huge departure from his recent work and one of the clear standouts of the season. The negative spaces, namely the body beneath, were as artfully displayed as were the garments themselves. Alexander Wang’s spring 2013 collection was a very exciting and inspired New York moment.

marc jacobs spring 2013: redemptive

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Sun, 16 Sep 2012 20:55:00 +0000

When reviewing a collection one is supposed to do it clear eyed, without sunglasses, and never with any personal or professional axe to grind. It's unseemly and unprofessional to comment on a designer's personal life, their foibles, quirks of dress, excessive tattooing, abuse of cologne, megalomania, obsessive body building, sparkling good health, their penchant for romantically hitching their wagon to rent boys and out of work porn stars. No, none of this sort of talk has any place in the discussion. After all, we all just saw from Cathy Horyn's unfortunate mishap, that commenting on a designer's collection beyond the actual clothes can get you publicly upbraided and can even hamper one's chances for future invitations to that designer's shows. The idea is to dish (responsibly) and not get dished. That said, let's get back to the task at hand: Marc Jacobs' spring 2013 collection.

First, let me come clean and lay down this heavy burden. I've long looked askance at the antics of Marc Jacobs both on the runway and in the locker room. Am I envious of his physical vitality? Yes. Am I just a bit envious of his enormous success? Well, um... uh, ok... yes. I admit it. Yes. So is it easy to put that all aside and confess to you all what I'm going to say next? NO, but still... "I LOVED Marc Jacobs show". There, I said it. He had me with his first satin black and white striped short jacket and low slung pleated and striped skirt. "Hello, my name is Fluff and I'm an addict. I'm unable to resist stripes". Go through my closets, my chests of drawers and the evidence of my addiction will spill out for the world to see. Marc, like me, is a connoisseur of stripes. They must be intelligently scaled, colored and placed and must above all relate and interact with their fellow stripes in a compelling way. In the end, it is the active and not the passive stripe that moves the conversation forward.

His army of models in black/white, tan/white, yellow/white, red/white, silver/black combinations of stripes, dots, spots and checks were so focused, smartly cut and elegantly proportioned. A silver/black leopard printed silk coat and dress along with its partnered jersey leopard spotted dress was just this cat's meow. I purred, I cooed, I sharpened my claws on the monitor's screen and begged for more.

The message, something that precious few designers have or even consider, was crystal clear: God is in the Graphics. No need for silly digressions or a section of leather and lace, just bold, brash, bravura graphics delivered at a strong and steady pace. The show was a mere 7.5 minutes with a ton of looks. A spotlight followed each model as she paraded the enormous runway. Even the shoes and bags were a perfect marriage to the clothes.

Jacobs was just as clever with a series of plaid and checks in jackets and coats over dresses and skirts. Everything was handled so masterfully, that it felt as though he had traded in his cloying cleverness for a kind of brilliance. It wasn't until near the end when long jersey columns in enormous snaking stripes of black, tan and red on a white ground with cut out necklines, front and back, did I really start to pace. The engineering of those stripes, playing games on the surface of the body just had me begging for more, more, more. ( I told you...I have a problem with stripes...)

When the lights fell and the show was over, I expected the usual tedious parade, but the models disappeared behind a wall of mirrors. The wall then opened like a thousand doors showing the entire collection lined up across the width of the stage with everyone advancing like an army of bold, bi-colored beauties. They took position in a large triangle with every look visible individually and the lights were extinguished. Damn....

Chado Ralph Rucci Spring 2013: Summiting

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Wed, 12 Sep 2012 17:58:00 +0000

How to describe something there are only paltry words for? Modern? that's too banal... Rich? that simply overstates the obvious... Singular? that is an under-statement of the obvious.. Inspired? that's a baby step in the right direction. Exquisitely conceived and presented? now we're getting somewhere... A vision that alters the eye; the perception of what fashion can mean and a master's approach to technique, a laser sharp focus and an established oeuvre from which he never ever strays? that begins to describe Ralph Rucci. A brilliant showman who knows the power and conviction of his message and just the way to share that with the world is the magic of his work. All of these qualities are precisely what separate him from the masses. And that includes the greatest names in fashion in this country and internationally. Sitting in his audience last night was not just an entertainment but a privilege. And still, that pales against the trove of beautiful, soul stirring clothes that paraded down a runway of glistening white patent.

The audience is made up of the usual retailers and press, but it is the army of his ladies paying homage to him in hundreds of designs from yesterday to yesteryear and all strikingly chic, seductive and assured in their Chado dresses, suits, coats and gowns. It was hard not to stare. Despite some of their high wattage celebrity, it was their sartorial choices that mesmerised. How often does one see a theater filled with women with extra-ordinary style, allure and consequent beauty? This was a phalanx of Couture clients at a ready to wear show in the circus tents of Lincoln Center.Talk about contrasts.

The music started as an explosion sending the first looks out in white so vivid that they roared. From the first, it was his cuts, all planes of crisp fabric with seams that defined the shape and in turn created the detail. Not one inch, angle whether from the front, the sides or the back was left as an afterthought. A zipper placement whether vertically placed or spiralling from side to back possessed the same integrity as insertions of clear plastic or horsehair in contrast to the color field of the piece. Hems of horsehair or tulle with applied lines of contrasting color created a frisson as much as the dresses they punctuated. The explosions of music with a ticking beat repeating and building added to the mood of heightened, rising crescendos perfectly paced as the clothes and their story unfolded.

Colors emerged like blooms as if forced in a hot house: Shocking pink, cerise, canary yellow, flame orange, lime green and all playing off of fields of white and accented often with the thinnest stroke of black matte crepe or patent leather. Each look elicited an emotional response. Whether it was the most subtle black crepe shirt dress with a tie belt faced with cream and completely lined in cream or a dress in electrified pink with a back in icy white with black patent lines dividing the planes and running up the back of the dress, I was stunned that simplicity mathematically measured could pack such a potent punch. The same for a gown with a short sleeved caviar beaded shocking pink tee shirt with an attached long black controlled a-line skirt with the same minute lines of pink dividing the plane in 3 places descending the skirt.

Color came strong and pulsing on monochromatic coats over dresses with his signature insertions of hand tied braid or contrasting lines of color shining against the matte bodies. These lines sometimes echoed the ribcage of the body or in the case of a sober black crepe pantsuit, the back was scored and opened with patent leather piping, a sheer scrim of tulle with abstract planes of black tossed onto the surface like the canvas of an Expressionist painting.

Expressionism by his own hand is a passion of Rucci's with a number of jackets, coats and most dramatically his "Infanta" gowns near the end that were flowing, asymmetrically cut panels covered in bold strokes of yellow, black and rose with stones scattered across the color. And where they opened in back a column of minute glistening pailletes spilled down like the last traces of an intense dream.

Feathers appeared but not in profusion even when they covered bodies beneath in shimmering lime and shocking pink lame'. You saw through the fluttering feathers to a ground of lame' that looked to be on fire. The feathers attached upside down from stem to tail causing them to roll over and bob as the model walked like a mist of intense color floating around the body.

The black beaded evening skirt with a feather enshrouded top and bolero was a web of intersecting lines whose ground of chiffon one could peer through. Deliberate, hand drawn and lined in minuscule jet crystals drew the eye to this map of the model's body. In short, the detail was at once hypnotic and exquisite as a whole.

Ralph Rucci's brand of bravura couture design is as subtle as a kiss, but one you long remember. The same can be said for his whisper; a faint murmur that continues to roll around in your subconscious long after the lights have come up and the masses move on.

Fashion Week Spring 2013: B.O. Booze and Bad Breath

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Sat, 08 Sep 2012 17:48:00 +0000

Guess which one is mine...

You wonder what I'm talking about? You probably think I've spent one too many days in East Hampton. Truth be told, I'm referring to the great unwashed crowds of Fashion Week. On the very first day back to school, pinched in my seat between a very well known personage and someone who's known somewhere by someone, I was overcome by smells, both noxious and pervasive.Thinking the cloud was coming from the left, I tried as best I could to shift a little to the right. I must of caught my fellow guest on an exhale as I hit a wall that forced me back to my original position. It didn't take long to figure out that despite the haute-est fashion being worn by lots of folks in the crowd, despite Scott Schuman, the diminutive force behind The Sartorialist lurking and zooming in on people to my left and right, and despite the relatively early hour of the day or lateness of the night (you choose) there were a few people who needed more than a strong cup of coffee, a splash of cologne and a tick tack.

The Sartorialist

I stopped breathing through my nose and scanned the crowd to see what this season has wrought. First trend alert: tote bags. They were everywhere, on every arm and nestled at the feet of everyone. From distressed, D.Y.I. paint splattered L.L.Bean bags to very fancy, spare luxurious leather ones. It was hard to tell what was what. The Sartorialist was busy shooting bags, skinny suited guys and eccentrically dressed women. Sun glasses were worn by too many, as well. The implication of self importance and an inflated self regard, endemic to the fashion flock, makes this particular tick really unattractive. Particularly, when watching front row friends reuniting with exaggerated peals of laughter, air kisses and expressions of surprise and all for the sake of hovering photographers. Like fashion today, so much appears hollow and forced as if the creature died long ago and we're left with its dried and brittle shell.

Its the children that give us hope. The standing room section is always the most interesting one to study. That's where one finds the novices, the saplings who one day will grow to be the Redwood trees of the fashion jungle. For the most part, these fresh faces hew to the idea of fake it til you make it. Tote bags and sun shades predominated in standing, along with preening and posing in hopes that Scott Schuman might notice. One young man caught my attention for opposing reasons. He had an innocence in his face that one rarely sees these days. He looked so fresh, bright eyed and happy to be at the show.

Toteville

Despite being herded with the rest of the people standing on either side by determined P.R. assistants, he looked unbothered and cheerful. This was some one's kid who had run away to the big city to make it, like so many of us. It wasn't until that standing room crowd shifted that I got a clearer picture of what he was wearing. It was all white with the top cut like a sleeveless vest with cascading panels and trousers also in white. His clothes looked to be of his own design. There was a naivete and charm to their generous fit on his overly thin frame. Like so many in the room, this young man had a key accessory that drew the eye and punctuated his look. Around his neck was a narrow leather choker from which tresses of human hair fell to his waist.

There are a lot of gimmicks out there, from beauty marks, excessive foundation, drawn on eyebrows with magic markers and a re-do of Gloria Vanderbilt's hairdo (the combed back tight flip at the base of her neck) and all of this employed by a man of a certain age. Its no wonder that a kid who's barely crossed the threshold of puberty would feel compelled to sport a neck beard. Well, gang, It's On! Fashion week is in full swing. Grab your tote and shades, take a couple of Xanax and don't forget to bathe. Let's compare notes as we go!

Helen Gurley Brown: So Long, Sweetie!

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Mon, 20 Aug 2012 02:27:00 +0000

Helen and David Brown

It seems that all of a sudden so many truly warm, brilliant, unique people are saying their farewells. People who have been such a profound part of our life's fabric, we almost expect them to be here forever. Helen Gurley Brown is certainly one of the most colorful ones. I remember as a kid watching her on talk shows like Dick Cavett, Merv Griffin and Johnny Carson. She was always, to my inexperienced and uninformed mind, a siren of sorts. Provocative, sexy, unapologetic, clever, witty, incredibly smart and above all else, kind. She was the embodiment of 'larger-than-life-ness'. Cosmopolitan was a magazine with more punch, edge and brains than the glossies that crowded around it on the news stand. The covers were smoking hot thanks to Scavullo's unerring eye. In short, Ms. Brown and her magazine were legend in my mind from my early days in Groton, Massachusetts.

When I found my way to NYC and started my own collection, Ms. Brown and her magazine were instrumental in giving me a much needed leg up. In those days, small companies like mine depended on prestigious and strategic placement in important stores in order to get noticed. PR companies and advertising budgets were not even an option. Mr. Scavullo's assistant and partner, Sean Byrnes, spotted a gown of mine at Bergdorf Goodman and made an appointment to come to the showroom. He appeared at the appointed hour and asked if I'd do the same gown as a very short dress, in size 4 in canary yellow. It was for a cover try for the magazine and I had 2 days to do it. I did it, they chose it and it was my first cover for a major magazine. That dress sold like crazy to all my stores and I got new accounts just because of that cover. It was a game changer for me and my team.

Fast forward to about 5 years ago: I was invited to a Cosmo Girl lunch hosted by Bonnie Fuller in honor of Karenna Gore. There were lots of interesting people there, almost all women and me. By chance Helen Gurley Brown was also there in itsy-bitsy Chanel with the shortest skirt in the room. It couldn't have been longer than 10". I was introduced to her and discovered we'd be seated next to one another. I was scared and had no idea what to say to her but gamely rolled with the challenge. She immediately started calling me 'Pussy Cat' (the irony was not lost on me)and peppered me with a ton of questions. She wanted to know everything. Between answers she'd offer advice like: "Don't listen to anyone, only your gut matters". "Stay as nice as you are, but don't take any one's shit". She was completely candid and unbelievably kind. I told her that my first cover was for Cosmopolitan and she actually remembered it, the model (Magaly) and the dress. She ate her lunch with her fingers and nibbled some of mine, too. At one point she suggested I not neglect the person to my left but I told her she was much more fun than anyone else there. She said she was the luckiest girl to have the most handsome guy as her lunch partner. I had to laugh because other than the waiters, I was probably the only guy at the table.

She awed me as a kid, helped me immeasurably as a new designer on the scene and astounded me in her final years. That spirit she showed in the late 60's, 70's and to the present never flagged for a moment. The world was her oyster and we all were her Pussy Cats. She was a great Lady and a hell of a Gal.

Keep Calm and Back Off

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Sat, 18 Aug 2012 22:56:00 +0000

verb: to chillax

still life with Paul Smith undies

I've been chillaxing out here in East Hampton. Not full time but a string of elongated weekends with friends, Anton's niece in from Germany and soon my Mom, who arrives in a couple of days. My eye isn't off the ball, only focused on the two huge clear exercise balls floating in the pool. At night they look like drifting air bubbles on an illuminated pond. You don't have to say it, I know I'm lucky. I'm not complaining but this sequestered paradise makes coming up for air harder and harder. The best is it's way far away from the action in the center of town and light years away from the city. Other than going into town to get food, wrangling with the hordes of people who suffer from a perverse sense of entitlement, or heading to the far end of the beach beyond section G(ay), it's a quiet life. I read books, the paper and almost no magazines other than the New Yorker. I also have inordinate amounts of time to think. The big questions like: Where am I going? What am I doing? Why does the future feel so much like the past? What should I eat for dinner? Should I watch The Real Housewives or the new kiddie pageant reality show, "Here Comes Honey Boo-Boo Child"? Just day dreamy, simple minded questions. I timed a turtle crossing the lawn yesterday and that little guy got from one side to the other in about 10 minutes. I'm talking a distance of a good 1/4 acre. That was just one charming moment in my charmed day.

one way to look at things

I've devoted the greater part of the summer to working on a memoir. Not easy. Sure, I've got tons of stories from my storied life, the question is which ones are worth sharing? Honestly, I don't know but I'm digging it up and out as best I can. Some weeks I fly and others find me sitting in a stupor staring at the wall. I hope to get it together and done one day soon. I read so many things (in fashion) that bring so much of it back. Reading a piece in this month's Vanity Fair on John Fairchild of Women's Wear Daily/W magazine fame brought up a lot and not all of it pleasant. Unpleasantness in the fashion business didn't start with him or end with the Anna's of the world. The legion of miscreants will just go on and on until the last show ends and the last intern quits but neither of those things is likely to happen in our lifetimes.

(ex)Model Moms

Hair and make-up at all times

Adrian and Anton at the Cupcake sale

When I do go into town I witness a civilization I barely recognize. Just navigating the aisle of Citarella to forage for foodstuffs can incite a race riot. Yesterday I was pushing my cart down the vegetable section ( I'm a healthy eater now thanks to Anton's rigidly strict Teutonic diet) when I encountered an abandoned cart parked smack in the middle of the tiny, one lane aisle. As I shifted it about 6" to the side, an East Hampton matron in a faded pink and lilac Lilly Pulitzer shift with ratted, greasy blond hair in a scrunchy that had seen much better days and flip flops with big shredded daises appeared from no where. "What do you think you're doing?" she barked. Before I could say a word she continued,"I can't believe you people...". She seemed to be going someplace with the "you people" and it didn't look like a good place. It didn't take long to do the math and I stopped her in her miserable tracks. "Lady, you don't want to finish what you're starting. Oh, and have a nice day!"The creature refused to back down and looked around for her absent posse for back-up as if the whole store would join her in her pathetic rant. People like her are the problem in this town, this city, this world. The greater problem is that there's an army of them out there. That army likes nothing better than to set up camp in places like East Hampton. They're so combat weary they view everyone and everything as the enemy.

I overheard two very young girls in the local diner one morning at breakfast. With the Hampton Classic fast approaching at the end of the month, everything equestrian is in full swing. Kelly Klein is back up from Palm Beach to train her horses and squeeze in some parenting. The loyal circuit followers are back from London as well as most of the competitors who will participate in this all- important social, I mean competitive event. So these pre-teen girls, fresh from the barn, in their German breeches, Ralph monogrammed Polo shirts, custom-made boots and Hermes belts worn jauntily to the side, were lost in conversation. One complained to the other that her pony's bloodlines just weren't enough for the Classic. She lamented that she would be mortified to show him knowing full well that he just "didn't have it..." Her doppelganger did what any good doppelganger does and offered up her own experience, strength and hope: "I told my Mom just before she was leaving for the Parish Art

Sprocket and Ainsley

Museum benefit that she needs to do something about Sprocket. He's nice for someone who just wants to show but not if you expect me to ribbon. My trainer showed me a video of a much nicer one for $200K and he thinks you need to buy him now if I'm going to be ready in a month." She continued, "After all this isn't just about me but also about you. He says the Judges are looking at everything and my tack needs to be Hermes as well." It was all delivered so matter of factly that there was little left to question. They settled on stools at the counter and ordered their chocolate shakes and hamburgers. Life is that simple for some here. Even low-key events out here look cast and styled. I've never seen so many mothers with stylish looking little kids. The other day in Amagansett there was a face painting/cupcake sale on the green (quaint, so quaint) and half the moms looked like ex-models. That's probably because they are.....

Swimming in the bay

This sort of chatter is everywhere coming from the most unlikely mouths. I try to ignore it and amuse myself with my own pursuits. But being the creature that I am, who tends to find it almost impossible to ignore life's details, it's tough to block out the noise. One thing that makes it all so dull is that all the money flowing through this area brings nothing that even closely resembles style. It's a sartorial wasteland. A great book, progress at the gym ( I did 12 pull-ups 3 times the other day (where was Marc Jacobs when I was making history?), or some new discovery are the stuff that makes my little boat float. A new discovery for me is Italy's Francesco Scognamiglio. His Resort collection made my temperature rise. Not so his Fall 2012, but if Resort is an indication of what or where he's going, he's worth watching. No matter how glorious or ghoulish the clothes, Karlie Kloss is impossible to ignore. That girl can sell a dress. Hell, I'm tempted to buy it. She's Old School in the very best sense of the phrase. Back to school needs to shift to Old School. It's time for models and design to take a cue from the way it used to be done. Some substance to back up the attitude. Character and individuality was never so needed and novel as now. Clothes that say," Keep Calm and F$#&@g Buy This." Models who don't just grab your attention but DEMAND it.We need experiences in fashion that change our thinking and people who write about it who actually enlighten rather than confuse and irritate us.

Giambattista Valli F/W Haute Couture 2012: Old and Lost Gardens

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Wed, 18 Jul 2012 00:14:00 +0000

Giambattista Valli is an old soul. His collections embrace the art and beauty of old school Parisian fashion complete with the all the bells, whistles and ruffles that have defined it over time. That he moves the conversation forward with somewhat eccentric ways of reordering the puzzle pieces to achieve a new and oft times compelling story is to be admired and commended. There have been collections and pieces of those dreams that have struck me as truly original, which is big reason I follow his work expectantly. There's a freedom in his Pret a Porter collections that can at times overshadow his Couture efforts. The process of experimentation is somehow backwards; the lab seems to be his ready to wear and the couture feels more like an overstatement of those previously explored ideas. It was that thought I couldn't escape while watching this show.

His abiding love is obviously fabric. The Fall couture was awash in Warp Printed silks that looked like gardens from the 19th century. Like heirloom blossoms that exist only in the rarest gardens, these prints that opened the show in reds, pale washed out reds, coral, oxblood with black accents,some of them against a barely there ground of oyster, were just glorious. When they changed and became an expanse of greens that mixed with browns, bronze and black, that were at once dusky then almost camouflage shades, it seemed like watching a garden through the prism of the late afternoon into night. It was his die-hard embrace of layers and layers of ruffles starting at the neck and running down sleeves, outlining the length and the waists of the skirts below, that I started to feel overwhelmed. Some of the treatments of extreme ruffled volumes on skirts started at the very middle of the rib cage. Peplums were stiffened and massing at the same point. In many instances as the model passed the back was left bare. The effect was a front loaded dress or gown that was all about coming and not so much about going. The fact that the taffeta was stiffened with horsehair on all the edges and the skirts, both long and short, created a stiff, bobbing effect that looked awkward. Imagining the model sitting would create big, noisy breaks in the body of the dress. This effect was repeated ad nauseum.

Then a fabric change came with printed,floating, diaphanous chiffon and airy, crisp organza. He played with razor thin tucks, again layers of ruffles, shirred and flowing skirts with trains a kilometer long, all grand and otherworldly. A group of metallic shot brocades joined the scrum as stiff as a vintage Balenciaga dress but without the same finesse or weightlessness. They moved more in opposition to the body than in harmony with it. There were so many unintended references to vintage Balenciaga, Valentino and Oscar de la Renta that I began to get restless and impatient.

The accessories were another story, altogether. Regrettable Point d'Esprit tulle that looked like chicken wire covered each model's face. Butterflies in silk were liberally placed on this second skin as well. The ones alight on their heads were dreamy. It was the ones that landed square on the model's mouths that brought to mind "The Silence of the lambs". I doubt that was intended, either. Jewelry consisted of golden crowns of branches sitting at the neck (doing battle with Elizabethan ruff collars) and cuff bracelets of enormous beetles and scarabs. Menacing.

As beautiful as the setting was and the obvious technique that went into the making of the collection it felt old and lost. The dream of couture can and should be new and compelling, not a retelling of an old dream.

As beautiful as the setting was and the obvious technique that went into the making of the collection it felt old and lost. The dream of couture can and should be new and compelling, not a retelling of an old dream.

Valentino Haute Couture F/W 2012: Catholic Gilt

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Tue, 17 Jul 2012 21:02:00 +0000

For starters, this show had all the pep of a Requiem Mass. The whole cast of characters that pack the hi/lo rafters of Catholicism were represented. Sinners, Saints and a convent-full of Nuns walked a raised black wooden runway that was more plank than catwalk. Like a crowded and stuffy baroque chapel, the setting was claustrophobic and dour. My first 3 years of school were at St. Mary's in Ayer, Mass. and I remember all too well just how severe everything and everyone was. Even then I was the odd man out wanting badly to be an alter boy. It didn't matter that the frankincense and myrrh that was smoking up the place during mass was so suffocating I couldn't breathe. I so wanted to wear the 2-tiered capelet and gown while processing behind the priest down that endless runway, I mean aisle, but never got the chance because I was Protestant. (another lost opportunity at fabu-ness)

Nun

Bad Girl

Maybe that's where my love affair with Valentino stems from. That little ensemble was eerily like the double dirndl skirts that were the theme of a collection he did for Fall back in 1979, I believe, to a soundtrack by Stanley Clarke. That show had pep in spades. This one was different. Chiuri and Piccioli dispensed with red in exchange for navy until very late in the show. It was a rich dark statement that had more bite than the clothes.

Borgia Priestess

(lovely)Couture Hair shirt

This collection opened with Sinners. A group of scantily-clad models came out in black chiffon layers with artfully placed silk charmeuse patches over breasts and nether regions. The work was beautifully executed but strange in its extreme peek-a-boo-ness. It felt forced and oddly at odds with the house's DNA; kind of like a case of mutated and/or missing chromosomes. That schism was quickly followed by a bevy of Nuns. Actually, I found these dresses and gowns the most pure and satisfying of all. Just clean, clear, elegantly spare columns in dark navy, mostly, with simple necklines and long sleeves. Jumpsuits were introduced into the conversation giving the proceedings a retro 70's vibe. They spare gowns in crepe and charmeuse were impressive in that there's no place to hide a lack of technique with overbearing layers of ruffles or truckloads of crystals. Their timelessness was appropriate when you think of couture as treasure for the ages.

The Sacrifice

The Tree of Life

Then came Halstonettes that were simply confusing. Cheesy beaded cardigans over beaded jumpsuits and charmeuse numbers. They were sort of the Ghosts of Good Girls Gone Bad. It was the brocades in stiff, unrepentant radzimir, I think, that was totally ecclesiastical. In hard as nails capes and severe little cocktail dresses they marched down that plank. Though the motifs were vegetation and exotic fruits, they felt like costumes for a Borgia. They were the couture equivalent of hair shirts. The music was curious in that it starts with strings ascending and never resolving forbodingly then shifting to Brahms giving the whole affair a self consciousness that you could cut with a hacksaw. A tiny window of hope emerged with a few exquisite pieces that displayed a motif of the Tree of Life; first in a rich embroidery on a cape and then in soft hand painted pastels on chiffon. Those exits were heaven sent. Chiffon confections with miles and miles of ruffles rounded out the show in typical Valentino Garavani style, blood red in meters and meters of plisse chiffon. Some other looks in re-embroidered lace cut as jumpsuits with a soupcon of sable trim at the neck were symbolic of the religious zealot, the Holy Wino. The last dress in the collection in rich navy with a cut out pattern down the front and back I'd have to call the Sacrifice....

Overall, the service felt very labored, long, and without much charm, insouciance or wit. Ultimately, it was just another day at Mass.
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