The Emperor's Old Clothes

2012 The Year of the Water Dragon

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 14:02:00 +0000

Happy New Year, again. This is supposed to be an unusually productive and stimulating lunar year. All engines will be firing and it appears nothing will stand in any of our ways. So on this wet, grim, mushy morning in the Heights I wish you all sunshine, warmth and unshakeable optimism.We are the Champions, we are the champions of the world!

*image courtesy of: theartofanimation

Jil Sander Pre-Fall2012: Daisy Chain

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 19:06:00 +0000

Let's wander down the ivy strewn path to a calmer, less complicated time when Miss Porter's School was filled with the likes of Jacqueline Bouvier and her beloved hunter, Danceuse along with a gaggle of America's bluest, bloodless debutantes. That appears to be his inspiration. Wood panelled common rooms filled with swanning, young ladies doing what well-bred young ladies do: play field hockey, play with their hair and little else. Oh, and compliment each other's hair,too.

The classics are in full evidence in toggle coats, camel hair coats over letter sweaters and slacks, demure shifts, fifties heels, and yes, rounded hips and dropped shoulders which we know now equals "COUTURE SHAPES". So, all in all a slam dunk collection. What one sees clearly are clean, sporty dresses and separates that have a mid-century modern feel that looks timeless. The boots and bags are elegant. Letter sweaters do little for me unless you're living a varsity life, which I don't. It's the sort of cliched nostalgic detail that puts me off. Perhaps, I'm also a little more than critical when the clothes are almost impossible to see with the models draped over the furniture and each other. If you're showing clothes, then let us see. This is like so many meals served in the dining halls of East Coast prep schools: meat and potatoes, hold the spice and a tall glass of milk to chase it down. Simons who has appropriated this world like Ralph and Tommy before him. It's as if he and they long for a world before angry people of color took a seat at the table off to the side. It reminds me of the "black table" that existed at my school, The Lawrence Academy in Groton, Massachusetts, where all 7 black students would sit together in hopes of feeling apart of the experience. I'm not an angry black man like Michelle Obama (she's a woman for those who may have missed that point)has been accused. I'm just an aware one who is still amazed, but not surprised that this sort of ignorance still persists.

So maybe this is just a nostalgic look at a bygone era when Miss Porter's School flourished before affirmative action and all was just gin rummy, mixers with St. Paul's and pregnancies that were hushed up. I'm sure rounded, stiff fabrics cut in "couture shapes" came in very handy then!

photos: Style.com and archival images of Miss Porter's Daisy Chain ceremony.

Dior Pre-Fall2012: Unsung Heroes...

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 01:10:00 +0000

There's something going down at Dior that feels unfair and wrong. The Pre-Fall collection opened this past week and almost nothing from the press has been said. Despite the fact that a collection was conceived, created and presented by Bill Gaytten the creative director of the studio and his team, it seems to be a non-event. Perhaps, because he has been dismissed by the editors of some of the most important papers and magazines as simply an employee. Type casting him as a pattern maker and not a designer is a huge insult. Just looking at his effort this season and the growth he and his team have shown since the departure of Galliano shows how steadily he's grown into his position and responsibilities. That appraisal has nothing to do with the offerings of other houses which have been largely uneven and in some cases really weak; think Valentino and Balenciaga.

It's a sorry state that after all the years he's been working there along side John Galliano and now keeping the label alive and growing it on his own he gets absolutely no recognition from the Times, the fashion blogosphere, a single run-on sentence at Fashionologie, nothing but the images shown on Style.com and little else from others. I could understand if the clothes were off key but they're not. They're good and in some instances really great.
The suits with sharply tailored, snug jackets over long, slim skirts are beautifully made. They're utterly French in their attitude and even have the much desired "couture shapes" worked into the mix in duchesse satin short skirts and jackets with kimono sleeves. What's funny is that they are actual shapes cut with the precision and perfect balance that is the hallmark of the couture. No posturing here, just the real deal. And then there are the cocktail dresses in satin and razmir some with appliqued lace on the bodice. Another in a blush color with a bifurcated ( I know, big word...) skirt in that "couture shape" we've all come to demand from our high fallutin' fashion stars. Original. Exquisitely constructed, young and chic. That sounds like a busy checklist of details and all of them are executed.

The shoes with which I would normally take issue with their towering stiletto heels and platforms are really fresh and sleek. A platform that doesn't read: a brick with heel. There are some bags that look great as well. The total picture of these looks all shot in the open air are smart, smart, smart. Considering there are only 22 images available one must assume that the collection is modest in size and yet the majority of looks are strong with very few Waterloo moments. The evening gowns are as clean, simple and rich as the day looks. There is one gown in particular that gave me a deep satisfaction. If some maverick stylist decides to pull this gown for one of her intrepid stars for the Oscars, I daresay people will be falling over themselves praising the style chops of the lucky actress and the fearlessness of her stylist... I'm referring to the pale pink column with reversed cardigan on top. To my eye it's perfect.

So why no noise from the peanut gallery? Because it isn't Marc Jacobs? Or not yet Raf Simons? Or god forbid, Jason Wu, Alexander Wang or Olivier Theyskens? No matter how ill suited that pack of names are, they would be easier for the press to get behind. Style.com can't even review it until someone else weighs in first. I think this sort of myopia is disgraceful. When it's good we should all admit it and not play childish games. Bill Gaytten deserves better. He deserves respect.

Pre-Fall Collections?

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 20:40:00 +0000

One way to look at the traffic jam that are the Pre-Fall collections is to consider them all as pilots for TV shows. Maybe even more to the point Reality TV shows. There's an almost audible sound of out of breath designers doing their best to come up with a hook, a gimmick that will promise them a coveted multi-episode run. What that gimmick is is any one's guess and from the looks of it, the audience is happy to eat whatever slop is heaved into the trough. Don't get me wrong. I love a good collection and failing that, a few good numbers. It isn't with glee or satisfaction that I write that I'm not seeing much of either. What I am seeing to a large degree are so many efforts not yet ready for prime time or even the deepest of darkest cable. That nether world is already populated with one legged fashion "shows" that would give these collections a run for their money.

There are some great offerings out there by capable and brilliant hands. Chanel comes to mind. Such an elegant and almost spare show of exquisite clothes with a point of view. One thing about those clothes, even if you stripped away the jewels, the accessories, the up-done dread locks and almost Mod sixties flat heeled spectator boots, the clothes would shimmer and seduce. The banquet setting is the perfect metaphor for the feast Lagerfeld serves season after season.

The same can be said for Alber Elbaz at Lanvin. This is a collection with a point of view and the rigor to back it up. I don't categorically love all that he does but what he does is make very real fashion. He explores and experiments with unusual shapes and volumes in search of a language that's all his own. As old school as that appears to be, he does it with a hunger for the new in fabrics, fabrication and proportions. What makes it cool in the end is his unselfconscious presentation. The clothes always have a strong and clear voice.

In contrast, too many other collections are mired in noise and pretense. If I hear another editor drone on about "couture" shapes as an all-purpose "pass" for clothes that consist of rounded shapes cut in stiff fabrics I'll start to bark. I blame myopic editors for coining that pig latin. It's a way of giving weight to things that have little to recommend them. The Louis Vuitton collection is a good example. It's disappointing that Julie de Libran turned out such a lackluster line up as she seems to generally cook with gas. It starts to look like Marc Jacobs, all blow and no go. The Americans are similarly lost in the labyrinth. So much is expected of new talent that they trip over their shoe laces to please. Corny sunglasses, awkward shapes in fur, liner notes that show little connection to what is shown all add up to a meal without taste or smell. Perhaps, the clothes should be forgone and just give the audience a moody video with models of the moment swirling in smoke and a wall of mirrors.

The season has come to be known as the most important for retailers and designers with the longest selling time. You'd expect to see collections with depth and interest but instead they look superficial. Maybe it's time to clear the calendar of the endless parties, balls, tributes, competitions, awards and photo-shoots/ops and get to work? Is that hopelessly quaint and middle-class of me? Well, it's what I think? I think?

Giirrrllll ???

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 13:06:00 +0000

Am I the only one who hears English spoken as a perpetual question? Have any of you overheard conversations where every statement ends as a question? At first , it seemed to be a kid problem? Now its people of all ages? Not just women but also guys? I've tried to track it and I think it started with Valley Girls? Then , it was like, everyone was like unable to like cobble together like a complete thought without like ending in a state of unexpressed confusion? It seems that the questions started there and have never stopped? The biggest turn-off is when I hear men affecting this annoying habit. Somehow, the culture has encouraged it as cool.

Alexis Swerdloff of the New York Times wrote a piece last week on the new breed of blogger: The Straight Talking straight guy? Really? Are you kidding me? Flogging baseball jerseys, Barbour gear, varsity jackets, out of production J.Press oxford cloth shirts and elephant hair athletic supporters is apparently what straight talking fashionistos want to wear. The truth of the matter is this: Straight talking straight guy bloggers sell swag. Not ideas, just stuff. It's a transactional business that has little to do with a point of view. It's more point of sale, not that there's anything wrong with that.

Tote bag swinging, tight, drop seat khaki's with rolled hems, too small, too tightly cinched trench coats, bearded with awkward chunky glasses under ski caps, smart phones in fingerless gloved hands and shod in Red Wing stompers is the new image of masculinity. And the beard makes it butch? GIIRRRLLLL? I say lose the bag especially when its on your arm and not in your hand, reconsider the pants unless you have legs and an ass that say, "Yes I can", shave the mangy beard and slip into a pair of court jester slippers by Charles Philip Shanghai! Nothing says, "Game On" like these shoes. There's nothing hotter than a man who's unafraid to celebrate his inner gay. Straight is the new gay? Skinny is the new buff? Stupid is the new smart? Amazing is the new "Meh"? Ugly is definitely the new pretty. Well, that's the straightest talk this blogger can deliver!

Rug Rats: Golden Globes 2012

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 17:45:00 +0000

The universe seemed to conspire against my being able to watch the Golden Globes last night. Cable at the house in East Hampton was busted and driving back we got waylaid at a painter friend's studio where we spent close to 2 hours of primetime Red Carpet viewing looking at his most recent work. Reading in the NY Times a couple of days ago about the new breed of super stylists in Hollywood and their scientific methods for "branding", "positioning" and "monetizing" their clients by way of a dress on the red carpet was almost enough to put me off the whole awards season. Memories of my brushes with Hollywood and the stylists who warehoused, dirtied and stole clothes in the name of servicing their clients gave my already unsettled stomach a twinge. I was luckier than most with an amazing PR firm out there, LA Film Fashion run by a super pro, Susan Ashbrook, but nevertheless some unfortunate things happened that were beyond even her capable staff's control. It was tough enough then having to compete with the likes of Valentino, Gucci, Chanel and Versace, not to mention Vera Wang, Randolph Duke, Badgley Mischka, and Oscar de la Renta. Now you have to get past the gatekeepers of the stylists. Everybody's a reality star. Rache, the Bradster, and a herd of others are much worse than the Philip Blochs, Debra Waknins, and Jessica Pasters, who by the way were not always easy but always professional. Now a designer has to kiss so many asses there's little energy left to get the job done...and it showed last night BIG TIME .

You know its a slow night when the girl on stage who directs traffic has a better dress than just about everyone else. Like I ranted a year or so ago, it's all about the train wreck. Every gown with the exception of the girl who directs traffic had a train that dragged, got mangled, soiled or caused pile-ups going up to the stage. It reminded me of codpieces in Elizabethan England: who's packing the biggest, heaviest, most awesome load? The ladies seemed to be competing to see who could take up the most space. Skinny, inked and shrivelled arms (Angelina and Madonna) with constricted and miniscule torsos (Angelina again, Nicole, Reese, Salma and Kate Beckinsale), some exaggerated and curious hip action ( Natalie Portman, Sophia Vergara and Charlize) and then the endless sweep of interminably voluminous trains (Sophia Vergara, Tina Fey, Charlize, Madonna, Jessica Biel,etc).

Even maverick Tilda Swinton seemed caught up in the madness of the moment with her charmless Haider Ackerman that looked more like Escada. Methinks the renegade doth protest too much. She looked like a caricature of herself in someone else's dress in a screwy color to boot. Jessica Biel was unusually depressing in that lace and beaded Elie Saab shroud. It looked like a Ralph Lauren wagon train wedding dress after a particularly arduous westward crossing.

Why is it Tadashi Shoji is the go-to guy for large size black actresses who are nominated and win the big prizes? I say good for him, but what about the actresses? Why don't they get the great dress? Octavia Spencer won for best supporting actress for The Help and looked like the one girl in the room that no one bet on. She more than deserved the win and her humble gown made so many others look that much more vulgar. Speaking of actresses of color, Viola Davis in her Pucci gown was a vision of loveliness. Glenn Close looked killer in her subdued and severe black velvet and satin ensemble. Jane Fonda rocked too. Charlize Theron has that high wattage star power glamour that not even a silly dress (Dior) can dim. Same goes for Kate Beckinsale. She looks like the real deal in Cavalli, or at least last night she did. Piper Perabo in Theory looked fetching. Ingenues who dress like ingenues always work in my book. Julianne Moore in Chanel looked great, too.

Michelle Williams is a very pretty girl who should choose her dresses with extra care. In Chanel at last year's Oscars she hammered the competition but last night in Jason Wu(who?) she was like a guest at a wedding on Long Island. The headband couldn't lift that look. Reem Acra (Madonna) and Marc Jacobs (Amanda Peet) should sit out the dance for a while. It's just not working. The same can be said for Zac Posen (Reese Witherspoon and Elle Macpherson). It's no fun when they see you sweat...Givenchy Couture got some penalty points for the confection worn by Jessica Chastain. Sleeveless, beaded, turtle-necked gowns in white conjure images of retired figure skaters at testimonial dinners. She looked to be channeling Tanya Harding, who by the way was a much better skater than Nancy Kerrigan, with or without the metal pipe.

So there you have it. With the Screen Actors Guild Awards coming, the Blockbusters, if they still exist and the granddaddy of them all, the Oscars, there are a few opportunities left for these girls to get it right. I'll have the cable guy come and fix the problem and start hoarding popcorn in the meanwhile. Tomorrow is another day to be great!

Madison Ave. Crawl

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 20:44:00 +0000

Yesterday, after dropping off my very belated Xmas gifts to my pal Lovey's apartment on the tony Upper East side I decided to walk across to Madison Ave. and take a look at the shops. Living in Brooklyn Heights is one thing but the Upper east side is something altogether else. The moment I hit the pavement I know I'm in a very different place. For one thing there are so many people everywhere. The Heights is home to strollers, nannies,dogs and the occasional parent. Oh, and Jehovah's Witnesses are all over the place but I don't think they're comfortable being categorized as "people" in the neighborhood. They're more like spectral beings who float here and there, holding each other's hands and smiling only at one another. The rest of us don't merit smiles, greetings or any acknowledgement of any sort. For all of their studied disinterest I've found that many of them do like to spy on me in my apartment which faces their fortress on Willow Street. Its always men and they peek from behind curtains or from just below windowsills. Maybe it's just curiosity. Their experiences with humans are limited and I offer a birds eye view of how a certain sort of human lives...but that's another story altogether.
My journey started with a quick stop at the Queen Sofia Spanish Institute where a new show has been mounted by Oscar de la Really Busy, Harold Koda of the Met with a forward by Andre Leon Talley. "Joaquin Sorolla and the Glory of Spanish Dress" is another chapter in the storied past of fashion and costume inspired by the great Spanish painter. This is a great venue for an exhibition of art and fashion. It's very intimate and feels like a private gallery just for you. The Balenciaga show curated by Hamish Bowles last year was more compelling, but this was worth the price of admission. The show runs through March 10,2012 and has a great book that can be purchased at the institute or at Amazon.
From there I walked across to 68th and Madison and headed south. The Jil Sander boutique called to me and I ran across to get a closer look. I've grown tired of the school of technique which celebrates seaming, darts, you name it, all exposed on the outside along with the great raw and fraying edge. Though that technique was in evidence on the faille dresses adorning the windows, Raf Simons went a few steps further employing lots of elegant stitch techniques to enhance it all. Zig-zag stitiches on exposed darts, pearl merrow stich lines an inch above the hem's edge and laser cuts to fix the raw edges, keeping them from Rodarte-ing their way to the garbage heap (sale rack or museum collection...)It was beautiful and so deliberate. It's inspiring to see a designer make a choice as opposed to having little or no clue of what choices there are to make.
From there I wandered down stopping at Nespresso to get a load of coffee capsules for my voracious coffee maker. That system and its self conscious "boutique" is such a racket. One hundred dollars later I was on my way and found myself drawn to the windows of Bucelatti. I'm a hopeless pilgrim when it comes to Bucellatti. I would cross a sea of broken glass to just gaze upon the beautiful treasures of this jeweller. It isn't the stones that pull me, though their beauty is extraordinary. I'm mesmerized by the way the technicians make the rope inspired necklaces. The brushed, textured surfaces of the gold and platinum is so rich. It's just another world apart from just about all of the other greats. Refinement of the highest order. I have a few books on their history that I look at again and again. Perfection.
Valentino is about to open at a new location so Escada has taken over the old location. It disturbs the eye. The same will be said for when Kors takes over the Steuben gallery farther down the street. Unholy. Ungodly. Unfortunate. The Michael Kors boutique just below Jil Sander is a monument to banal retailing. The stale result of big business with little imagination. Donna Karan on the other side of the street is the exception to that rule. She has OHM'ed her way to a state of bliss and it shows in the clothes. Whether its your cup of green tea or not, you have to admit there is a heart beat in that house.
Then came Hermes. Not even the mother ship on the east side of the street, but the diminutive men's shop opposite. The lure of luxe is almost overwhelming. I don't mean the Birkin-ish suitcase at the foot of the mannequin that probably cost a LOT, or the navy cashmere overcoat, cashmere sweater or black deerskin jodhpurs. What rocked my fragile world was the belt with its insanely discreet buckle. Its the little things that make the bigger picture. I'm going back for that belt. The window to the side of the shop had a stack of their handsome leather notebooks in a range of colors and sizes. I've started a collection and I find them irresistible. Black, saddle leather brown and tan are fine for most, but the mushroom/taupe is toe-curlingly RIGHT. When I pull that sucker out of my bag its like Christmas all over again.
As I walked I looked into many of the boutiques along the way to see if anyone was shopping considering the sales are going on everywhere. There wasn't a lot of action.Dennis Basso had some choice bits in his windows. I've always felt he was a bit crass with the imagination of a hard sell furrier from the old school. He knows how to make a sable coat. J.Mendel, a close neighbor , on the contrary comes with a french pedigree that used to get them over for a long time. The fur they produce is interesting in many ways but they have this misguided idea that fashion is their true calling. That isn't to say they've (Gilles Mendel the pretend designer of the collection) not come up with some memorable gowns in the past. On the whole it looks like a rudderless row boat listing in a dead calm sea. Twenty ideas are incorporated in any given dress and more often than not it is the color of livid flesh. A pinky, bruised reddish tan. The look of a newly micro-derm abraded old flesh face. Like a lot of what was jostling past me on the sidewalk. The J.Mendel world looks like a dying star.
Then came the windows of Barney's...

Liquidrom: Salvation in a Bathhouse

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 01:04:00 +0000

Germany has a thermal bath culture that draws all sorts of people to find rest, rehabilitation and self indulgent pleasure. Over the years I've experienced them from the alpine villages of Austria to Berlin. The Liquidrom in Berlin is so far the most extraordinary thermal bath experience to date. As much as I may play down the self conscious pursuit of the fashionable and trendy, I'm a sucker for a cool scene especially if it comes with a language spoken other than my own. My bathhouse experiences started back when I was a wee thing fresh off the bus and centered around temples to this fine art like The Saint Mark's Baths and a few others that were less memorable. The thermal baths of Germany are rather different as they are co-ed with men and women steaming, sweating and melting together. They're also naked which is a bit different from here. Oh, and it's not just gay men together... Those establishments exist in Europe but are referred to as "Saunas". I saw a few of them too, but that's another sort of salvation.

Liquidrom is a monument to the healing arts of thermal salt water pools, saunas of varying temperatures and therapies along with every sort of massage, scrub and wrap. The place is enormous made of poured concrete, teak and glass with space for at least a few hundred people. The main feature is a grotto under a domed ceiling with ambient music piped in through the ceiling and underwater. Everyone is floating on their backs alone or in pairs with their ears submerged in a sort of zen trance. The warm salt water leeches all the bad stuff from your body with the end result a sort of mind cleanse. Imagine what everyone is doing for their bodies by way of juicing only substitute the body for the soul and you get the idea.

I know that Berlin is about to have their own Mercedes Benz Fashion Week but they appear to be a culture more at home naked than dressed. There are no clear trends other than bicycles as the ultimate accessory. Berliners are more at ease with their bodies and so seem less obsessed with fashion. They don't even live their lives through their smart phones. Hanging out for 4 hours in the spa atmosphere of Liquidrom magically took me apart and put me back together. I felt like an onion being slowly peeled. I felt pounds lighter and years younger when I finished. If only we had something comparable here that didn't require a yearly membership or a ticket to some far off resort. Imagine how great a dip in a nice warm pool could be instead of pouring herbal liquid plumber down your gullet. After my soak and steam we went out for a dinner of wiener schnitzel and went to sleep early. Resolutions are so last week so I've decided to just go with the flow, think about getting back to work, writing more and complaining less. We'll see.

Downton at War: Right on Time

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 23:12:00 +0000

I scored the full 2nd season of Downton Abbey before the Christmas deluge. (The British version which was shown there a few months ago.) Greedily I tore into it watching 4 epidodes the first night and the balance the following. I was starved for the visual feast like a tween's first visit to Forever21. The theme music began and the dog'seye view of the drive leading up to the grand house filled me with an excitement I had'nt felt since... well, not since watching the first season. The familiarity of the characters such as the exquisite daughter Sybil, Cora, Lady Grantham with her perpetual cocked head and knowing half smile, sexy forbidding Thomas the compulsive liar, cheat and yes latent homo, self sacrificing Bates and his female doppelganger Anna, poor confused Mary and Mathew and best of all Maggie Smith, the Dowager Countess Grantham. Such a guilty pleasure with so much promise drew me in, playing me like a ten cent ukelele. Episode after episode played against a brutal backdrop of World War One's Battle of the Somme.

All the order and manners of last season gave way to chaos, upheaval and the upending of the social order within the walls of Downton. The frustrations of the war and it's toll plays out in the plot lines which have carried over since the previous season but with more twists and frustrating turns than I could bear. By the time I came to the last episode I was as played out as a ten cent you-know-what in a battle blasted trench.

That said, I still couldn't turn it off and only crawled to bed because it was after 2 a.m. each night of my marathon. Reading reviews of the season which starts tomorrow night, I was surprised that some critics blasted it and others praised it for the very same reasons. I won't give any of it away, and even if I did you'd all watch it anyway. What I will say is that there is a reward for all of you out there who remain faithful to this somewhat fickle season. Like a fairytale that too rarely comes true, like a lover who doesn't always love you the way you'd like to be loved but loves you nevertheless there is a reward for your faithfulness. Unfortunately, that reward won't present itself in the actual season that unfolds starting tomorrow night. (Put it this way: the version I saw was minus the bonus "Christmas episode". Perhaps it will be included in the rollout for the U.S.)
Like all good things it comes a bit late. Like some half forgotten line from a Loleeta Holloway disco song,"He may not be there when you want him, but he's right on time..." That's all I'll say. Enjoy it. I did. Whatever you do, don't loose hope.

ho hO HO!

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 19:41:00 +0000

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, and Happy Thanksgiving for that matter. It's been a slow month (or 6) for fashion and I've busied myself doing almost nothing more than passing the days reading, eating and sleeping with a bit of a jog tossed into the mix. The spate of holidays this time around has been very different. The shopping and partying experience was decidedly tame. It was so hard to get rolling and then when I did it seemed so forced. Not much seemed worth paying the big bucks for and the crowds that jammed the sidewalks took even more of the thrill out of the hunt. My mother announced that she wasn't feeling it and was just sending cards with money to my sisters and would pass on the tree. My father's absence was so profoundly felt that none of us could quite rise to the occasion. I went home to Massachusetts to play Santa, a complete role reversal as my mother was the best and busiest Santa since I could remember. I put up the tree, decorated it, went to the mall and shopped for her. I'm not handy or clever with anything technological but found my way setting up new TV's for her with HD cable boxes and DVD players in her bedroom and den. The best idea of all was to buy tons of frames and put pictures of the family and my parents throughout the house. I realized the best gift I could give was the gift of all of our images for her to look upon wherever and whenever she wanted. It was hard to go through the drawers and boxes to find them and decide which ones to mount. So many memories came rushing back. The family we used to have and the traditions we used to celebrate have become memories. I kept busy and kept it together just long enough to complete my mission before returning to the city on Christmas day. The next day I came here to Berlin to meet Anton and relax. Sin city is not exactly relaxing but it sure has been interesting. Culture, history and self indulgent pleasures have filled our days and nights. Fashion has been the one thing that's not particularly apparent or important. This is a city of practical people. There's a confidence that seems to transcend the need to preen. Good food, surprisingly good manners and warmth are the order of the day and night no matter how seedy the venue....People actually appear to still be engaged with one another and not entranced by their smartphones. How last century, but so charming. Hitting every museum in town is a great way to spend a vacation. Stopping for a coffee 2 or 3 times a day and just watching people in cafes is my kind of fun. I took a tour of Berlin's underground world of air raid shelters. That was a huge wake up call. When I compare the gravity of what and how people suffered I feel less broken up over Carine Roitfeld and Emmanuelle Alt's broken friendship. Anna Wintour's lonely reign and the questions of who will carry the torch at Dior or who if anyone will succeed the Kaiser at Chanel all pale in comparison. Don't get me wrong. I still care I just don't care that much. Ralph Rucci's new Autobiography, a most sumptuous coffee table book is a delicious treasure worth the small fortune to take home. I'll be back in a few days and will try harder to pick up where I left off. Have a great New Year and if it feels good, don't wait. Do it!

Go Big or go home...

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Fri, 11 Nov 2011 22:22:00 +0000

The blogosphere is buzzing with news that there's no news at Dior. More to the point, it seems that talks between Marc Jacobs and LVMH have stalled. Something to do with his wanting to take the Loius Vuitton team to Dior leaving that house without a floor or a roof. Considering his likely demands for a huge paycheck and the prospect of no engine for that fancy car (LV) Monsieur Arnault is between a rock and a hard place. If in fact Phoebe Philo is happy to sit tight and Riccardo Tisci is satisfied to slowly and carefully turn Givenchy into a wholly irrelevant collection that leaves the track wide open for any number of comers. This is where it gets interesting.

The idea that Bernard Arnault is deepening talks with Alexander Wang, Raf Simons and Jason Wu among others should be a nudge to others to throw in their hats for consideration. Raf Simons is a very compelling consideration if you want to push a modernist's view. Personally, I find it very interesting. The history and DNA of the house has always been about the forward movement of a romantic aesthetic. Certainly, YSL took the house forward breaking new ground with each successive collection. Had it not been for his conscription and eventual breakdown and untimely dismissal the house would have likely gone the way of his eponymous collection. He tore through conventions and layed the paving stones for a truly modern woman. Modern Romanticism is the hybrid he developed. Jason Wu is is perhaps adept at a portion of that equation but not, I fear, capable of any real contribution. That picture would likely be ersatz "Jolie Madame-style" at worst and arch posturing at best. Alexander Wang doesn't register on that radar at all. Plus, I think he's truly happy making play clothes.

So, where does that leave us? There are still other likely suspects who could do interesting things there but the murmurings are so hushed it seems almost as though the question remains an open one. There's no reason for anyone to be shy about this. The market is screaming for someone to take a chance. Risk is something that we face on a moment to moment basis. Fear of failure should be left in your chest of drawers. Surely, there are great imaginations out there just aching for the chance to do something great. The Golden Age of design has given way to a New Age, one that is impatient and filled with nerve. I'm hopeful that something strange and wonderful is waiting in the wings. Here's hoping that the big guys in charge choose talent over talk. We'll just have to wait and see.

Loulou de la Falaise

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Sun, 06 Nov 2011 23:30:00 +0000

I saw her getting out of a cab one day on 7th Ave and couldn't help but go up to her. Gushing like a school boy, I told her how cool I thought she was and how much I admired her hard work at YSL for so many years and complimented her on her own work. I told her what an inspiration she was to so many people who worked in fashion and those of us who just had a passion for it and how much her sense of style had helped to reshape the way we dress and look at fashion.

She was so gracious and natural not trying to silence my flood of words or edge away. Loulou de la Falaise was probably used to being assaulted by fans. God knows she'd been at the epicenter of fashion history in the making from the moment she joined Yves Saint Laurent's team. Beyond her creation of the jewelry, which became synonymous with the look of YSL, Loulou was a force behind the styling that we've all come to know as the look of YSL. She inspired the master and worked tirelessly at his side. When Yves suffered from mental and physical exhaustion, Loulou and the team helped to keep the collections coming. What resonates with me is her belief in and loyalty towards her friend. Her commitment to YSL went way beyond that of a dedicated employee. She believed as much as he in the importance of his vision.

Just last week in Qatar I met a man, Monsieur Thierry Thomas, who'd been the Premier d'Atelier in tailleur and flou at YSL the last 22 years of Yves' reign. He came to hear my lecture and introduced himself at the end. We sat talking late into the night as he told me of his years at YSL. He told me how Loulou de la Falaise was largely responsible for his getting the position, the youngest Premier d'Atelier in the house's history. I sat there in a state of awe as he relived those heady years working together with Yves and his inner circle. He shared amazing stories about the preparation of many Haute Couture and Pret a Porter collections as well as the fittings he had with many of the couture clients. That conversation was beyond thrilling and gave me the tiniest inkling of what the atmosphere must have been like.

Another great light has been dimmed with her passing. What a fantastic life she lived. She was a great lady and a designer of immense talent.

Spin

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Sat, 05 Nov 2011 21:49:00 +0000

Before leaving for Qatar I did something I've been meaning to do for the past 30 years. Get a real job, you ask? No, nothing that responsible or drastic. I may have mentioned once or twice that as a kid I used to skate. To be more precise, I was a figure skater from the age of 10 until the year before I graduated from high school. Like everything in my life I was a passionate skater who trained year round with a coach, leaving school everyday from about 11 in the morning to drive to distant rinks, train and then returning home around 6 p.m 11 months of the year. Now, I can hear some of you smirking and saying to yourself that I'm just a copy cat and that Vera Wang is the only skating designer who may or may not have been a contender for the gold medal or a shoe-in member of the U.S. team if not for her A.P. English class, SAT tutoring classes or ballroom dancing lessons in preparation for her debut.
Well I was another designing figure skater or vice versa. Skating was my life and the thing I wanted more than anything with the exception of becoming the first chair flautist of the Boston Symphony or a member of the U.S. Equestrian team for Dressage, and if those things didn't gel, then a really successful fashion designer who also writes, or vice versa. From the moment I saw Peggy Fleming win gold at the '68 Olympics, I knew that sport was for me. Like Vera, I didn't make it to the top of the podium, have the thrill of international judges holding up scores of perfect 6.0 (the old judging system). Nevertheless, I had the thrill of becoming a pretty good skater with a few medals to hang on my wall. My strength was as a free skater and less so compulsory figures, which is something one never even hears about anymore. I was a jumper with a handful of nice big lofty doubles. Triples were a little beyond me unless I over did things and over rotated a double. I never mastered a double axel but my single had a nice big open delay and covered some serious distance.
The point is that skating was a way of life and still something that haunts me. I think about it and dream about it to this day.
I had a dream just before my trip that I've been unable to forget: There was a group of people I was wandering with through a barren field covered in a dense fog with mounds of snow and reeds everywhere like a bog in winter. Out of nowhere I see the remains of boards around what looks like a derelict skating rink some distance off. Like a magnet it tugs at me and I'm running through the marshy snow to see what's there. At the edge the mist is just floating above a surface that is like dark grey glass; perfect, untouched ice. (every hardcore skater's wet dream...) Next thing I know I've pushed off and am gliding across the surface in skates with blades that just cut so perfectly I can feel and hear them slice with no resistance. The ice opens before me to reveal a huge area without boundaries. I'm skating the way I used to, turning, jumping and spinning. As I look down at my feet I see that breaking the surface of the ice are a multitude of water lily blossoms large and open the color of silver. It gives me such a feeling of joy that I start skating loops around them and spinning in every possible position. Then I woke up.
What does it all mean? I can't say. All I can say is the next day I found myself at a store downtown ordering a new pair of skates. I took my old ones with me to show the man in charge and he agreed they were best kept as a memory. I was fitted for a pair of boots and ordered the blades like my old ones to match. When I got back from Qatar I went and picked them up. These skates are so beautiful and the blades are astounding. John Wilson Pattern 99's with a toe pick that takes no prisoners. If there's anything I wish for in skating again it's to learn how to really center my spin and do another axel. Spinning was always a weak spot for me. I couldn't hold the center like so many others around me. I'm determined to find that center. Even I am not blind to that glaring metaphor. A secret wish is to find a guy who is a strong pair skater. The only time I've ever wanted to be a girl is when I watch pairs do death spirals. The girl has such a cool position in that element and I want to feel what that's like. Wearing a dress or make-up doesn't move me, but being the partner in a back outside ( NOT inside back or forward inside... I'm a purist.) death spiral would be my idea of heaven. This has little to do with fashion or fashion criticism/commentary, but everything to do with the things that make me tick creatively, spiritually and just stuff I LOVE. I will give my new skates a test drive next week and will probably have more to say on the subject then.
For the record I had an interesting week upon my return from Qatar. I was invited to participate in a symposium at FIT on "Fashion Icons and Insiders". As that topic is one that I instinctively bristle it was a lot of fun to have the discussion with Eric Wilson from the New York Times in front of an engaging audience. I was very nervous going into it but it went well and the audience seemed to enjoy it. Eric is such a pro and so intelligent. He's a fascinating person to have a conversation with and I would gladly have continued talking well into the night.

I'll look for you all at Sky Rink or World Ice in Flushing where I hear lies the "purrr-fect" surface!
* Blur: a short film by Mark Dennis

Doha : Dispatch from the Desert

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Mon, 31 Oct 2011 18:20:00 +0000

Doha, the capital city of Qatar is part desert and part dream scape. The buildings that are going up, the luxury hotels like La Cigale where I was bivouacked are grand affairs. Every important architect in the world has been commissioned to do something there. The university I visited, Virginia Commonwealth University, is just one in a cluster of about 5 in Education City the complex built by one of the the Emir's wives, Sheikha Mozah bint Nasser Al-Missned. That woman is a force behind everything from education for the Qatari people to a luxury goods conglomerate, Qatar Luxury Group. She hopes to build an industry there that may one day rival the PPR and LVMH's of the western world. It's all in the beginning stages but is very interesting to watch. I had the feeling that absolutely anything was possible there. Perhaps the largest challenge they face is bringing people from the west to help develop and guide this nascent group of designers and crafts people. The other schools at Education City were branches of Georgetown, Weill Cornell Medical College, Texas A&M, Carnegie Mellon, Northwestern University and the University College of London. Each school was housed in buildings that were monuments to the legacy's of their individual architects. I'm talking VAST structures of incredible design. Driving through the complex and seeing one after the other it was hard to imagine why a student wouldn't want to go there to study. The facilities at VCU Qatar for fashion, graphic design, industrial design and other disciplines was unlike anything I've seen in this country. Other than reputation, places like Parson's , Pratt, Savannah College of Art and Design and Otis in Ca. were no match for what students were offered at VCUQatar in large part due to the director of the department Sandra Wilkins, a veritable force of Nature. Just for starters, every student was supplied with state of the art Apple computers, all books and supplies necessary depending on their discipline. The equipment in the classrooms from sewing machines, dress forms, computers for pattern making and grading, knitting machines and other things that print fabric or embroider any possible design on cloth or leather, all was at the student's fingertips. The level of instruction they receive was excellent as well. I witnessed it firsthand when I worked each day with the fashion students and the whole graphic design department. Many students were older than the 18-21 years old range we have in this country. That added a seriousness to their work ethic as many students were more engaged in their work than playing games and skipping class. Due to the culture's dress code the look was markedly different from what I often see here. Very little piercing or completely tattooed bodies faced me in class. In many instance I saw only the eyes of many of the females. The guys were very elegant in their long white robes and white head dresses( Igal) with black corded crowns. (pardon my lack of proper terminology for the guys' costumes but I was running ragged each day) The girls were in abayas (long black robes) and veils that sometimes obscured their faces altogether or just covered their hair. Under the abayas were very colorful long skirts, designer jeans and everything from beautiful sandals to Louboutin heels. The latest in YSL, Givenchy, LVuitton, Chanel and Hermes were dangling from almost every girl's arm. The contrast of black robes and veils and these luxe accessories was striking to see. I took pictures after one of the classes as the students made an extra effort to be particularly colorful for my visit. They sweetly lined up for me to capture the beauty of their concealed clothing but all chanting at once, "No Faces! No Faces!" It was against the rules to photograph their faces. Such a pity as so many were so lovely. Having class after class hang on my every word was daunting and gratifying. For a culture that has so much they have a humility and desire to know as much about the west as they can discover. It was an honor to be there and share some of what I've learned over the past 30 years. I hoped that it might make their journey's a little easier and the process a bit less mysterious. I'll tell you about some of the cool people I met in my next dispatch.

Haute Qatar !

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Sun, 30 Oct 2011 14:54:00 +0000

That's not sloppy spelling or the effects of too much rich cat food when the dry stuff or a stray mouse will do. I've just been to Qatar and the experience was nothing short of exceptional. It was about a 8 day trip spent with the fashion department at VCUQ (Virginia Commonwealth University Qatar) where I was invited to speak at their Crossing Boundaries lecture series and to work with Fashion design students sharing my experiences and critiquing their work. Nothing new for me as I've played this role over the past ten years at Savannah College of Art and Design, Pratt, Parsons and Kent State University.

What was unusual was the setting and the beauty of this extraordinary part of the world. The reception I received was so warm, and the students so interesting and interested, that it woke me from my somewhat jaded stupor. The fashion machine that we witness here season after season and the barrage of information catapulting our senses has a dulling effect (on me, anyway). It takes a physical remove to realize that so much of what we see, do, think, consume and aspire to is the too in too much. That isn't to say that Qatar is like a remote outpost on the edge of the Arabian gulf or a hinterland with nothing but sand and roaming herds of camels. Believe me it wasn't. It is a tough thing to describe, a strange mirage in the midst of a vast and arid desert. As one of the Arab Emirates it is oil rich. That's actually an understatement. It is crazy rich with almost every single square meter in a state of construction, irrigation or drilling. But unlike Dubai that is leveraged and buckling under the weight of debt, kind of like us poor slobs over here, the Al-Thani royal family has the desire to create a world for the Qatari awash in art, culture, the most mind boggling architecture and state of the art education. With natural reserves of oil and gas under those sand dunes to last a good 400 years before waning they are well set for the foreseeable future.

Having never been to the Middle East, I really had little to go on other than what I read in the press or see in films or on the television. Sex and the City 2 was of little help. I was relieved not to see SJParker and co. slogging through the desert in heels while dragging douche bags, I mean IT bags. That's not to say that the capital city of Doha where all the action is is subtle and without artifice. It was rife with expensive toys, obviously wealthy Qataris and expats. The cars were only the best on the luxe car market. Jewels, fine watches and yes, the luxury goods that dangle from the arms, wrists, ears and necks of the wealthy are there in large numbers but thanks to veils and abayas (robes) you don't see it staring you down like a stroll down Madison Avenue. Mystery was a component of everyday life that kept things interesting. I'm a visual person and am endlessly fascinated by what goes on around me. I wasn't blind to the darkness in the corners of the blazing sunlight. The place was blisteringly hot and everywhere I looked I saw men working in construction, planting trees, watering sod for miles and all of them looked to be Indian, Filipino and other races that were more difficult to identify. As an honored guest my experience was obviously different from that of those who labor in the shadeless sunshine.

Still, I had a fascinating time and met some very special people. Too many things happened over that week to describe here, so I'll dole it out a bit at a time. It's great to be back despite the cold shower effect of a blizzard and a city almost brought to its knees months ahead of schedule. Its shocking to go from booty shorts and a tube top to a down jacket and snow shoes in under 24 hours. But this pussy cat is a fast change artist when nature comes screaming down the pike. I'll be back with more a little later. Inshallah! (definition: God willing)

Louis Vuitton Spring2012: Paper Dolls

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Wed, 05 Oct 2011 21:15:00 +0000

One thing about carousel horses; they may be the hardest workers at the fair but in the end they drop you off right where they picked you up. The same can be said for this cotton candy treat that Marc Jacobs whipped up today at Louis Vuitton. It had all the elements of a high minded amusement with a captivating set, beautiful models and clothes that appeared to be something more than they were. From the first, they had a paper doll feel with couture-ish cut out clothes. Flat, hard and fake come to mind. Even the most seasoned models looked out of their depth with these brittle dresses in Broderie Anglaise and organza. Much was made of the matte crocodile jackets and coats that followed in pastel shades. Editors marveled at the techniques employed to match the scales and create an illusion of uniformity to the skins. Well, that's what one does when working with skins of that nature. That attention to detail and technique was lost on a few of the Broderie dresses with flowers hacked in half an misaligned to others that were seamed to them. The lace collars on many of the pieces had that familiar awkward shape; too round, too sweet and so rigid. They are a hallmark of his oeuvre as they appear time and time again in his own collections as well as LV. It seems even the best hands in the business can not disabuse him of this unappealing detail. Still, the look of it from a vast remove was interesting and even beautiful in one or 2 instances. The Prince of Wales plaid slicker with the navy Broderie invading its surface was choice as were the pale yellow gator pieces. The shoes with their metal banded straps and a bag here and a bag there looked worth the price of admission. It's when the dresses become artsy with scrims of organza covering their surfaces with a pleat here and a fold there that I began to ask myself what point was being made? The same question ate at me with his dresses that debuted here a few weeks back in clear vinyl. The same grab, twist and tuck action marred them over and over again throughout the show. All I could think was that it is Marc's idea of couture technique in draping. Sort of the Lanvin/Elbaz method employed by even more confused hands. When the dresses and tweed suits sprout feathers and fail to fly I start to yearn for the fun house or even the side show. Feathers, like clowns, can scare people and not just little kids. Despite Kate Moss' hankering for the spotlight now that she's an old married woman, her closing number would have looked more appropriate on her kid.
The Dior elephant was hovering to the side of the Merry-Go-Round but not out of view for everyone there and the rest of us filling the cheap seats. If this collection and the Marc Jacobs collection that was just shown here are a job application of sorts for the Big Brass Ring, I for one am not convinced that Marc is the right man for the job. The proportions that were proposed here were odd, unwieldy and amateurish. That they referred to shapes that Christian Dior created but without their sophistication and elan is a red flag in my estimation. It would be a pity to not only alter the course of the house yet again, but to send it down a dark and rutted road would be too modern...and not in a good way.

Chanel Spring2012: The Pearl Fisher

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Tue, 04 Oct 2011 17:40:00 +0000

85 looks.That's a lot a looks. If the big pebble beach set is a metaphor for the multiplicity of ideas to be found in a split second of fashion's beached consciousness, then why not a collection that is more like 4 rolled into one? Now I feel like Cathy; more scientist/analyst than mere fashion journalist/blogger. Still there was everything in this collection including the kitchen sink. How do you say that in French?
It all looked seductively simple with tweed reduced to a relaxed game of warp and weft on net with a mysterious embroidery of a thin black line squaring off in opposition to itself. I liked the off handedness of it. Luxury can be as simple as a dot or a dash. Models appeared to stroll along this phantasmic beach clutching conch shells or pearl encrusted tiny bags. The bubbles that are left when the tide recedes formed the backdrop of the scene. The suits were so clean in white and putty almost like he took a hint from Ralph Rucci's recent spring collection, with curved cardigan and bolero shaped bodies and round full articulated sleeves over deluxe white jeans or sheared and shirred chiffon minis. With all the recent biographies out on Coco, her lovers, supposed Nazi sympathies and more newly uncovered tidbits Karl perhaps is busy keeping all eyes on himself. The dresses that came early on after the suits in beautifully pleated chiffon prints had a very post-Poiret feel like the tea dresses Coco wore as a young kept woman in the house of Boy Capel. Still he seems to have sworn off of decoration relying on a line of black to underscore an idea. No jeweled buttons and nary a single strand of pearls to be found. My impression was one of luxe sport almost like exercise gear in suits and separates. The models had a freshly showered look to them without makeup or coiffed hair as though they had just come from this futuristic beach. Then the collection began again with another lineup of day suits and tweed jackets over puffed, teased and poufed organza skirts and beautiful pale printed abstractions on pleated chiffon, only pleated horizontally instead of the regulation vertical pleats awash on so many other runways in Paris. Some dresses in this segment had rather odd proportions that he delivers now and again. They propose a new shape but rarely go further than just a suggestion. Still they make you think and they also show Lagerfeld as a unique wanderer on the beach, digging away at some possible buried treasure that we've all yet to consider. The tweeds were more laden with decorative touches by way of fringed strips of the same dividing the planes of the jackets and skirts. The colors like a pale tobacco were so soothing that you felt this overwhelming calm like the center of a vast storm. Then another collection took up where the previous dissipated with fantastic bathing suits like delicious minimally draped cocktail dresses minus the skirt. Then, just like Ralph Rucci and his glorious collection of a couple of weeks ago, he shifted back to white in knit and lighter than air tweed suits, an array of pale pastel short evening dresses and ending with white and black. They looked more like forms from beneath the ocean's surface in random threads twisting over grounds of tulle. Nothing had the look of man-made.
As familiar as the Lagerfeld/Chanel lexicon has become he never stops pushing the boundaries of shape and uses of decoration. He always talks about being unsentimental and leaving behind the past to find the future. This show felt very personal in a way. Almost like he's racing to say in design as much as he does with the spoken word. I think he's aware of the passage of time and perhaps wishes he could control it like he does his various and vast empires. Its ok to value today and yesterday. Tomorrow is not a given.

Chado Ralph Rucci S2012 : ∞ and beyond....

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 16:03:00 +0000

Let's start at the bottom and work our way up. If God is in the details, then this experience was like hanging out in heaven for a few moments. The floor was covered as the hordes massed. When all were seated the guys who run the show peeled away the plastic covering the runway to reveal a plexi-glass surface with the shade of nude emanating from below its surface. I can't speak for others but from that moment I sensed I was in for something special. Had there been seat belts I'd have buckled myself in and pulled the strap tight. The lights dimmed and from the far end where the models emerged was a wall of mirror fractured into squares. It didn't so much distort as it presented different elements of the room, the models and clothes with a simultaneity. The room, the runway and the crowd was huge. I almost wondered how one could command a space so vast and then remembered which show I was about to see. The sound system started and Bolero filled the air. Anyone with two eyes, 2 ears and a heartbeat knows that that music takes you from point A to Z and beyond. Knowing that he would in essence play with this audience of devotees by sending out a parade of ideas one building on the other, creating a tension through complexity, easing up on that tension through color, shape, detail and then build an even greater tension. It was not lost on me that the palette was almost all white in the opening with shards of silver in python and crystal embroideries. White is the black of the heavens. The collection was a study in light. From the weight of things, to the shapes and their movement, the surfaces and the overall intention behind them he seemed to be at ease. Ralph Rucci may struggle like many of us to keep the business grounded, viable and alive. At his level it must be very stressful, but you'd never know it to look at this collection. A work this profound must be born in a certain degree of anguish but the result was nothing short of joyous. Here is a man who has discovered many secrets to beauty. His signature techniques with double faced wool, the seaming and insertions that were for the most part clear plastic and tulle were bravura displays of technique. Where they had once been little tension points they now are curving, roaming lines that define shapes, reveal expanses of skin making planes of fabric, exquisite matelasse in particular, appear to be held together by air. The embroideries in crystal were so minute that they were almost microscopic. The surface of things in the world of Chado is misleading. What appears to be solid or sheer is more than likely a combination of thousands of smaller worlds joined together to create positive and negative space. There was magic to the experience with clothes that presented one picture as they approached and a completely different one as they passed by receding into the void. A column of wool in white revealed a cerise paillette gown enfolded from behind. There was as much or more interest in many of the looks from the back view. His Infanta gowns which are heady numbers on the best of days were almost stripped of all of their structure. They were beautiful examples of intricate dress making with none of the stuffing or stuffy about them. In all of the collection's intensity and complex techniques Ralph Rucci made it all look easy. The audience paid close attention to everything that passed in front of them. From his wealthy clients, to the editors and the rest of us, there was an atmosphere of intense interest and appreciation. The chatter was all about the incredible things he shared with us with pointing and audible sighs all around. The music grew to its climax and just like a precision instrument the clothes built to their inevitable crescendo. The lights came up over a room full of dazed and delighted pilgrims. Then the roar of a standing ovation 1000 strong. Pretty heady stuff. I would imagine when one has gone the distance season after season blood and sweat is no longer the issue. Going from A to Z is his warm-up and infinity, his destiny.

* check out Style.com, but better go to YouTube. there you see front and back views and the movement is everything.

Victoria Beckham S2012: Season to taste.

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Sun, 11 Sep 2011 19:13:00 +0000

I'm reminded of that sure-to-be-a snooze film about to open, "I don't know how does she do it." with Sarah Jessica Parker looking at these clothes. Last season Ms. Beckham had a very singular vision that really, for me, was startling and beautiful. Posh Spice, the bad girl, soccer mom, international clothes horse got serious about her new found vocation as leader. Her days of making a spectacle of herself in every over the top look from the best collections were calmly put aside. These clothes are serious and so is she. I had little faith that she could so effectively change horses so late in the race, and then she did. The accessories are as refined as her taste in fashion. The tarty almost trashy aesthetic she once promoted is now an exercise in restraint. A tit show with hems climbing up her tiny butt is a thing of the past and not just because she's spent the last year in a state of with-childom. She's embraced the mysteries of cut, grown-up fabrics like double faced wool, razimir, grain de poudre and shapes that suggest. So with that said, I was a tiny bit disappointed with this collection. It is again beautifully made, in wonderful rich fabrics with details like luggage straps and accompanying hardware that tells a story of her jet setting life. The colors are cool, clear and fresh. The shapes are at times oblique and at others almost coy. It has the look of a collection for the world stage which is something when you consider that she's only been at this for a handful of years. Today felt a bit like Allspice, a touch of this and a pinch of that. Things felt a bit familiar like her go to looks that have filled her closets over the years. There were some jackets that felt like Versace. Chanel was brought into rotation with those sexy, lithe leather leggings. Gucci and Saint Laurent made an appearance lending some moral support. That isn't to say that they were literally employed only that it felt like she was a little overwhelmed with other things to make the sort of statement of last season. The bags continue to delight as does the general high standard of the make and fit of the clothes. They are clean, clean, clean with little or no distracting details. The satin faced organza bubble jacket, like a sexed up Zoran, in dreamy oyster looks like something she probably wore in the final days of her pregnancy. A number of looks would be ideal for a super model on maternity leave. Now that the baby is baked the nannies can take over and she can resume her role as the world weary, Super Spicy, Soccer Mom. For the life of me, I don't know how she does it.

Altuzarra S2012: A question of taste

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Sun, 11 Sep 2011 14:54:00 +0000

It's never good when even the biggest girls on the runway can't make the clothes look like, well, great clothes. In this instance they (the big girls) didn't even look like they could muster the interest to try. They looked bored. Last season it was the winter coat I wore to high school with the nasty road kill trimmed hood, or at least a very exact replica of that coat which I can't seem to locate and this spring it's tired windbreakers, anoraks and poorly cut coats over depressing bits of this and that. The python, leather and stretch collages of 2 seasons ago have developed into Hawaiian printed cotton, poplin and silk collages for this season. It looks like a lateral move to me and one that's headed perilously away from center stage. These sartorial statements land like cannonballs in the shallow end of the pool. Big splashes as far as the press goes and we the audience just get soaked on the sidelines. I looked closely at the clothes, especially the coats and outerwear that everyone makes so much fuss over. The construction is perfunctory, the leather mixed with cloth looks like a battle lost on both sides and the silhouette is like the artistry of a sloper without nuance, forget poetry. Its a lot of hard doing all it can to appear soft. Knowing that much of what he makes including these samples is done off site it's not surprising that it all looks so vague. This is a feast cooked up by a committee of technicians. What good is a made in Italy label when you had little or nothing to do with the process beyond a sketch and some specs? Fitting the clothes on models a day before the show is not the same as making the samples in your own studio and working out the kinks. I will cool my jets and leave the decision up to you. To me, at the end of the day it's a question of taste.

Prabal Gurung S2012: Command Performance

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Sat, 10 Sep 2011 21:40:00 +0000

This collection is a major step forward. For the past two years Prabal Gurung has been lauded as one of the most promising new designers on the scene. Unfortunately, so much of that noise has been a distraction. Experiments in the past with tricky cuts and even trickier construction have overshadowed an aesthetic that is more sophisticated and salable than his contemporaries. Unlike many of these young designer conscripts, Prabal seems to be one who genuinely loves the work as much or more than the annoying pose. This collection shows that he, more than most, has what it takes to command attention. His Rorschach print is a welcome departure from the stock digital rose prints that have spread like weeds throughout many collections. He echoes it with abstract embroideries that snake and mirror across surfaces of dresses and trousers. His tailored pieces are every bit as strong as his dresses and gowns that are divided by wedges of tulle inlaid in silk crepe and satin. He uses tough fabrics which can only be tamed by precise cut, fit and workmanship. Unlike outings in the past where the fit was sometimes less than precise, he has gotten that pesky detail firmly in hand. The tricks of his cut now create wonderful shapes that flirt with the body. You see traces of Beene and Rucci in these cuts but they remain his own. The mix of elements is exciting to see as though he is at ease with the complex as much as with the straight forward. What satisfies the most is his maturity and singular message. Luxury doesn't depend on rote messages from old masters and is also not the exclusive domain of the French. I think the heir to the old guard here is Prabal. It isn't who you dress but what you make that matters. The ultimate test is the selling floor and not the cover of a magazine. I wish him luck. He deserves it.

Jason Wu S2012: Wu Who?

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Sat, 10 Sep 2011 15:03:00 +0000

Yes, I know. Obnoxious title. Well, I would argue the same for this collection. Billed as "modern" and "couture" it is for me another long winded line up of his expected fare; a raid on the Oscar de la Renta oldies collection you can buy at a Palm Beach resale shop mixed with items that scream modern like anoraks, shorts and gladiator shoes. The sleeveless, peter pan-collared blouses, pencil skirts, beaded tops over tiered evening skirts and gowns with short lengths in front and trailing behind are all shapes we've come to associate with O de la R. Even the little ostrich feathered cocktails he keeps hauling out season after season are still vain attempts at the originals. I would imagine that his copious use of peplums on jackets and cocktail dresses is his ode to the couture. What I see in this collection and in many collections by "young designers" is this idea that covers are the new originals. It appears that Wu has bought into the murmurings in the past that he is the heir to Oscar's business, the next Bill Blass, the Carolina Herrera of tomorrow. If that were the case, it should act as inspiration to work hard, create an identity (his own) and become worthy of that honor. Not to sit back and copy every line of a handful of tepid shapes over and over again until you start to believe they're your own ideas. The press encourages this sort of stunted growth. It takes much more than tricky runways in gilded hotel salons to make good clothes. The St. Regis should be spanked for making him their style ambassador world wide. What has happened? His program notes indicate his collaboration with a hot shot graffiti artist who came up with his falling leaves motif and another meeting of the minds with Tom Binns for jewelry. If the product of those collaborations is any sort of indication of the fireworks to come, the St. Regis needs to think about what sort of image they want to project: a 5 star luxury hotel or a Days Inn.

Duckie Brown S2012: War of the Roses

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Sat, 10 Sep 2011 14:21:00 +0000

Steven Cox and Daniel Silver held a gang meeting at Industria the other day. These boys appear to do battle by means of much style flexing and disaffection. It's no longer who's the meanest, toughest kid on the block. Now, it's who's the leanest, most androgynous man on the runway. Clothing that used to act as armor has melted into something more akin to skin. Bombers, hoodies, puffers and trousers with many pleats are cut in nylon so weightless that it all but disappears on the body. The closest thing to a banal denim or leather were a few pieces cut in waxed cotton and tweed. The effect was compelling like so much of what these guys do season after season. They have an uncanny way of altering ones view of what is, nudging you to embrace what could be. I've never left one of their shows without feeling the urge to try something new. The dated romance of garish logos and cumbersome hardware has been shelved and traded for moody shaded cabbage roses digitally printed on silk satin faced organza in matching anoraks over boyfriend shorts, t-shirts, shirts and trousers. Whatever aggression these roving packs of testosterone pumping warriors project or the fear they inspire, we are disarmed by their beauty. We stand and stare and no longer run and hide. What was once a threat is now pure seduction. Fay is the new butch.

Hard Time

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Thu, 08 Sep 2011 15:28:00 +0000

With John Galliano's conviction today for his anti-Semitic rants and the ravings of an inebriate with controlled substance complications, it would appear the worst is behind him. Losing his gig with Dior and also his own collection is probably not so stinging as his expulsion (seeming) from the VIP section of all things fashion, unless you consider last month's Vogue spread on his design of and participation in the festivities surrounding Kate Moss' nuptials to another inebriated rocker. So with fines of approximately $15k (which was in fact suspended unless he has another slip of the tongue) and time spent in a rehab boutique hotel which for designers of note is the new slammer, he's all set for his comeback. Some people would argue that he's gotten off easy and to them I have a suggestion. Maybe the best way to ensure his rehabilitation would be to impose a sentence of a forced march through every Godforsaken shop, store, stand, bar, bodega and boutique that's celebrating Fashion's Night Out this evening. Considering it may be pouring rain he could perform this hard labor without benefit of an umbrella, a hair/makeup assistant, press agent or INTERN for that matter. I would wager that when he's finished with all the high jinks planned at every last spot from here to there to Queens, he'll be as good as new. Honestly, I can't quite see the whole point of this exercise (his trial) except maybe to take the attention away from the machinations of the MAN and their global finger f%#@*g with the system. Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water someone dropped a charging Blackberry in it. Good thing I've got on my new chocolate rubber Tretorn puddle stompers!

Jump.

noreply@blogger.com (Fluff Chance) — Tue, 06 Sep 2011 17:38:00 +0000

It's over. Labor Day came and went like Irene. Tons of anticipation and then done. I'd been thinking about it since April hoping that I'd keep my mind on the present and not anticipate summer's end. For the most part I did. I was surprisingly in the here and now for large chunks of time. Visits from family, my mother and Anton's niece who stayed with us for camp for several weeks, culminating with a visit from his sister and another of his nieces. It was fun being an uncle and took me a bit further from myself. As slow as time passed it did find its way into August and then the final stretch. Labor Day has always been bound up with a return to the city and a return to this business. The last escape has always been the Hampton Classic. I remember the first time I went way back before we owned this house and before I drove. Sure, I was already kissing 30 but a late bloomer in some areas. We rented an antique fire trap and I rode my bicycle to the show grounds in the pouring rain. Torrential is more like it, but I went and slogged through the mud as happy as could be. The competition was great to see but for me it was all about the warm-up arena where horses and riders prepared to enter the ring, their dates with destiny. To this day I love the warm-up area best of all. The tension of some riders and the almost zen quiet of others is palpable. Its the horses that captivate me no matter the noise around them. They're so brave, so guileless and willing. They make it all look so easy as they wind up and spring over fences that top the heads of trainers, grooms and helpers standing by. I love the tack, the beautifully made saddles, bridles and the precision of the braiding of their manes and thick, lush tails. The gear that the riders wear is also impressive in its strict, clean lines. I tune out the posturing and the all too obvious celebration of money fondling others with money to revel in the beauty of the sport. It gives me pangs of longing for the days when my horse was a central part of my life, but also brings back the joy I felt with our connection.

It brings to mind a similar feeling - the excitement we felt in the studio just before a collection was to debut - when I realized that the battle was not to be won or lost - it came down to the joy of creation. The collaboration between one's heart and mind, the team that makes the dream real and the good fortune to be able to play the game at all is everything. I'm going to see a number of shows this week and next. Victoria Beckham's in one I am very curious to see. Marc Jacobs is another I'm curious to see. He's on the cusp of a great turning of the tide. Will he ride the wave or be ground under, a victim of the undertow? Ralph Rucci's Chado is sure to be a very high point in the lineup. If there is anyone who understands the importance of digging deep, it's Ralph. Just when I think he's created a new language he comes up with something even more elemental. He shows us that beauty is something that can never be easily named. I love the feeling his clothes give, that fashion can be something that transports one far beyond the narrow confines of trends, or the trappings of celebrity, even beyond the definition of fashion. Big ideas, I know, but look at his work and tell me I'm wrong. After having Run and Jumped, all that's left is to Walk. Starting Thursday we Walk.