“I have an obsession with old nylon stockings, with different intonations, shades of nude, and fake tan colors, some quite horrible. The idea that in order not to show naked skin one covered it with another layer of fake skin, a form of restraint that did nothing but excite the fascination with what lay underneath.”
—Victoria Bartlett on VPL
When I was 15, I worked in a store whose corporate policy stated we had to wear pantyhose with everything, skirt or pants, it did not matter (trouser socks!) In the blazing oven heat of a desert summer, it was painful, like taking a blow dryer to a pair of nylons and permanently melting them to your skin.
This being the early-to-mid-nineties, there were a handful of supervisors who had not yet given up their ‘suntan’ L’eggs supply from the late eighties.
VPL just surgically removes the suntanned legs and leaves it for your bum, like a reverse tanline. Scientific progress!
“It was as if someone had dropped an old pair of pantyhose over Milan,” scoffs Cathy Horyn. “If you told me that Karl Lagerfeld had anything to do with the boudoir show at Fendi, I would have denied it to your face.”
I know everyone (by “everyone” I mean “fashion blogs”) has been obsessing over this line for a few days now, but deservedly so. It’s magnificent.
While we’re on the subject of the boudoir and pantyhose, can someone please put the kabosh on marveling/reporting/commenting on the dearth of pants on the runways, as if the runway were somehow a literal representation of what designers suggest you actually wear. This is Fashion Show 101! No one expects people to run around in their underwear, like it’s some kind of Brave New Look. Foundation garments are just a cash cow. Lingerie is the New Perfume. And the photos are a sexy news sell. That’s all. The end.
Can hard times and their associated misery ever be an acceptable theme for a fashion show? And if the clothes don’t really attempt to explore legitimate modes of American dress, and instead remain on the surface—a little faded and ripped denim with rhinestone sandals—isn’t that somehow worse?
The inspiration behind the Threeasfour show last night - a short film directed by Albert Maysles called Cut Piece from the ’60s, a document of one of Ono’s performances.
There’s an inescapable aroma of horse manure at the storied corner of Fifth Avenue and Central Park South in New York, where the famous Plaza Hotel sits, the site of Betsey Johnson’s latest presentation for party girls on Tuesday, Sept. 15, which she cheekily titled “One Night Stand.”
With an invite that promised “an unforgettable night of booze, babes and rock n’ roll,” this season the girls Johnson seems inspired by are of the “Gossip Girl” variety, judging by the posh locale, where her punky prom fare merged high with low in the same way that the horse carriages in Central Park do: It might stink a bit, but it’s undeniably fun.
As the speakers blared eardrum-shattering New Wave standards like Blondie in the grand ballroom of the hotel, models with fiercely ratted and sprayed hair, glittery makeup and tulle headpieces danced and partied on a stage like it was 1984. Rainbow colored snakeskin prints, neon leopard print cocktail dresses, tiny white lace-up skirt an jacket combos and ruffles of all varieties were the focus of this set of frocks for Spring 2010.
The freshest thing about the ‘80s-inspired outing was probably the live performance by singer Ida Maria, who Johnson exuberantly introduced, “She has the hit song on ‘Gossip Girl’ this season.”
Johnson, buzzing through the center of her hive dressed up in a yellow jumpsuit layered with a sheer black tulle skirt, knows how to throw a good party for her adoring fans who will no doubt scoop this tried and true Betsey Johnson collection right up.
The Moment featured a post by Ed Droste of Grizzly Bear about his process for creating a soundtrack for Jeremy Laing’s show today. Here’s the playlist. I missed the show so I can’t say whether ALL these songs made it, but it’s a good list for your iTunes, anyway.
Lansing-Dreiden: “Spectrum of Vapor”
Washed Out: “Feel It All Around”
Broadcast: “Corporeal”
Here We Go Magic: “Tunnelvision”
Chromatics: “Hands in the Dark”
Drake & Lykke Li: “Little Bit”
Micachu & The Shapes: “Golden Phone”
Au Revoir Simone: “Another Likely Story (Neon Indian remix)”
KP & Envyi: “Shorty Swing My Way”
Neon Indian: “Deadbeat Summer”
The Russian Futurists: “It’s Over, It’s Nothing”
Nivea: “Don’t Mess With My Man”
The Shortwave Set: “Is It Any Wonder”
Vega: “Kyoto Gardens”
Of Montreal: “I Was a Landscape in Your Dream (Grizzly Bear remix)”
Ghost Town DJ’s: “My Boo”
Telepathe: “So Fine”
Toro Y Moi: “Blessa”
Minimalism meets American sportswear at Matthew Ames this morning, a Art Institute of Chicago graduate and Ecco Domani Fashion Foundation award winner. Inspirations included the color blocking of abstract painter Elsworth Kelly, the geometry of modernist Agnes Martin and the movement of choreographer Merce Cunningham.
Ames intended for the various elements–color and shape–come together like interlocking puzzle pieces engaged in a choreographed dance. A dress in fluid silk in pink stands out as an individual expression against a black and white blocked coat with sculptural folds like geometric wings, as though it were a single dancer moving with respect to another dancer across the floor.
In the clutter of commercialism and crass that is New York fashion week, Ames is a pin-drop quiet voice whose austere vision provides some solace.
What a day, I lived this first day of fashion week as if it were my last (!). It went something like this: Woke up late (of course), dashed to the tents for BCBG (snooze…..everyone–models, the audience–had the energy level of zombies and I’m pretty sure the collection was designed in someone’s sleep). Jumped on the F train for an office fly-by where I vented to Dana about various serious and trivial matters.
Hopped into a taxi, Milk Studios-bound, for Vena Cava where I met Aileen; we were treated to shades of Katherine Hepburn, the French Riviera and Yves Saint Laurent on a starry holiday in Morocco (my interpretation of the collection, not necessarily theirs) while The Fiery Furnaces played an acoustic set that sounded like a young Patti Smith (she comes up a lot for me these days…Breedlove and I have a secret project in the works with her as our muse).
The Fiery Furnaces
I walked over to the Chelsea Hotel, a breath of fresh old New York air–the interior smells exactly like my first dorm room on 116th Street and Broadway. I would bottle it if I could and call it Nostalgia. In room 710, Tom Scott presented pulp noir tableaux
At Tom Scott.
where the sunlight dripped off curtains worn by both windows and models alike.
Tom Scott at the Chelsea Hotel
Ran into mon cherie Sarah and we dined on Japanese food at Haru while I quietly vented about various serious and trivial matters.
At Tom Scott.
Before L.A.M.B. I sat in a park overlooking the Hudson River and penned my assessment of BCBG and ate an oatmeal cookie from Billy’s Bakery.
L.A.M.B. suffered from cheap fabrics, silk cargo pants and denim shorts that looked like diapers. Some bonus points for its homage to Vivienne Westwood, but that was probabaly unintentional. However, any and all of it would work for either an outdoor M.I.A. concert or a Lady Gaga Halloween costume–lots of tribal prints, hoods and missing pants.
L.A.M.B.
Gwen Stefani has cute blonde kids with faux hawks, who were there with her husband, that guy Gavin from Bush.
Gwen Stefani and Child.
We sipped a glass of champagne and Aileen said she felt like she was in that episode of Gossip Girl when Taylor Momsen’s character has a fashion show at some society party. Yes, I said, that pretty much sums up nearly every fashion event in this town. Remember when the reference for such things used to be Sex and the City? Dinosaurs.
Another office pitstop, where I saw Godfrey. We talked about The September Issue and Fashion’s Night Out. I joked that I’d become a fashion conspiracy theorist. “Maybe fashion companies should fail,” I said, “until they can figure out how to give people what they want. Maybe people have stopped shopping because they have a low threshold for crap.” Yikes, do I tell you that it my low blood sugar talking? Quick, somebody feed me a purse.
At this point, my feet hurt. A lot. And my hair looked super frizzy.
Next stop, Fifth Avenue, Dior store. Charlize Theron would be signing her very own September issue of Vogue downstairs,
Charlize Theron signs her face on Vogue at Dior.
while upstairs legendary Vogue photographer Arthur Elgort conducted photo sessions with Dior customers who spent $2500 or more. He looked the part of “legendary fashion photographer” down to his knotted neckerchief and flirtatious winks. He buys his t-shirts from L.L. Bean, he said, but “I’m sure there must be somebody out there who buys this stuff.”
Arthur Elgort at work in Dior.
Anna Wintour showed up to say hello to Charlize, wearing a trench coat, its hem flipped up at the bottom the way a tag sticks out of a shirt. I was surprised that no one in her entourage had bothered to mention it to her or smooth it down. Maybe they were afraid to, but I think it’s probably because she moves too fast. A nice humanizing detail.
Charlize and Anna.
Marilyn rescued me at Dior and we walked arm and arm to Prada, where Arthur Elgort had tipped me off that “his friend Grace Coddington” would be appearing. Grace is my new personal hero after seeing The September Issue, but when we got there she’d already left. It was off to Barneys instead. En route Marilyn nudged me to look at a couple of dudes walking in front of us. What? Where? I had no idea who she was pointing at. Is it Ted Danson? I thought. (Dominic had a Danson and Jason Schwartzman sighting at Vinegar Hill House recently). No, it was Mark Badgley and James Mischka of Badgley Mischka. “Let’s follow them!” said Marilyn. “Maybe they’re going to Barneys!”
They were not, so we left them and crossed the street at Calvin Klein, where their designer Francisco Costa stood on the street and signed the official Fashion’s Night Out t-shirt for anyone and everyone who wanted him to. And posed for pictures! Marilyn took a few.
At Barneys we snapped photos of Waris (he’s a jewelry designer for his own House of Waris, but most people know him as the Indian guy in all of Wes Anderson’s movies). He would not smile for the camera, but smiled quite brightly immediately afterwards. He was there representin’ House of Waris, of course. Lovely stuff.
We went downstairs to look for my fragrance god Frederic Malle, but he had already left for the evening, so we stopped by the second floor to say hello to Isabel and Ruben Toledo, who are quite simply the nicest, most brilliant people in fashion. They were signing copies of the book that accompanies her exhibition at F.I.T. Ruben, fashion illustrator extraordinaire, even drew portraits of the person whose book he signed.
On the third floor, however, something quite special happened. Intrigued by some very loud salsa music playing in the corner–I can tell you with complete certainty I have never heard salsa played at Barneys. Wise Latina Women ahoy! Is it the Sotomayor effect? In from L.A. especially for the event, designer Juan Carlos Obando was all set to give salsa lessons, except, a sales associate sadly informed us, nobody had taken him up on the offer! Que lastima! So guess who decided to take a lesson? Pretty soon lots of ladies were joining in.
I think I could have cried right then and there, to be salsa dancing at Barneys. I felt so happy that I actually felt like shopping. Wow, so this Fashion’s Night Out thing might work after all.
“I wish they would do this every fashion week,” said Marilyn. “I feel like I’m going out clubbing!”
Of course, the fun could not last; we both had a long night of work ahead of us. And I have a plane to catch in a few hours. I made a fuel stop at Tiffany & Co. where they passed out free coffee from a cart on the street. Really, I just wanted the paper cup.
Back to school for the art and fashion worlds…today I hit the F.I.T. Couture Council’s luncheon honoring Dries Van Noten, the Belgian designer who knows how to take the hippie out of bohemianism, fusing disparate ethnic and historical references to create clothes for the wandering poet in all of us. I “bumped into” Maggie Gyllenhaal, who was there to present the award to Dries. She had never met him, she admitted, but he did design her wedding dress earlier this year– “Oh my god, this is not what we talked about, what am I going to do?” she remembers thinking when she first saw the results. “I’ll wear that dress in my closet from 2005…then I took it with me to Italy, put it on and I had never been in a dress more beautiful. I think he knows much better than me what will look sexy on me. Obviously he’s not designing just for me, but I imagine a lot of women must feel that way.”
Typically all us journalists needing a soundbite on the first day or two of fashion week will ask what a celeb’s plans are for fashion week. It’s a litmus test for whether they are A, B, C or D level; the more things they plan to attend, the lower the grade. “I’m juggling so much right now, but I’m going to try,” said Gyllenhaal, on whether she’d attend Proenza Schouler’s show (she’s a big fan of them, too). She said she’s busy with her daughter who just started school. A-/B+?
At the luncheon I sat next to Lynn Yeager and Marilyn Kirschner, two of my favorite fashion writers. I think that’s a good omen for the week (and Mercury is even in retrograde!) Kirschner and I discussed feeling disenchanted with the whole fashion brouhaha, though clearly she loves what she does otherwise she would not still be doing it (her first job in fashion was at Seventeen in the seventies). It’s in her blood to be a magazine editor, she said. And when she’s feeling down, her favorite thing is to get dressed up in one of her vintage Pucci dresses. When she said that, suddenly my brain was flooded with a sense of clarity and I remembered why I love fashion. Why, I love dressing up, too! But I think it’s important for the things you wear to have meaning (as with everything one does in life). So when I put on a certain pair of shoes, I remember walking a mile in them in Paris to hear Patti Smith perform at a fashion show, or when I wear a certain belt I think about how many fashion functions it got me through, because it was the only new accessory I could afford that season, and the next season, and the next….
…a three decade retrospective of photomontage and Expanded Polaroids, which includes many works never exhibited before, as well as a sampling of P-Orridge’s early Mail Art. The show will mark the culmination of a new, re-emergent phase in BREYER P-ORRIDGE’s life. He/r career — and most particularly he/r recent pursuit of pandrogyny — tests the limits of transgression and traces the tragic fate of the underground, proving again the expressive power and pervasive influence of those artists who take the world not as it comes to them — sensible, orthodox, predictable — but as they would like it to be.”
Electric Newspaper, Issue Two, 1995, Mixed media 9 x 9 inches on 15.25 x 12 inch paper
Yesterday Rad Hourani launched his secondary line, Rad by Rad Hourani, at the Soho Grand. It’s a collection of seasonless, unisex everyday clothes designed to fill a gap in the market for all those tall, svelt model-types who need a t-shirt that will drip off their slender frames like salad dressing.
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