Balenciaga: Have at it!!!

First of all, Hi everybody. How are all of you? Still engaged in the discussion that is fashion? I've been very much distracted of late with the mysteries and magic of plain, old, simple, everybody-can-participate in: Life. For all its dullness and repetition, life seems to hold so many more surprises than fashion. For one, it never ceases to surprise and stimulate one. Fashion doesn't do much of that. Life instructs and even rewards one. Fashion doesn't do much of that. Life has a way of taking one from point A to point Z with a million stops along the way. Fashion appears to do that until you realize it doesn't. It may seem like it's taking you along but in reality it's the train that rarely stops. It doesn't so much pick up passengers as it runs them down, even barrels over them.

The news of Alexander Wang's departure from Balenciaga comes as no surprise. That 3 years have come and gone with 10 collections under his belt is more surprising. The time just flew and to a large degree due to his positive contribution to the house. To my surprise, Wang's Balenciaga was refreshing, respectful and elegant. Contrary to Nicholas Ghesquierre's monotonous, self referential and tepid displays of (dud) pyrotechnics, Wang stepped agilely into the fray giving us a vision both sentimental and forward reaching. His use of the man made with techniques informed by the past, to my mind, was a masterful balancing act worthy of applause. I went into his tenure with little enthusiasm but the surprises kept surprising. Shapes, textures, color and their successful marriage is that near impossible trick so many attempt. Again and again, he succeeded or came that much closer, keeping this watcher on the lookout. Wang made Balenciaga cool. Something Ghesquierre could rarely do, certainly never sustain. I would hazard the same will be Louis Vuitton's fate.

So with the news of his departure, the question is "who's next?" Who cares? In a world obsessed with Khloe, Kendall, Kim, Kylie and Karlie, the lows are so low that the idea of high is just too foreign to imagine. Maybe they (Kering) should just break down and let Kimye, even Caitlyn have at it. Stop fighting that red tide and let the barbarians in. They can't do much worse than Nicholas or Lindsay Lohan or ... Maybe Raf Simons should climb off the back of Dior and go cock up Balenciaga. The fit makes more sense even if Simons makes little sense there or anywhere, for that matter. Watch the film "Dior and I" and you see how limited, soulless and dull are his gifts. It's all about his assistant......

Cecil Beaton's "The Fashion Glass", first published in 1954, reissued by Rizzoli and RIFE with typos, has recently re-landed on book store shelves. This old read is as prescient as if written earlier this month. It should be required reading for any and all. Perspective, that rarest of qualities is exactly what this tome delivers in spades. Perspective is that thing that's been hopelessly skewed, clouded and hijacked by the likes of our most feared of leaders, Mistress Wintour. I fear its a vision permanently changed, forever dimmed. The likes of Edna Woolman Chase, Carmel Snow and eventually, Diana Vreeland are discussed in detail. You never get the sense of their intrusion in the process. You don't worry that they had 3-D printers stashed in their purses for the sole purpose of creating their idea of the perfect designer....One wonders what he would have made of Anna Wintour. Unholy comes to mind. So does unfortunate. Her "involvement" in the process is not so much about the betterment of fashion but a flexing of her muscle. That her favors can be bought is a story too old and tedious to tell. The result of this meddling is what we are faced with today; musical chairs, whereby all the music and the few remaining chairs all are controlled by her. Not much game in that. This shepherdess is leading her flock right over a cliff.

I get it that the times change, that rules change and the needs of people change.  Perhaps editors should be a bit more like presidents. After a few terms, it's not the worst idea to pack up your things and let someone else with some fresh ideas have at it!

Happy Mutha's Day!

Jan Crouch, the Mutha of all Mothers

Looking at this woman, I was reminded of the new Charles James exhibit at the Costume Institute at the Met. I should refer to it as the Anna Wintour Institution at the Met but I still am having trouble wrapping my mind around that. Still the grandiose gowns by James that were in his words more about negative space, sculpting the air around the clothes dovetails so nicely when you consider not just the hair on her head but also her eyes, lips and hands. Look closely. She is a marvel of creation. Isn't that what Mothers are? They are not like you or me. They carry us and give birth to us then continue to love, nurture and look out for us until their last breath. They instill in us values and the tools we need to go forth and flourish. And if we don't go forth they're there to welcome us back, the conquered, the fallen, but heroes in their eyes.
 This outlandish creature, the Mutha of all Mothers, is a delicious amalgam that perfectly symbolizes what a Mother means: Her eyes are all seeing, the hair is a metaphor for all knowing, her hands show the endless hours of soothing caresses and battles waged and those full lips speak truths only a mother can know. Nothing means more to her than our happiness and well being. So let's celebrate our Mothers today and everyday. It's the least we can do for the one person in our lives who will do anything for us simply because their love knows no bounds.

Galliano and de la Renta Marriage cancelled!

a birdy told me...

What passes for news? It shows you just how far we've come when almost 2 years ago, the universal smack down of John Galliano from his Olympus perch was the passing of gas heard and smelled round the world. Remember how stricken the good people of Vogue, Harper's, International Conde Nast, and every other rag worth its weight in ads. The lines were so clearly drawn over this "problem" that you'd think the earth had cracked open with the beliebers on one side and the who gives a shits on the other, which would include all of the offended faith based shoppers and the shoppers who couldn't afford the high cost of faith or his clothes. The shock of his precipitous fall, the court appearances, the suave hats and soberly colored suits, the downcast gaze, the drooping mini-stache, his look of befuddlement, the constant airplay/YouTube play of the rants in question at La Perle, the offended patrons who baited him, laughed and kept their phone's video app rolling, the loss of his job at Dior, the loss of stewardship of his eponymous collection, the search for a suitably glamorous Centre de Rehab, the rallying of his friends using their pull at the same said Centre de Rehab where they've all taken the waters, as it were, all of that.... Remember? Barely.

No to the nuptials...

My Mom is the ultimate disseminator of news. If it's not on CNN, then sorry, it ain't news. Mommie doesn't let a moment pass on any given day that CNN is in her direct sight lines or loudly playing in the background. I asked if she'd heard about Oscar and Galliano's negotiations to take the wheel of La Finca de la Renta. "No, Baby", she said. "There's that terrible funeral for the firemen in Boston, the plane to nowhere is still, well, nowhere to be found and I heard from Aunt Willie. Her pneumonia is much better." End of news flash. It wasn't til I was at the gym, pumping iron, kicking ass and watching Maury Povich on the monitors with some Baby Daddy and his accusing ex he'd never to that moment met, let alone, lay with, in the biblical sense (straight out of Johnny Weir's lips re. his divorce proceedings against his Russian husband, make up sex was NOT happening after a fist fight. Some people just don't know when to kiss and lay) that my trainer JOE LAZO of LAZO FITNESS and a budding reality star of a pilot in the works for Bravo, "Fit and Frisky", that Galliano's demands for a studio of the quality he's used to employing was just too, trou, cher, (means expensive). I had to get the news from my fitness Guru who also happens to be my life coach and personal savior. I've learned more about women from him than in the 30 years I designed clothes for them, but that is another story, too long, too steamy and too damn fascinating to take the time here. He'd read it in WWD and though it was a Thursday, NYTimes Style section day, not a word was printed, not even on their blog. ZILCH. None of the important newspapers bothered to mention it at all.

I ran to the showers where Paul Wilmot, the uber-P.R. guy through the ages and yes, a member of my gym, was showering after his grueling routine. I whipped back the curtain just as the soap fell to the floor and asked him what the skinny was. He didn't answer, just kept reaching  for the soap. Dismayed, I ran from the gym, no towel, no clothes, NO HAIR and made a bee-line for 7th Ave to get to the bottom of the story. The cops grabbed me. They were unmoved by my plight and also unable to shed any light of the issue. With hand-cuffs and leg chains and a tranquilizer dart still dangling from my haunch, I wasn't moving either.

Joe Lazo/Lazo Fitness/my trainer and Guru

 Eventually I was released thanks to Cathy Horyn and Eric Wilson who vouched for me. As both are no longer at the Times they were as clueless as yours truly. Suzy Menkes was gonna come too but was still tied up at Conde Nasty hammering out her new deal with Madame le Ambassadresse de Wintour. But that's ok, Suzy never would have made it through security with that hairy nob on her head. It wasn't til I got home and turned on my computer that I dug it up under layers and layers of the 3rd rate news feeds online. Crap like London's Telegraph, Daily Beast, Daily News, The Cut and Fashionista, the blog that banned me and my comments in my infancy. What an afterthought it all was. The de la Renta's and their brilliant stewards, the hapless son-in-law and his spoiled, unpleasant wife whose mom is Mommy de la Renta. Between the two they could barely tie a bow or tell a sequin from a paillette. With so much money (maybe there isn't as much as there was) you'd think they'd do all they could to land such a big fish, guaranteeing buzz, the retreading of their listing brand and even make some great clothes in the process. well, um, no. Not happening. Hence, not newsy.

So back to ambulance chasing, searching for the next fashion star, continuing the search for missing fashion stars and waiting for the next episode of Game of Thrones. Now that's news.

Louis Vuitton Fall2014: Nichola's Ghessing Game

Considering Nicholas Ghesquiere's (pronunciation : Knee-ko-lah  Guess-ski-yair. Now you try it.) astounding coronation 12 years ago when he took up the scepter and Orb as Directoire Creatif of Balenciaga, (pronunciation: bah-Lawn-see-Ya-ga), (for fun let's try another. Lanvin is really Lawn-van...the last N is semi-silent) Fun, non?

When he took the wheel his first collections were homages to the master with faithful adaptations of original styles from the archives. They were a bit arch without the fluidity, loft and movement of the originals, in large part due to a possible lack of understanding of how fabrics must be left to lead, not forced to comply. Still, they were interesting in their newness to many eyes uninformed and unexposed to the originals. I'm sure Hubert de Givenchy (pronunciation: you-Bare De Zhee-von-Shee) twisted on his Louis Quinze  (Loo-ee  Cans) settee reading about or watching the proceedings.

Still the ever elusive DNA of the house was respected; the "codes"adhered to and all was well in the jungle. Then the inspirations of the Directoire bubbled to the surface setting off a DNA storm. One such burst of creativity was the appropriation of Koos van den Akker's collage vest that appeared on the runway much to the chagrin of those who knew who and what that was, creating a frisson of questions and doubts. For the following 12 years the house and its codes teetered off into space like a scene from "Gravity". Some people are just happier in space.

The clothes became harder and more self-conscious by the season. New"man-made" high tech fabrics appeared and all the talk became about the march towards modernity with Nicholas leading the charge, metal yardstick in hand and hordes of lemmings in his wake. Editors from here, there and wherever. Only one successful IT bag came from his tenure and a few truckloads of clothes that were increasingly more difficult to wear or grasp though liberally copied by many in the marketplace. Fashion at Balenciaga became a thing so precious, its siren song so high pitched that only dogs could hear it. Then the party stopped. Finis! (pronunciation: Fee-knee)

Fast forward to Marc Jacobs's exit from Louis Vuitton and enter Nicholas to the relief of all the major fashion mags, assorted hangers-on and every Intern (definition: Slave. Granted, minus whip marks and shackles. At least not obvious ones.) worth his weight in Starbucks coffee filled trays. Word next to the 3-D printer is that he's the Messiah.

The anthem that opens the show was so ironic. "Copy Cat", a cheeky drone of a tune frighteningly apt:

"OOO Copy Cat...You're my puppet...sit on my lap as I work, Baby Girl... I'm such a fan of this dress, I bought it 5 years ago" and on and on." That summed up much of what marched through a labyrinth of a place; stuff from 5 years ago."

The clothes were almost all an homage to Nicholas's glory days at Chez B. Hard, stiff leather a-line skirts zippered down the front, a billion of them cut the same with an added pocket, a printed fabric instead of leather at times plus or minus a single bold pocket. Lots of turtleneck sweaters and sweater vests tucked in, a white one with a wide lace band crossing the sleeves and body, the same shoe over and over paired with quilted little bags or rectangular metal mini-cases.

The coats and jackets in leather, bonded leather, patch worked leather, leather with the look of signature Courrege, especially a zippered knee-length black crocodile coat, slick and tough looked really right. Baby doll empire cut dresses appeared along with some regrettable softer ones that looked like he hadn't a clue what they should say or do. Booties with criss-cross straps and thorn heels (Roger Vivier-isms by way of Walter Steiger-isms)  completed the look. Leather and cloth high-waisted trousers looked sexy with their stiff zippered polo sweaters including a smart tan top were wrapped and tucked in. They were hot looks, like a taste of something great but then the waiter takes away the dish you've only just begun to savor.

The problem for me was that it wasn't a new message but the same one just moved  down the street from one house to the next. He plans to create a "total look" for LV as though one doesn't already exist. Marc Jacobs did a fine job of it, especially in the last 3 or 4 years. It wasn't broken, but now its showing signs of fractures. There were only 50 looks but it felt like hundreds with an audience of thousands looking kinda bored. But, hey, its the second coming so maybe I'm just blinded by so much divine light. You decide.


*images courtesy Style.com   *Video courtesy Fatalefashion   *Layout courtesy of Garnet

Vogue Magazine: The Final Frontier

 Dear Peeps,

Commanderette Anna Wintour and her crew of stalwart, stoic and steadfast recruits are not as dim as they sometimes appear. Where I've questioned her heavy-handed games of teacher's pet and her flip side as Miss Hannigan to an orphanage filled with the privileged, her latest move to offer up Kim and Kanye as poster children with the intent of a mass adoption is pure bizness brilliance. I shuddered passing the newsstand seeing the innocence in Kim's hooded eyes and Kanye's studied "baby daddy" pout. It was the dress that caught my eye. Following those "couture" folds up, up, up til my eyes landed on their faces, I was almost seduced to pick it up and thumb through. But above those mugs was writ large: VOGUE. Vogue? The Kimye Westdashians on the cover of Vogue? It must be a joke parody cover like MAD magazine used to publish...? well, um, no. It's real. I'm all for the zeitgeist but not when it is more the "Paranormal Activity" sort.

Lots of folks have been confused by this. I was until it finally clicked that Ms. Wintour is not so much the arbiter of taste as she is a balls to the wall bizness lady. Sell magazines? That's one thing she can see how to do through those sunglasses that increasingly remind me of the ones you can buy at 4 in the a.m. on an infomercial for Snow Birds nesting in Boca. You know the ones I mean... They look great at the early bird special at Olive Garden and perfect on the mini-golf course. So it looks like this issue will be a blockbuster. Perhaps with a slightly different demographic but money will change hands. Anna's explanation for her choice was straight out of the Cloud (gaseous and foul smelling):

Anna says,“There’s barely a strand of the modern media that the Kardashian Wests haven’t been able to master, and for good reason: Kanye is an amazing performer and cultural provocateur, while Kim, through her strength of character, has created a place for herself in the glare of the world’s spotlight, and it takes real guts to do that.”

So, there it is. The Oracle has spoken. If strength of character, making a place for ones self in the world's spotlight and guts is what it takes to be a super star, I probably would also have let some cretin make a porn video of me taking it up the chutney shoot with a look of wonder, satisfaction and surprise.... Just sayin'....

xo, Fluff

pics courtesy of P Hilton blog (couldn't resist)

ALT's Latest Labor of Luxe: Numero Magazine

As the new International Editor-at-Large at Numero magazine, Andre Leon Talley has shed his Vogue skin of the last 30 years and taken the helm of a new and very interesting magazine for Russia. Upon first hearing of his departure and the ascension of Hamish Bowles, the arch new lady in waiting to Anna Wintour, I was puzzled and not the tiniest bit skeptical. Why leave such an august world, one that has entre' into the highest echelons of fashion, culture, art and that rarest of worlds, the beau monde? Then I realized that ALT is a card carrying member of that rarest of worlds and has been long before Vogue came knocking. Shifting from Editor-at-large to Contributing editor and the phasing out of "Life with Andre"one of the more amusing and informative columns of the magazine all felt like a jolt to the status quo. Why would he take such a drastic turn and leave a position that one would think was not only lucrative but also powerful in a business where walking tall (he's VERY tall) and carrying a big stick is the ultimate dream? It wasn't until I spied Numero magazine volume 001 with Naomi Campbell towering on the cover like an otherworldly Amazon looking down at the world and all of us who worship at the alter of la mode.

Opening to the very first page with the requisite ad and the following 4 with more ads I was struck by the beauty and variety of images by the advertisers. There was something strangely different. It was not so much an act of looking at the pages but actually seeing them. This curious pull to the eye and the senses continued with stories on architecture (interesting homes/structures not drowning in pedigree and provenance with a smug society doyenne leaning against a wall of ancient hand-screened walls a la Japonaise), art, artists, interviews with a slew of designers from Hedi Slimane to Gareth Pugh and Ulyanna Sergeenko the latest couturier to emerge from Russia. Now the fly in the ointment to a large degree is the fact that the issue is 9/10 written in Russian. Fortunately many of the interviews and profiles appear at the back of the book in English translation. Still, there is something powerful about one's limited ability to read text. One is instead forced to take the measure of the magazine purely on its aesthetic merits and they are many.

ALT is clearly in charge. It shows from the very first to the last page. I asked him how much of the editorial pages, the covers, the stories and sittings was he involved in and he said, simply "All of it". It brought to mind the days several years back when he would descend upon the house of Oscar de la Renta just days before the collection and style the complete show, add (copiously) looks and edit (at times drastically) the clothes to make a cohesive and exciting presentation. Those were the last days that Oscar de la Renta commanded the runway and press. Andre's unerring eye makes the stories fresh and surprisingly accessible. Each issue has several pages of shoes, jewelry and accessories shot alone in collage form showing only the item against a blank ground. Those images make you want to shop.

Speaking of shopping, which used to be the function of fashion magazines, the editorial pages are a feast of color, graphically dynamic mixes of looks and atmosphere that is at once foreign yet seductive. To say that the book has a friendliness to it would be an over simplification. It's effect is more like a visual seduction and stimulation of the senses. When was the last time you had that experience looking at a fashion magazine? There's warmth and an invitation to enter Andre's world. All 6 issues thus far cleave to the same formula, with each better than the last. He and his team of editors and photographers are more assured with each issue.

Andre' Leon Talley, with his various projects (ANTM judge, lecturer, writer, curator, university trustee) shows through Numero magazine that the world of Conde' Nast is perhaps too small a platform. This is a man in his prime with a lifetime of the most extraordinary experiences putting them all to use. Underneath those majestic robes and hyperbole is a man on a mission. The world isn't large enough for his contributions but that isn't stopping him for a second. Numero magazine is one more grander stage for him to share his unique gifts with the rest of the world.

Louis Vuitton Spring2014: Marc Jacobs' Swan Song

It's with mixed feelings that I view Marc's departure from Louis Vuitton. The collection shown a couple of days ago strikes me more as an homage to his tenure there, the incredible shows he staged, the creation of a luxury clothing business where there was none before his arrival, the buzz he created in a city of staid fashion houses no matter their appearance to the outside world and the incredible success that Louis Vuitton and the LVMH Group enjoyed from his labors. 

I was never a big fan of the work as it struck me as uneven, sensational, too often mired in its own self-consciousness. Still there were moments, recently, where the work resonated with wit even brilliance. The sets and production values too often over shadowed the clothes but that was ok when the clothes benefited from that overshadowing. The fact that some of his most memorable sets were present for this final defile' helped to underscore just how incredible a mark he made.

This last collection is hard to judge as it feels more like a statement than something for the selling floor. Sure there were beautiful dresses in the beginning with beaded lace inserts. The chiffon tops sparingly scattered with jet crystals artfully covering breasts and baring all else over jeans with fantastical headdresses by Stephen Jones were dramatic but more costumes than clothing. The jackets with a profusion of embroideries will certainly become collector's items and treasured forever. The total blackout of the sets, the clothes and the environment was hauntingly beautiful and in some ways more dramatic than the productions of the recent past. They added a gravity to the proceedings that was a class act from start to finish.

It can't be denied that Marc Jacobs succeeded as an American in Paris more profoundly and for much longer than any who came before. If you remember Michael Kors at Celine and Oscar de la Renta at Balmain, neither of them lasted for more than a few years each. Their presence there was exciting and successful but didn't extend long enough to leave a footprint. Perhaps, that is due to the fact that they were burdened with existing collections loaded with baggage that at the end of the day were too cumbersome to overcome. Marc's unique advantage was that there was no collection other than hand bags and luggage leaving him free rein to create the fashion from scratch. 

The most success of his 16 years were the revitalization of the handbags which have become ubiquitous the world over. There isn't one subway car in NYC that isn't stocked with at least 10 versions on any given day. So too are the streets of NYC, Paris, Milan, China and Japan, not to mention Peoria, Kansas City, Jersey City, Tulsa and beyond that are jammed with Louis Vuitton bags of every shape and size. That's the true success story. I've rarely seen the clothes on the street, only in magazines. Nevertheless, his footprint is large and his international name recognition and stature is the stuff of a fashion fairytale.

I'm reminded of a Marc Jacobs show many years back where he bowed/knelt before Anna Wintour at the end of the runway asking, "Did I do alright?" Her benediction and act of almost knighthood surely helped pave the way. That fawning obsequiousness had a lot to do with his trajectory certainly. His adoption by Anna along with that of Proenza Schouler, among others, has been the guarantee of a future both bright and lucrative. That doesn't cancel his obvious hard work and singular focus despite the schizophrenia of the work from season to season. Some say he captured the zeitgeist and wrestled it into big bucks and big trends. A mind reader and a great designer are not necessarily the same thing. His gifts in my eyes were more as an idiot savant with a styling wand. Only last fall with his Marc Jacobs and Louis Vuitton collections with all their graphic bombast and beauty did I start to warm to his design vision. Hopefully, this move back to NY to focus on his own eponymous collections will bring more of the magic he's shown of late.

Marc Jacobs, like a good musician, has taken us to the bridge again and again, now it's time for him to bring it on home.

Dior vs. Balenciaga : Spring 2014

Dior

Balenciaga

Looking at 2 legendary houses whose creators helped to change the face of fashion and in doing so changed the way people dressed, moved and acted. You could characterize one as the ultimate romantic (Dior) and the other the ultimate intellectual. One's passion flowed from his heart and the other from his head. Still they both reached a similar point. Both were all about shape, volume, architecture.

With the passing of these giants, their successors have an enormous  responsibility to, in some fundamental way, honor the house's traditions while advancing the conversation. It can be argued that Nicholas Ghesquierre did just that as did John Galliano at Dior. I, for one am in agreement on Galliano's tenure, despite his untimely dismissal. Not so with Ghesquierre. His aesthetic I always found too hard, flat and forced. He is for me a stylist with a range that is neither very broad or deep, for that matter. All bark and no bite. Galliano on the other hand was a mad scientist; a theorist, brilliant storyteller, magician and above all a designer with more than  100 tricks up his sleeve, which brings us to this moment. Raf Simons is now at the helm of Dior and Alexander Wang is driving Balenciaga.

Honestly, I had little faith that either would add much to their new gigs but in one instance I was wrong. Alexander Wang appears surprisingly adept at steering that bus. I'd go even farther and say that he's quickly transforming it into a sleek sports car with 4 on the floor and a convertible top. If his first collection was rather tentative and safe honoring the master with a collection that tread the shoals with many shapes and references to the past. This spring is another matter.
With the opening exits he looked very assured with suits of woven braided leather sculpting short jackets with round shoulders and flared short skirts that never lost their sharp clean line. Added to that, leather pieces that came after, laser cut, buttery and substantial in subtle colors he seemed to be saying that he was clearly up to the challenge. There were some snoozey sections that if anything were a bit too contrived and stiff.

 Then Wang woke up and sent out a series of beautifully tailored jackets in white with precise tailoring and a row of delicate buttons. All of this was paired with a film of chiffon that floated over them like a mist. They were simple and superb. So many of the shapes had great flyaway backs that kept your interest coming and going. The more artful evening pieces with stark corsets anchoring draped and tucked silk cloque' with blown out short skirts banded with what looked like wide satin ribbon. They were new, sophisticated and beyond what one would expect from such a young and relatively inexperienced designer like Wang. Let's be real here. The street rarely gives way to the boulevard without a slew of pot holes and construction cones along the way. In short, he was full of surprises and almost all of them welcome.

The Dior show was a very different affair. One would come to expect greater things from a designer like Simons who has had years of experience at Jil Sander as well as designing his own collection. The set was yet again a cavern of abundant flowers both real and fake creating a space that looked claustrophobic. Like his debut collection I couldn't help feeling that the set was a foil for the clothes. Unintentionally or not he seemed to fall back on the same formula of presentation. You could squint and imagine you're cruising on a chic glossy surfaced superhighway with lush rolling hills covered in all manner of flowers real and imagined. So fast and so intense is the passing landscape until the camera pulls back and you realize the only thing moving is the backdrop. The actual vehicle you're supposed to be in is just a side window a partial hood and no seats at all.

This time the clothes were more adventuresome with jackets, the strongest statement throughout the collection, paired with all manner of skirts pleated and printed. There were beautifully cut coats with oblique shapes and eliminated details like closures and collars, pockets, etc. Underneath were stretch tanks with asymmetric cut out in back and askew cut necklines front and back giving the combination of coat and top or jacket and top a dynamic game of hide and seek. It was a chic game of graphics catch with beautiful saturated colors given to each player. It reminded me of how seductive Galliano's haute sportswear for the house had been in the past. Talk about a frisson. Then the heavy hand of self consciousness creeped from behind the bushes and sent it all to... well, off the highway and onto the shoulder.

Printed and pleated floral dresses with black bands circling the busts, wrapping around the high hip (to show a division, some clever redefining of proportions) with word embroidered bands of cloth saying things like"Whisper" and "Primrose Path"the pleats were arrested and so was our imagination just as it was about to be set free. This annoying trend of words printed on clothes and dangling from necklaces and plastered on bags is less than imaginative. It does for me the exact opposite. It forces the issue making you react and respond in ways that is as stage directed as the clothes. I can't imagine a woman with personal style wanting to walk into a room like a bit of graffiti, essentially a sandwich board advertisement for designer's stalled agenda.

Once the audience was passed that detour the show with a dizzying number of exits (70+) continued with more and more variations on shapes that either Dior or Simons had introduced previously but in those all important "new fabrics" that the press craves. I don't think the consumer really gives a shit about new fabrics. She just craves new and beautiful ideas. When the ideas are rehashed but worded in a way that is over the heads of the most curious of consumers and then re-interpreted by editors imposing all sorts of cultural, political and implausible meanings to the dress, jacket, bag or skirt we all end up in a crowded ditch.

 Seriously, most designers just want to design something that for them is beautiful. Beautiful means different things to different people. But statements about the human condition, the bashing of tropes, the annihilation of notions and the Nobel prize for most humanitarian IT bag, are not really thoughts swimming in the heads of most designers. Its more like, who will come to the show? Can I get so and so for my front row? Will Anna let me close enough to kiss her ass? Can we get Karlie to open and close? Do these short shorts make my ass look big? You, know, stuff like that. Oh, and if we send this fur to Mrs. Roitfeld will she keep it, maybe even wear it? You know, shit like that. Still there was a dress in multi-colored stripes that was great. In fact there were 2 of them back to back that looked fresh ans sexy and unforced. A few of the Diorisms in stiff metallic silk with fitted bodices and dropped waists exploding below with skirts held aloft by means of some serious underpinnings. I loved these dresses though like Oscar de la Ho Hum they have become to look like a recipe and not a bold new nibblet.


So in the final analysis, when you look at these 2 shows your conclusions be counter to mine. Fine. But you also may see that Balenciaga has a powerful punch. Great clothes with real style and an elegant aspect that will make some women and others swoon. Dior, in contrast, is a whole lot of synthetic noise with little bite, just a cloyingly artificial aftertaste.

Does this make my ass look big?

Who out there besides me thinks Jenna Lyons of J.Crew fame looks kind of stupid? For that matter, what about Michael Kors and Reed Krakoff? Come to think of it, what about Vera Wang? Why is it designers feel the need to make up a cartoon image of themselves and then stick to it forever? What happened to looking your best? Isn't fashion about looking good? Even though Alber Elbaz is full figured, why does he make himself out to look like the moribund clown in Leoncavallo's opera, Pagliacci?

Of course, these are questions that will never be answered. But if you look at photographs of Mademoiselle Chanel, Givenchy, Yves Saint Laurent, Balenciaga, even man-tanned Valentino, they all looked elegant in their own inimitable way. Exaggeration and silly props were not necessary.
Lagerfeld was perhaps the first to pervert the image of the designer followed closely by Claude Montana, he of the tight, basket revealing jeans, high heeled cowboy boots and a heavy handed application of base make-up, lip gloss and the mascara brush.

Still, that playfulness had its place back in the rocking 70's and early 80's. Now it's just a tired retread on what should be a new-ish wheel. Perhaps Anna Wintour is the only person capable of working a pair of shades without looking silly. I would venture to say that all the others and that includes Vera Wang, who might consider putting down her cocktail long enough to eat some solid food, look like big butts in poorly cut Jeggings.

But maybe that's just me. I'm only a cat who has chosen to dispense with fur. That's my attempt at political correctness.

Now back to the shows. I promise.