It was just a few weeks ago that I hustled my way back to the "preferred standing" area for the Resort shows. I'm not sure if it was the lousy vantage point or the pointless clothes that started to flood the runway that sent me racing for the exit. Once I was outside I kept on running until I found myself on Three Mile harbor Road and inches from the safety of our house, the one in the woods with almost no one within shooting distance. Certainly, no one fabulous with the exception of marauding turkeys (real) and some black guy who's been swimming in our pool and raiding the refrigerator. Grief is such a strange thing. It creeps up on you when you think things are finally settling down. It can be triggered by a sound, a smell or the reflection in a mirror w
hen you think its you you're seeing. My father seems more present now than when he was alive. Last night at a Rickie Lee Jones concert I could have sworn he was sitting right next to me. His cologne was in the air and too many songs brought him more and more to life. Daddy didn't even care for Rickie... The truth is that I didn't know I cared so much for my father until he was gone. Perhaps, that affection can be applied to fashion. I'm so bothered by it lately. This month will be 2 years that I bowed out and ran for the hills. It feels so much longer. The scene is so different now than just 2 years ago. I feel guilt for casting such a jaundiced eye and struggle to keep sharing my views.
Something in me feels that I should be drinking the Kool-Aid but I can't. I won't. Reading press and looking at what's being done is rough going. I keep grumbling so much that I'm forced to come back and vent. Resort was a snooze to a large degree. I watched and took mental notes. I wished that most of what I remember about it was inspiring. It wasn't. Now the Couture is happening and I feel more engaged. Stuff you read about Dior and the dissing that Bill Gaytten has gotten is grotesque. He is no less a designer than other charlatans like the team at Valentino, the clowns that ran Ferre into the dirt, the 2 girls from Pasadena with is
sues of taste and technique not to mention serious challenges in the creativity department. Let's not forget Marc Jacobs who's greatest talent is pumping iron and feeding the press. The slap that Gaytten received was undeserved and unwarranted. Sure there were some things that were wooden and without subtlety or nuance but there was a collection that still had a relationship to the aesthetic of the house. That's much more than can be said for Givenchy and the stuff that's being passed off as couture. Hypocrisy is the order of the day. So I'm around and thought I'd stop by and say hi to you guys. Its interesting how much people despise John Galliano but are not ready to let go of his artistic contribution. That job will be one of the most thankless we've seen in a long, long time. The field is not only rutted and flat. It's also turning to dust.
It was just a few weeks ago that I hustled my way back to the "preferred standing" area for the Resort shows. I'm not sure if it was the lousy vantage point or the pointless clothes that started to flood the runway that sent me racing for the exit. Once I was outside I kept on running until I found myself on Three Mile harbor Road and inches from the safety of our house, the one in the woods with almost no one within shooting distance. Certainly, no one fabulous with the exception of marauding turkeys (real) and some black guy who's been swimming in our pool and raiding the refrigerator. Grief is such a strange thing. It creeps up on you when you think things are finally settling down. It can be triggered by a sound, a smell or the reflection in a mirror w
hen you think its you you're seeing. My father seems more present now than when he was alive. Last night at a Rickie Lee Jones concert I could have sworn he was sitting right next to me. His cologne was in the air and too many songs brought him more and more to life. Daddy didn't even care for Rickie... The truth is that I didn't know I cared so much for my father until he was gone. Perhaps, that affection can be applied to fashion. I'm so bothered by it lately. This month will be 2 years that I bowed out and ran for the hills. It feels so much longer. The scene is so different now than just 2 years ago. I feel guilt for casting such a jaundiced eye and struggle to keep sharing my views. 
Something in me feels that I should be drinking the Kool-Aid but I can't. I won't. Reading press and looking at what's being done is rough going. I keep grumbling so much that I'm forced to come back and vent. Resort was a snooze to a large degree. I watched and took mental notes. I wished that most of what I remember about it was inspiring. It wasn't. Now the Couture is happening and I feel more engaged. Stuff you read about Dior and the dissing that Bill Gaytten has gotten is grotesque. He is no less a designer than other charlatans like the team at Valentino, the clowns that ran Ferre into the dirt, the 2 girls from Pasadena with is
sues of taste and technique not to mention serious challenges in the creativity department. Let's not forget Marc Jacobs who's greatest talent is pumping iron and feeding the press. The slap that Gaytten received was undeserved and unwarranted. Sure there were some things that were wooden and without subtlety or nuance but there was a collection that still had a relationship to the aesthetic of the house. That's much more than can be said for Givenchy and the stuff that's being passed off as couture. Hypocrisy is the order of the day. So I'm around and thought I'd stop by and say hi to you guys. Its interesting how much people despise John Galliano but are not ready to let go of his artistic contribution. That job will be one of the most thankless we've seen in a long, long time. The field is not only rutted and flat. It's also turning to dust.
