marc jacobs spring 2013: redemptive

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

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

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






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

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

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

Chado Ralph Rucci Spring 2013: Summiting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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









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

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

Guess which one is mine...

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

The Sartorialist

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



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

Toteville

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

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

Helen Gurley Brown: So Long, Sweetie!

Helen and David Brown

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

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

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

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

Keep Calm and Back Off

verb: to chillax

still life with Paul Smith undies

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

one way to look at things

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

(ex)Model Moms

Hair and make-up at all times

Adrian and Anton at the Cupcake sale

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

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

Sprocket and Ainsley

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

Swimming in the bay

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Valentino Haute Couture F/W 2012: Catholic Gilt

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

 Nun

Bad Girl

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

Borgia Priestess

(lovely)Couture Hair shirt

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

The Sacrifice

The Tree of Life

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

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