"The million things we say"

The song by that title is playing as I cook dinner tonight, the beginning of Memorial Day weekend. Anton my boyfriend, partner, significant other, love interest, squeeze, unwitting victim of the past 27 years is on the road probably sitting in traffic with everyone else on their way. I did the nice thing and went to the fish market to get something yummy and even got some fresh flowers to dress up the place. This is probably the 27th or 28th Memorial Day we've spent together here since the fall we met so long ago. This song by Donati on the "Vagalume" cd is bringing it all back to me.All those years ago when we were just kids planning our assault on the world we'd talk about what we'd do. I was fresh off my stint in Paris and he was a shiny new hot shot at the U.N. What's cool is that all those things we said, those millions of plans we made, we actually lived them. Sitting on the other side I feel like making some new plans some new territories to conquer or least visit. Listening to this sexy, languid jazz gets my mind going taking in the here and now but also the there and then. I went through my treasure trove of ultimate buttons the other day and they got my heart racing. Walking into Paul Smith that same day did the same thing only I came out wanting something I couldn't find. Sure, I got some killer striped boxer briefs but I'm after something with a bit more heft. Driving through the center of town I was looking to see if it was somewhere out there but I didn't see it. Even Hermes was shuttered which was the likely spot. All I saw were harried women in too tight jeans, impossibly awkward shoes frowning without frown lines kind of like mouths moving and no sound escaping. So I came back, showered, put on my lederhosen and started cooking. Black truffle olive oil can make the most ordinary things extraordinary. The swordfish goes on the grill in a few minutes and the speakers are on in the woods. The million things we say is echoing in the forest and Anton will be here soon. Another summer is started and its kind of nice to be setting the table and making a yummy dinner. I hope you all have a good one too.

Interiors

I've been circling this page for weeks now, it seems, not knowing quite how to approach it, or for that matter all of you. Should I talk about that ball? You know the one I mean? Anna's party that is no longer anything that resembles the Costume Institute ball of years ago. I wonder if you all would have been interested or amused by the legion of savaged beauties that lined up to be presented to the Queen, I mean Ms. Wintour, the closest thing we have here to an actual monarch. Would you have been as stupefied as I was just taking in the sheer numbers of celebrities, models, designers, social butterflies, editors, bankers, PR agents, handlers, walkers and Cadillac Escalade dealers, not to mention stylists, personal trainers, life coaches, Housewives, photographers, and sundry assistants. Let's not forget the Fashion directors, General Merchandise managers, curators, window dressers, window dressers dressing as Fashion directors, patrons, members of the board of directors, "wives" of fashion designers, "children" of aforementioned fashion designers and their girlfriends and boyfriends. In all those varied guests did you notice that I failed to mention just plain "folks" ? Well. I didn't because there weren't any. Not this year or last for that matter. Folks don't seem to work in this mix. The stage is set now with the principals and the audience is just more of the same. It's one nice neat circle jerk. I think that all the trains on all of those gowns and the robes on some men which had trains that dwarfed some of the women's, well all that soiled fabric is just a metaphoric mop to keep the limestone floors dry enough to ward off any untoward legal battles. Imagine the problems the Met would face with lawsuits had some brittle legs snapped slipping and sliding through all that jizz. If a bomb had dropped we'd all have a second chance at rebuilding the culture that has all but vanished from the planet. Aside from the brilliant exhibition that Andrew Bolton, Curator for the Costume Institute has staged the highpoint of the night was Daphne Guinness undressing in a shop window and perhaps some over faced assistants pushing Beyonce's ample rear end up the steps of the museum. I have to mention the sad statement that Tom Ford and Carolyn Murphy made. I didn't realize he could design an ugly dress and then force a beautiful woman to wear it... So I hesitated to discuss that or the other events of the past few weeks. It's been a slow one around here. The wedding was more newsworthy but we ALL caught that one, even those of us sitting in the cheap seats. I did take in L'Amour Fou, the compelling documentary on YSL and Pierre Berge. I went 2 days in a row and could still stand to see it again. That is a visual feast. The art, the archival footage, Saint Laurent talking, sketching, unravelling; all of it fascinating. I can't help but think that his story ended in a timely way. His benchmarks were set, the stage was packed and a full house cheered. His point was made. As I watch Marc pump and preen in the mirror of my gym, I ask myself what will be the essence of his contribution? For the life of me I just don't know. It probably won't matter by then. It doesn't matter now.

Alexander McQueen: Savage Beauty at the Costume Institute of the Metropolitan Museum

At the entrance to the show are 2 extraordinary mannequins. The first in red glass beads and a sea of scarlet ostrich feathers and the other a long, severe gown made completely of 8” long razor clam shells layered from neck to floor like an indigenous costume of some lost tribe. Immediately and jarringly I see that I’m in a world not even remotely of my making. The first room which shows his ground breaking graduate collection from London’s Central Saint Martin’s College is so conceptually complete and audacious that I’m standing and staring like a tourist who’s visiting the planet Earth for the first time. The adjoining wall has this written on it: “ You’ve got to know the rules to break them…” It’s abundantly clear that in the first moments of his life as a designer, McQueen learned the fine and complicated craft of tailoring and then spent the rest of his career undoing, redefining and subverting it to his own ends. Unlike many designers, his knowledge of the techniques of cutting, draping and tailoring cloth gave him the ability to leap from the highest peak and fly wherever he wished. Exquisite jackets, suits, tuxedos, and jumpsuits stand all around like specimens from another world. They begin as recognizable garments and then morph into something else. His quiet, masterful hands make it all look as though they were always this way. The patterns are all drafted and cut by his own hands… no army of assistants, yet, and still they’re precise, perfect. From there I hear a howling wind, baying wolves and a sense of foreboding rises in my stomach. This next room is a hall of mirrors, dark, antiqued, smoky mirrors that rise 15 feet overhead with what appears to be vitrines like the Victorian scientist’s Cabinets of Curiosities. The spirits of Poe, Darwin and yes, McQueen are loose in this disturbing space where the woman has devolved to resemble ravens, wraiths and ghosts. Black is the color of everything. Leather harnesses snake all over the bodice of a shredded gown with millions of ruffled layers. The harnesses, which could be described as sado-masochistic accessories, are more a cryptic form of lace with their intricate perforations and the sheer multiplicity of their number. Farther along the wall is a model with a pair of wings made of laser cut balsa wood attached to her body by a harness. It just stops you in your tracks. I wait for the guard to chase down another camera toting tourist and shoot it for posterity. There is yet another piece that makes me feel as though I’m in the presence of something divine. She’s a creature completely rendered in black duck feathers. Think the final scene of Black Swan and multiply that costume by 1000 and you begin to get the power of this creation. The room that is exceptional in its breadth of oddly, customized monitors showing segments of his shows, countless examples of shoes, jewels, head dresses, even a coral branch as a crown, armor, and other accessories was like something more akin to the Museum of Natural History. A group of artist collaborators, namely Philip Treacy, Shawn Leane whose cast silver crown of thorns and matching thorn bramble that climbed the full length of an arm, and Dai Rees Balsa wood wings and a skirt of the same material that was as circular fan all laser cut like lace was as intimidatingly profound as McQueen's clothing. There's simply way too much to try to share without going on forever. I admit that my feeling about McQueen was that he was a bit of a renegade with pretensions of being a couturier and suffering from some self indulgent bad mood for the sake of the press and stores who always think a designer has to have a gimmick to be taken seriously. I was wrong. The show goes on and on exploring his vision of the Romantics, his Scottish heritage and the direction his view of the world was going. Is his vision savage? I’d have to say yes. Is the work beautiful? Beyond question. I have a much greater respect for his commitment to his work and his passion for his dark muse. Though the skill involved in the expression of these ideas is cerebral in the extreme, mapping these deep, disturbing layers of the soul is something only very few have the courage to do. Alexander McQueen was an artist of the highest order. His contribution to the world of fashion will be remembered for many years to come and his loss is a hole that will never be filled. I walked away feeling that he said what he came here to say. He wasn’t cut off or cut short. His message has a clear beginning and end. Only the end is a clarion call to the rest of us to go forward with eyes more open and searching, ears to hear the sounds that disturb, and hearts that are willing to embrace the total experience of life. You need to see this show; it’s beautiful.

circling the drain

I love that title. My friend Ted who's back in town to sell his luxe pad in the Village coined it when we were sitting having coffee while staging his apartment for its open house tomorrow. We were both talking about the strange twists that life has taken since we made the journey here back in the early 80's. So much of what NYC was is a thing of the past. Not to be overly nostalgic or maudlin but things are different now. When we landed on this planet we were steeped in big dreams of making our marks on this town in the world of fashion. I'd have to say we succeeded admirably despite having been bumped off the broncing pony for one reason or another. Actually, to be truthful we gracefully "dismounted" and stepped aside. Still, we both have found ourselves wondering what happened and why. Life's intrusion and the resulting stock taking puts things in an even more stark relief. Though many of the players are still the same the game is almost unrecognizable. What passes for value or talent bears little resemblance to the days when we took to the Avenue. Reading things in the past few days about the merry-go-round of designers and design houses is like a tune with all flats. That isn't to say that the lucky ones who get the brass ring are any less fortunate just that I don't see the relationship between marginal visions and venerable houses with colossal influence. Honestly, I can't help but view it all as a travesty and the people in control as charlatans of the highest order. Robert Verdi asked me when I saw him at MBFW if I was,"chasing the dream or living the nightmare"? After I stopped laughing a few days later I had to ask myself that question and try to answer honestly. With my father's death and the bucket of cold water it's thrown on me I'd have to say I was chasing the nightmare. Doggedly fighting the power is a lonely, boring road and I'm getting tired of it. The only problem is that this is a world (fashion) that I love and one that I'm best suited for. Watching the documentary on Bill Cunningham today reminded me of why I've spent the last 30 years doing, living and loving this business. He says that if a man searches for beauty, he finds it and I suppose that's what I do. I don't mean to appear hopelessly caustic but I also refuse to lie to myself or others. Culture and fashion do seem to be circling the drain but they're not down it yet and we can only hope for the best. LVMH may be desperately confused or brilliant visionaries, Daphne Guinness may be a pathetic narcissist or just a woman on a mission, and Chloe Malle could be the next Cathy Horyn or just another hack whose parents pedigree has little bearing on her own and texts while ignoring the subject of her next story. The list goes on. Personally, I'm hungry for some beauty and an interesting new piece of information. I'm back on the scent and will keep you all posted. Oh, I watched "All on the line" this past week just to play fair. I stand by my first analysis: utter bullshit.

All on the Line

Sundance and that "powerhouse" stylist/editor/media meister, Joe Zee have brought us a cutting edge fashion reality show designed to take struggling designers and through expert advice and tough love, showing them the way to success. The premiere was last night and I think this is a brilliant new reality format: fast paced edits, a cheesy music track best suited for flaccid porn and NO VOICE TRACK. (Due to a technical error the broadcast in Brooklyn Heights that night was was missing the voice track.)That's right, from the moment I tuned in and for the complete hour of this nail biter, I heard nothing with the exception of commercials where Joe imparted his wisdom on everything from coffee shop mugs and spoons he collects and the advent of the BCD vs. the LBD, fash-o-nyms for the little black dress (dead) and the bright colored dress (ALIVE).

This ultimate reality show looks to have tons of pathos, strangely passive designers and a wildly gesticulating host. Joe Zee's hand gestures are clear proof of his expert credentials as an editor of consequence. Even the way he holds his Blackberry or tips a champagne flute at a meeting between his pet designers and a team of Barneys Co-op buyers and a few king making freelance fashion writers drives home his unquestioned authority. At one point he hammers away at the importance of a hanger's aesthetic appeal, I think. The design company Radenroro, a struggling pair of designers whose names I didn't catch, seem to be suffering a certain malaise. Joe swings his arms alot and they stare dumbly, smile sweetly and weep (silently) throughout the show. They even design what will be a winning collection in under 3 minutes on scrap paper, without any fabrics and also waste more precious time repeating these sad sketches on state of the art computer screens with Joe looking on in grave seriousness. Can't he see the waste of energy if energy is the right word? What about thought? Imagination? Skill? Fashion design has worked its way down, down, down the evolutionary ladder at break neck speed.

The clothes look random and the quality, fabric and concept are mysteriously lacking in substance. The only unifying element is an inexpensively made over sized label haphazardly tacked on by a surly sewer who clearly hates her job. Joe's mission statement is to guide, cajole, educate and basically wipe the butts of these clueless savants so they're ready for their close-ups. He looks to be the only one on screen who's ready, I think.

The endgame is a meeting with the fashion director of Nordstrom's. These poorly constructed, ill-fitting and ill-conceived clothes are trotted out to their unwitting audience complete with an army of dressers, a sea of shoes and tables of accessories. The same bad stuff that is definitely the worse for wear-ing gets the nod and we see in the credits that Radenroro will be available at Nordstrom's this spring. I'm happy for them but can't help feeling I missed something, I think.

Sorry So Silent.....

Dear Friends, Followers and Fashionmaniacs,

I'm sorry that I've been so absent from the scene. So much mayhem and fabulosity has been bubbling on a second by second basis and I feel awful to have been so woefully preoccupied elsewhere. My father's health has been failing since Christmas and on Friday very early in the morning he died. So I'm here in Massachusetts at my mother's house along with my big sister Pam helping to prepare his funeral and all the other attendant details that go along with dying. I have to admit I would give anything to be focused on the trivialities of the fashion scene with its all important shifts. Sooner or later real life intrudes and I'm forced to face the bigger music. I should let you know that he was an amazing man who devoted his life to music. He taught music, was a gifted tenor with his own choral group, the Leonard Gaskins Chorale and performed sacred music programs from the moment I was born til very recently. He lived to 82 years and was a passionate golfer, so much so that his will stipulates that his ashes "be scattered over the nearest golf course." I got my determination and love for all things aesthetic from him.I'll say now that I appreciate all of your sympathy and well wishes and thank you for my mother, known as Mommie and Pam and my twin sister Donna. I'm ok, a little sad and trying to get used to the idea, but all in all ok. I'm glad that Daddy didn't suffer and look forward to getting back to life and really living it. I'm more aware now how precious it is and all of the people and family and friends that make it so rich. You all have made mine so much sweeter by sharing in my gallows humor and reverence for a profession and art form that has made my adult life so interesting. Have a great day and week to come. Don't forget to enjoy getting dressed and put your best foot forward. I'll do my best to do the same. I'll be back in touch very soon.
My best to you all,
Eric, Fluff and Folks

Would you cut off your c**k for a Victoria's Secret gig?

I know that sounds harsh, but would you? It seems like Andrej Prejic, a hot, in-demand cat walker would be willing to do just that. An interview quoted him as saying that he'd double down (add boobs, subtract bone) for a shot at Victoria's Secret. That is about the size of fashion mania today in a couple of weeks of some of the most depressing events to hit the headlines in a dog's age. All the rumors surrounding a psychotic game of musical chairs at the grandest fashion houses in Paris has me seeing a city that is on the verge of self immolation. I'm ok with some of the tweets but to hear that Alber Elbaz might replace Galliano and Jason Wu could take over Lanvin is just one toke over the line. Even Marc Jacobs taking over Dior is enough to make my gums bleed but LVMH has messed with the machine so much that it's a wonder they even bother with a designer. Actually, I don't think they do. They hire and promote people who ape what a designer does without getting their hands dirty. Elaborate staff and stylists step in to do whatever needs doing and the creative directors jet from city to city manning openings, galas and locker rooms. A recent picture of Riccardo Tisci with Carine Roitfeld attached to his side like a smokey eyed tapeworm was a veritable poster for the new age of fashion: a wildly acclaimed design poseur with his walking talking parasite; the hopeless hosting the hapless. All of this side show entertainment has cast a shadow on the proceedings making it difficult to concentrate. I have seen some beautiful collections but also some surprisingly tepid outings by houses that used to rule. Hermes was outstandingly off its game. The premiere collection by Christophe Lemaire who succeeds Gaultier was nothing short of abysmal. When you think that Gaultier could fill a runway with only accessories and send the audience to the moon says just how right his contribution was. I think Hermes will have trouble giving a note book away with the sad state of affairs there. Luckily, everyone still craves the orange box and shopping bag. They just need to come up with some clothes to put in them.