Naysayers do not utter another sound! In fact, make no animal noises at all lest you risk your hide. Fur is flying down the runways, and feathers and leather are stampeding behind it. I'm not a PETA postergirl by any means. In fact, my days as a vegetarian in 9th grade were shadowed with the guilt of blood on my hands. My father made his money selling leather jackets so even the pennies spent on veggies were earned through meaty murder. I now give it less guilt-ridden thought and I've grown into the opinion that qualtiy leather is actually a responsible choice in a world of fast fashion: It lasts, it's warm, it wears well. So, I'm not opposed to designers using leather or even fur in the right ways. But this season? This is ridiculous!
There is probably some really great market research out there that has led to this fur frenzy. I'm sure that women are willing to pay a bit more for what they percieve as a luxurious statement piece or something that screams aloud the price they paid for it. When you see fur you think wealth. If you are going to spend a chunk of change on your coat, you might as well announce it, right? To be fair, without product information I can't tell if any of these pieces are faux, but fake fur is a faux pas and I'm not so thrilled that it's going to be lining the racks of Forever 21 come fall.
Do you recognize these dos? It's a folicular history of our fearless leaders. The Times' Op-Art column takes a look at the styles of our men of substance. Penny Howell Jolly, an art history professor from Skidmore, gives a great translation of what their hair was saying. From relaxed styles usually followed relaxed politics. Powdered wigs were rejected as signs of the old, upper-crust. Facial hair signaled virility when times were tough. Now, a new style entirely is another sign of our unprecedented president.
Not to be left behind, the First Ladies are given similar hair treatment.
It's amazing that you can recognize an entire person--era, beliefs, politics, and all--based on their hairstyle. Check out the full feature here.
Click the above images to watch the world premier of Jonas Akerlund's video of the behind the scenes beauty of Lady Gaga's performance of Speechless at MOCA's 30th Anniversary Gala on T's site. She makes me feel better.
In case you hadn't noticed, I'm trying to shake off the shell shock of yesterday. I'm trying to reinvigorate what is supposed to be a fashion fan's most wonderful time of the half year. It's Fashion Week and I can't feel it. What can help? Oh, I know! Party hats from the 1970s!
Last fall Alexander McQueen set fire to his past. All of the props from his previous shows--and what shows they were--sat in a black heap in the middle of a runway. They seemed to smolder, you smelled smoke even though there was none. The show that walked around that blackened pile was a phoenix. Models braved half-foot, sculpted stilettos to bring McQueen's ode to rebirth to life. The show was a revelation, a spark of genius burning bright into a blaze of new. Old patterns from past shows were flipped on their head, inverted from pants to a coat. The tailoring was a divine exercise in other worldly talent. It was McQueen showing the industry that the apocalypse of a bottomed-out economy was actually no end at all, but an opportunity for those with the guts (and the skills) to turn the game of fashion up higher. If it was all going to burn, McQueen was going to let it light the way.
The Fall 2009 destruction creation.
Where he wound up was an apex. His Spring 2010 show was a kind of immediate perfection. He created a new species. The textiles were printed with animalistic graphics. You could see elements of butterfly wings, reptile skins, creatures.
McQueen's 2010 evolution revolution.
It looked familiar but also like the future. Like viewing an evolved species. And those shoes? Those shoes! Instant icons of never-before-now. They were disturbing to look at, that is how unfamiliar and unexpected they were. That show, with its self-referential camera work, with its Gaga, with its Internet broadcast, with those shoes, was the fashion world's version of a gold medal performance. McQueen's end-of-show walk was triumphant...
...And it was his last. My heart aches that he's gone. Some may think that a bit dramatic. After all, I didn't know Alexander McQueen. But, my heart did. I've always been so confounded by my love of fashion. It's frivolous, it's vain, it's full of demoralization and waste and puts importance on utterly useless aspects of our existence. But no matter. There is something that lights up in me when I see a dress, a fabric, a phenomenal show, despite my best efforts to keep things sensible. I've embraced it as a sign that there is something divine at work, so the designers that spark my visceral, joyous reactions are pieces of heaven. McQueen has held me rapt since 1997 when he sent models down a runway in a torrent of fake rain, their bums peeking out from their lowest rise trousers. It was a rebellious, raunchy risk and made the establishment either seethe or twitch with delight. I twitched and was hooked. I fell for his theatrics, because they were always backed up with the most beautiful clothing. Molded torsos, exaggerated shoulders, strong shapes, thick fabrics, or flowing silks. Elegant or erotically twisted. Mechanical or organic. I'm rambling now...it's a stream of images in my sad head. So sad.
I'll stop here. I'm going to watch his genius before it slipped irrevocably into madness. Remember the good times. Wanna join me?
Thank you, Mr. McQueen. Tell Isabella I say hey. Make her something ugly/pretty. Thank you.
If you or someone you know is struggling with depression or is having thoughts of suicide, get help.
I come from a long line of Garmentos who made their dime in the factories of New York's Garment Industry. My family's business began as a tailor shop on 37th street a couple of generations ago, today it's a wholesale leather goods business with a showroom on Seventh Avenue. I've always been fascinated by that area of the city. It's a gold mine of zippers, tailors, buttons, lace, spandex, and factories. But, the business of making clothing in New York has slowed substantially. This past fall filmmaker Marc Levin made an HBO documentary about the Schmatta buisness (that's Yiddish for rag, and it's the affectionate name given to the garment trade by it's largely Jewish workforce) and the state it's in, which isn't good. one might be able to say that about any number of businesses right now, but there is something particularly sad about the Garment District diminishing. It's a New York institution. It's my family history.
My favorite part of The Superbowl yesterday, as it is with any football game, were the tackles. I love the visual of guys running full speed at each other followed by the crunch sound of gear making impact against gear, helmets crashing into one another, thuds. It's a cacophony of chaos that always leaves me asking how in the hell do they do that to their bodies again and again. A big reason why they can do that again and again is because of their protective padding and helmets. But, there was a time when those things were not a part of standard uniforms. A little trip down football history lane via The Commons reveals that protective gear wasn't always standard. It's shocking to see players on the field with no helmets, no giant shoulder pads, thin little shoes.
You know who is dressed properly? The coach! Look at him, walking the field in a three piece suit on practice day, and with a hat no less. Amazing. If only they still had such levels of gentlemanly dress, I'd be more interested in The Big Game. I am glad the players wear helmets now though. Big improvement.
A friend of a friend is in Argentina and word on the street is that Floggers are taking over. The Flog craze started on the Internet at a site called Fotolog where teens upload photos of themselves and become stars. The kids who fotoblog the most and get the most comments are serious celebrities recognized on the streets of their cities and asked for autographs. The uniform for the movement includes tight-ass skinny jeans, neon colors, and an all important fringed, pushed-way-to-the-side haircut. As with most teen crazes the boys are pretty and androgynous (think Shane from The L Word) and the girls gather at malls to scream at and swoon over them in large crowds.
Also, they have their own dance. This is what it looks like:
I love that they are in the middle of the street there. Cars? Watch out, I'm dancin' here. That's so electro.
In a one-thing-leads-to-another Internet search I stumbled upon this amazing project called The Places We Live by Magnum Photographer Jonas Bendikson. It is an incredible digital exhibition that takes you into the homes of slum dwellers in cities all across the world. More than a third of all city residents, nearly a billion people in all, live on the outskirts of major cities in unregulated, unplanned, off-the-grid housing. Without architects to design structures, sanitation systems, police, fire, or other government services, these slums are a different world than the planned cities most of us know.
The visuals in this project are stunning. You can take virtual 360 degree tours of dwellings in India, Africa, South America, and Indonesia. There are compelling voice overs in which each home owner tells you their story. These are places most of us will never be able to see first hand, but this virtual tour provides incredible access to the lives of people living in ways most of us wouldn't think possible.
