Surf the Pavement

I'm a fan of tough girls. The thing about being a tough girl is that you have to do your dirty work with grace. Here the ladies of the Longboard Girls Crew shred Madrid mountains with a style so sweet, it makes the bloody work look like a dip in the ocean.

I mean, really, the pretty little synchronized ditty at 3:45? That's money. I'm also a fan of how they skim their fingertips along the passing road the way a girl on a boat might touch the surface of the water, leaving a wake. Their clothes are classic skater gear with softened edges. It's all so breezy.

via The Daily What

Opie x Rodarte

Image of a Rodarte gown by Catehrine Opie.

The photographer Catherine Opie is known for her portraits of gender. She takes photos of "men" and "women" in ways that show you the confusion of those terms, the identity they impose, and the ways they are expressed. She also photographs the body as a platform for thought and or pain. Self-portraits of the artist are disturbing and beautiful documents of self harm, or of love. It's this mix of the rough and soft, of the dark and the warm, that makes her pairing with Rodarte a natural fit. As a satellite to their MoCA show (which they call a case study of their still young work) Rodarte is releasing a book of photographs by Catherine Opie and Alec Soth. Californian landscapes of interest and inspiration to Kate and Laura have been photographed by Soth, while Opie has taken photographs of the Mulleavy sisters' clients and favorite models in their gorgeous American couture pieces.

The photos above are all included in the book which is available for pre-order on Amazon.

On With His Head!

Cick above for video via the SHOWstudio site.

It never ceases to amaze (and utterly relieve) me that some of the most genius artists in the fashion world are also fantastic people. I've grown up with a ridiculous, inexplicable inner itch to make fashion my life. There was no cure for that strange condition, so now I'm devoting myself to it with a drive I didn't know I had. Every day it takes courage to show up as myself to a dream that I never thought I could really do without being reincarnated into some other human form with longer legs or a keener style sense. The fuel for my fire are the ever-so-talented and delightfully humble fashion folk who also do what they love simply because they must. Philip Treacy is one of those people. His work is poetic in its perfection. Every piece that I've ever seen come out of his millinery shop in his decade plus career has been witty, expertly crafted, and pointedly beautiful. Every single one. In an old SHOWstudio video piece I just caught for the first time, Treacy makes one of his "Feather Salads," or so he calls them. You get to watch him craft one of his gorgeous hatworks from mold to mannequin with the skill and eye he has in excess. He also answers questions at the same time, speaking candidly about his initial fear of Lady Gaga, the only two "machines" that he uses to make hats (his hands), and the beautiful feathers he curls to perfection with a hair iron. The video is only available through the SHOWstudio site, but please click through the photo above and watch; the video is phenomenal.

It Girl

Clara Bow was the first screen star to be branded an "It Girl." What was It? Words defy what only 20 minutes of Bow's story can tell. Watch this fantastic documentary from a few decades ago (and and a big pond away) to learn more about the Bow. Also, revel in watching Louise Brooks talk about her contemporary.





I personally think It was the hair. Love it.

Street Ladies

Artist Katy Grannan has a keen eye for the pretty that exists in the odd. Her work is a body of mostly photographs that shows viewers what they may not think to look at in a way that makes it so they can't stop staring. The artist's latest work centers around a decidedly older group of subjects. In a two part solo exhibition entitled The Happily Ever After at Salon 94's Bowery and Freemans locations (see the site for details) Grannan presents The Believers and Boulevard. The Believers is an unscripted video work featuring a cast of faces familiar to Grannan's cannon; and Boulevard is the artist's rendition of street style photography. In her characteristic way Grannan stopped and snapped an intriguing (beautiful, unsettling, maybe unhinged) set of strangers against a stucco wall, as bright as the California sun.

The photos of Boulevard are of a varied set of passersby that present with their own peculiarities. Each subject carries out some form of visual delusion, whether a dyed mustache masking grays, a teeny tank top defying calendar age, a masculine jawline, or a host of ill-fitting clothing relaying an ill-fitting persona. The thread between them is a molding of reality to match the mind's life, the one that the subjects are living happily ever after. The photos themselves are saturated with sunshine, and glisten with brightness. The shots of older women, in their outfits and with their smiles, are most intriguing. Age is such a taboo in our culture, that we associate it with demented minds and feeble bodies, rather than a mark of life well lived and well spent. Grannan's photos raise that point without any pointedness, just great sitters and a stucco wall.

Must See.

My hero's doc is out!

Want to see this with me? I'm so there.

All you need to know about makeup.

Two brushes at a time makes total sense!

Need makeup lessons? Throw away your beauty magazines and just click above to listen to adorable tutorial poster Madison who makes about as much sense as any magazine beauty copy I've ever read.

via The Daily What.

Meow, Quack, Grace.

I happened to be at the same fashion exhibit in the same gallery as the epically orange haired legend that is Grace Coddington a bit back, and I'd like you to know that she keeps her iPhone ringer set to quack. She's quite the animal lover actually. Here she is on Martha "made it" Stewart's talk show talking up her cats and cat book and cat necklace. Cats!



Here are the kitty photos of Karen Elson as Ms. Coddington for Vogue ca. August 2008.

Meow.

Red.

Tommy Ton's snap of a model leaving the Viktor and Rolf show for his regular Style.com feature.

Dust Off That Dead Horse.

In response to Rhonda Garelick's Op-Ed piece in yesterday's Times: As an aspiring fashion historian involved in the academic pursuit of a Masters Degree at FIT, I respect your desire to look at current fashion events through an historical lens. However, I take serious umbrage with your overreaching comparison of my field, fashion, to a Nazi collaborationist government. Yes, as anyone who knows the facts of world events past is aware, after France fell to the Germans in WWII, their interim government of 1940-1944 was allied with some of the harshest of Nazi Germany's policies. It's a dark time to remember and hard to fact swallow. Even darker and harder to swallow is why you are bringing this up now, which is to elaborate on the ravings of one inebriated man with a giant ego and questionable morals. John Galliano's disgusting remarks were horrendous. They were also hastily dealt some serious punishment, and may stand to warrant more. He's been fired, his opinions have been damned by his employer, and denounced by those who trusted and adored him. He's about all wrapped up, until French law deals whatever fines or imprisonment it sees fit. He's the source of the strife, but in your article, it's not he alone who is being dealt the blows.

With some thin evidence you flippantly bring fashion in line with Fascism. While digging up ideals, quotes, and circumstances from over 70 years ago to support such a claim is problematic in and of itself, there are some details that need to be addressed. Your assertion that fashion magazines began to publish diet and exercise features to maintain a physical ideal upheld by Aryans doesn't hold water. I am currently reading Carmel Snow's autobiography where she discusses popularizing diet pieces as a lifestyle feature in Harper's Bazaar as one of her first orders of business when she became editor of the magazine in 1934. It was an idea that caught on quite quickly after that. Also, yes, some French fashion folk are rumored or documented to have been sympathetic to the Vichy cause, but your assertion that "many in fashion were eager to play along" should be elaborated with more than one name, Lucien Lelong, whose quoted statement is far from damning. In the circumstances of war, who wants to look afraid? Who wants to appear anything but serene to the world? And, does your personal reading of Karl Lagerfeld's fashion as reminiscent of "a Goth interpretation of an 18th-century Prussian officer" make him fascist? Why are we bringing Karl into this? He didn't say anything in a bar, and other than being an imposing force in the vein of nearly any head of any major corporate capitalist venture, he's not behaving badly.

Here's the thing, your feckless lobbing of heavy comparisons is irresponsible. No one, not one person in the French fashion industry (even making such a delineation in today's global economy is absurd) is causing you actual physical harm if you do not adhere to the youth and beauty ideals proscribed in a magazine, or by a designer. No one is forcing you by threat of death to take up residence in couture, wax your eyebrows, strap on stilettos, or lose a few. As much as it blatantly promotes pretty, fashion, especially of late (see Gaga, see skeleton tattooed models, see transgendered campaign stars) is widening its breadth. Its inclusiveness is about on par with any other major field of business. So yes, "fashion has moved far beyond the worst of the Vichy years," very far. Far enough that comparing fashion to fascism is lazy and grasping. Sensationalism knows no bounds, I guess. I'd rather see it in a designer's beautiful work than your ignorant words.

For your edification (and perhaps irritation) here is a link to Rhonda Garelick's piece, "High Fascism."

DIY Glam Pop for the Disco Set.

Steed Lord is the kind of band that gets the name "collective" because they are up to much more than simply making music. The trio hails from that fabled land of Bjork and hot springs, Iceland. They make good use of their country's reputation for all things fairy-wood-nymph-electric-cool and actually produce some sweet dance music. Listening to their single 123 If You Want Me really shakes my hips. I haven't wanted to be in a club in a long time (they smell funny when you're sober) but I'm craving a little thump thump dance dance under strobing spotlights next to hot bodies. Also, if the Steed clan's headmistress Kali could whip up a getup for me to rock, I'd really appreciate it, and probably enjoy myself that much more. Watch their video below, and visit their site here.

STEED LORD - 123 IF YOU WANT ME from STEED LORD on Vimeo.

Oh, and "If you want me, put your back against the wall."

H/T the cool hunter.

Don't Hate.

Click above to see Suzy Menkes's report for The New York Times.

My stomach sank when I saw the video of John Galliano sauced and slurring hateful statements at a couple in a Marais bar. I barely paid attention to the words coming out of his mouth, as I was so shocked by his raving madman appearance. His deportment, his everything just looked sick and stoned. His babble may have been intelligible ("I love Hitler" is hard to mishear), but not understandable. Why in the world would a man of his cultured, artistic, educated sensibilities from a mixed heritage be spouting hate speech at strangers? I'd venture to answer that question with the word "alcohol." Nursing drinks alone at a cafe until the point of incoherence is something that seems to have been a pattern of late for Galliano, having been caught under the same circumstances a few times in the preceding months. He's obviously struggling with big demons, and for that reason, I'm hesitant to go any further into the issue of his dismissal from Dior, but it raises some interesting points.

Galliano reporting to a Paris police station.

Just to be clear, what Galliano said was abhorrent and tastelessly vile. I in no way condone what he said, or care to make light of it. I also don't want what I'm about to say to be taken as an excuse for his behavior. That being said, genius is maddening. I don't use that word lightly or flippantly. Galliano's moments of utter artistic mastery are many. The man made clothes from the universe of brilliance floating in his head, and presented them in ways that elevated them to the status of fantasy come true. Some of his collections still give me goosebumps at the mere conjuring of memories. When he sent Kate Moss running down his 1994 runway as a refugee princess in caged crinoline, or when he presented a couture show based on the insides of gowns he made fashion magic.

Video of preparation for Galliano's Fall 1995 collection of refugee princesses with Kate Moss.


The brilliant Fall 2005 dresses that exposed the underpinnings of couture construction.


Amazing pieces from Galliano's Spring 2007 Dior Couture Origami Collection.

I don't excuse artists' bad behavior on the grounds that they are good in other areas, but there is something to be said for the strain that such success and creative energy put on a person. So many gifted artists struggle with living in reality, the only thing they don't create. Their brains are too busy with their mediums, their sketching, their playing in dimensions few of us visit normally. As their star hopefully rises, so does the pressure they are under to produce more and better. Soon they are sleepless and under the gun and expected to go forth and prosper hugely. What happens at the end of years of that type of magnified pressure? Something bursts. We've seen it before, to tragic end. We'll see it again, but not under the auspices of the corporations that drain the genius from the artist for brand gains. The corporate entity that is Dior (backed by the behemoth that is LVMH) couldn't possibly risk boycott by offended people, so they tossed Galliano right quick. Perhaps deservedly so. But where is the place for the madness that makes magic? Where is the allowance for all of that mess that winds up feeding the flame of brilliance? Proclaiming an affinity for the most incomprehensibly villainous war lord of recorded history is astoundingly ugly; it is extremely ugly. But how do you reconcile that ridiculous abomination with the talent in his field that this man has? How do you mediate between Galliano's dumb, despicable words, and his deft, glorious designs? I guess we toss him and open up the floor for someone less inclined to hurl hate. But what of all that talent? What of it? If he sits on it he might explode.

Some of Galliano's less successful flights of fancy for Dior (there are quite a few more where these came from).

I bet there are some who may think that a John Galliano explosion is not such a bad option right now. Perhaps the seamstresses, embroiderers, cobblers, and milliners who's jobs he's placed in jeopardy. This brings me to my final point: Maybe John's just an ass. Maybe he's been an ass for years. If he gets drunk and snarls epithets at strangers, who knows how he's treated his staff, his employees, the workers who he directs? I don't mean to speculate errantly, but the quick dismissal seems to have been right quick enough to point to a camel and straw situation. His designs have wavered in the last few years. The over-the-top creations he's sent down the runway haven't translated to sales as heatedly as in his heyday. There were rumblings of LVMH dissatisfaction seasons ago. I don't think they anticipated this kind of an end, but maybe the smoking camera phone was their way out. And maybe it's time. The heads of houses can stay on for years, with little change. Now there's a job opening: Seeking brilliant designer with PR skills and a love of water over whiskey. Anti-Semites need not apply.

Are You Repulsed?

The Lady hath done done it again; this time, with more placenta! Believe me, I'm squeamed by the gelatinous birth scenes too, but how sci-fi and kitchy crazy are they? The thing is, the colors, the mirror effect, the wind-catching swaths of fabric, and the pounding editing are Nick Knight trademarks, who Gaga entrusted with directing duties. The video is your invitation to watch them create a new universe. Let them do their thing, fly their freak flag like joyous kids in and endless field on whatever planet they come from. I know all the chatter about the song being a Madonna bite is deafening, but this visual accompaniment is beyond Madge's capabilities. While Madonna devotes endless funds to the pursuit of forever-youngness, youthful prettiness, hotness, Gaga's busy showing you her ugly parts enhanced to be uglier. Look at them or don't. I dare you not to. Also, I'm pretty sure the last ten seconds of the video are a direct shout out to the gap-toothed Material Girl from her Rain days. Make of it what you will, Gaga's taken pop astral with a talented crew of assistants that are bursting into stars in their own right. Talent attracts talent and repels mediocrity. Are you repulsed?

The video can be seen as its best self on the SHOWStudio website. They can also provide you with the full stable of credits for the creation of the video.

One more Oscar thing.

Madonna and Lourdes at last night's Oscars.

They grow so young so old so fast.

Image from JustJared.com

The Sschmoscars.

I loved watching the Oscars in the company of friends this year. Usually I want silence so I can concentrate on nothing but the show that feels so damn seriously important and heightened. I get annoyed when people dis what I like or like what I hate and irritation ensues leading to too many trips to the snack spread. This year, I welcomed the nay-saying peanut gallery chatter and the heartfelt cheers for adored winners, or abhorred losers. I'm just not that serious about the spectacle anymore, which makes it even more enjoyable. I do of course have my fashion favorites from last night. I was impressed with some of the individual choices, and the overall look felt more varied and thankfully less stylist-orchestrated than the year's other awards events. Also, Anne Hathaway played that stage like a pop star, changing outfits however many times it took to distract from her seemingly purple hazed co-host, the meta-tastic Jimmy Franco. I personally was wowed by Anne's quick switches. The verdict? This year was a popcorn munching kind of year--light, airy, buttery, golden. Sometimes it got stuck in my teeth type irritating, but mostly it was enjoyable.

My favorite look of the night came from the inimitable Ms. Cate Blanchett.

I can hear the decriers already slamming its weirdness or washed-out color scheme, but in fact that weirdness is the kind of pretty I like. It's off, it's not your typical Oscar fantasy dress. Blanchett is a woman of style and taste. Anyone can look great on a red carpet, but to move the pendulum of fashion in one direction or the other, to get people talking and splitting opinions is the second part-time job of a Hollywood style setting actress.

Her Givenchy couture dress is strange: The creped chiffon skirt and bodice set off the hard lines of the very structured shoulders. The dress looks like armor dotted with pastel caviar. Its laduree violet and egg yolk colors are atypical for fancy occasions, but complimentary on the color wheel which lets them settle in as strange bedfellows that work anyway. Cate's makeup and her glide across the stage brought the dress to an elevated level of comfort on her. It's not just what the woman wears, it's how she wears it. The dress came directly from Ricardo Tisci's Spring 2011 Couture show for Givenchy, his obsessive (and beautiful) ode to Japanism seen below.

Givenchy also gets praise for Anne Hathaway's first ceremony dress of the evening, which had a similar pretty armor feel. The thick jeweled straps criscrossing the bodice felt like protective chains. I'm sorry there aren't better images of the dress on the interwebs because the back of it is equally gorgeous.

Hathaway's later incarnation as a foil to Franco's cross-dressing Marilyn look, came off as less of a joke than I think the producers may have intended. I thought Anne's smartly tailored Lanvin tux--replete with a floppy bowtie hat tip to his Majesty Alber--outshone most of the girlie gowns.

And, speaking of shine, the sky-high sparklers attached to Hathaway's feet were fantastic. I was impressed with her bounding up those equally twinkling stairs to deliver that lung-busting musical number she did. Gold star, Anne.

Other favorites? These ones:

Goldie star Gwyneth! Sometimes the GOOPy blond just gets is so right on the red carpet. This golden sheath is liquid metal on her, and the column shape with the stick straight, ultra-blond hair, tan-as-tasteful-tan-can-be glow, and those jaw hugging bejeweled earrings all come together so well.

Scarjo's sexiness cannot be tamed. The dress she chose hugs and snugs her curves, the raspberry color is deeply, almost aggressively feminine, and her tousled hair/understated makeup combination is just comfortably sexy. When sexy is comfortable, or at least looks that way, it is actually sexier. Watch Scarlet and learn.

Not sexy? Hailee Steinfeld. Thank God! The teen actress looked so appropriately sweet and girlie it made me sigh a huge sigh of relief. Everything from the cut to the color to her hair are pretty and feminine and lovely. It's so wonderful to see a young Hollywood actress not being tarted up by the fame machine.

One final note of interest: Marisa Tomei wore a Charles James gown! I'm a bit astounded because most of the 1950s sartorial star's gowns are safely stored in environmentally controlled museum collections at places like the Costume Institute and the Museum at FIT. Her wearing the gown out last night to a public event is somewhat akin to a starlet borrowing a bit of Egyptian jewelry from The Met galleries for a few hours. Granted Lily et Cie, the vintage purveyor who lent her the gown is a reputable dealer in the historic costume world and the venture is a commercial one, it still raises questions for me about the idea of precious clothing being treated as irreplaceable, valuable pieces of art work. Should a Charles James be paraded down a red carpet? Exposed to the elements, losing fibers, damaging hems, and being flashed with powerful light? And then, gasp, sat on? Or, should it be safe and sound, preserved for posterity? Is it different because it is fulfilling its purpose? It's being worn and shown for the delight of it? Things that make you go hmmm...well, at least if you are a budding fashion historian. That is all.

Yo, Oscars, see you again next year!

All images from JustJared.com, except Givenchy couture shots from Style.com, and Anne Hathaway pictures from a diligent google search.

Rapid Pulse

I just saw Xavier Dolan's sophmore film Heartbeats. I loved the palette. This clip shows you everything you need to know about that. Hold on to your pupils.


My favorite part is that you can see the orange, glowing tips of the dancers' cigarettes through the light and the dark--that and the palette.

Noah's Ark, c. 1962

A 1962 couple grabs two of each and heads for shelter on the cover of Esquire Magazine.

Photo by Harold Krieger and George Lois.

The Bright Young People.

We think we are so fresh. There is an innate tendency in every generation to look back at the past as twee, sweet, and even trite. To the uninitiated, photos of the recent past look ridiculous, out of date, past due, and expired. It lends a sort of staleness and "isn't that cute" hindsight to days gone. But, the more I learn about history, the more I realize it's all been done before, all of it. Perhaps now we can do it faster, or wirelessly but trust me, it's been done before. My case-in-point du jour? The group of Bright Young People who used the city of London as their plaything in the 1920s. Set eyes on the eye-lined, gold-dusted, haute cheeked group leader Stephen Tennant, and tell me he's not David Bowie's progenitor, who therefore has spawned Gaga and a whole stable of today's Pop Provocateurs.

Tennant's compatriots were the young rebels who took the Victorian and Edwardian eras in their paws and batted em around until they were shaken free of any vestiges of war or stuffiness, and glittered instead. The crew, including Cecil Beaton and Evelyn Waugh, and Nancy Mitford, drank their asses off and danced til fancy party locations vibrated in rhythm to their cocaine-induced heart spasms. They were a circle of tastemakers, drug-takers, and publicity hunters. Their fancy dress parties became legendary happenings that gave everyone license to morph their age, gender, appearance--any particular of their identity.

The BBC documentary below proves that the fame-seeking tabloid scene is nothing new, neither is drug-taking, gender ambiguity, or eccentric glittery style. It's all been done before, I'm afraid, but don't let that stop you. Every generation needs their bright young people, just remember no matter how bright you are, you'll have to try real hard to be original.

Apfel Addict.

Iris Apfel is a fashion fan's dream come true. She's the kind of quirky doyenne who's got signature style on lock-down. I've long admired her, and have squealed whenever I came across her image in print, but I've never seen the wonderful woman in action. In all of its glory, I present to you the inimitable persona of Mrs. Iris Apfel, Textile Queen and Fashion Legend:



BTW, did you see her mehndi covered hands? At the 2:10 mark.

All The Pretty Girls

The decadence of a beautiful face, drawn to drip in jewel-colored makeup could definitely dress up your white walls. Illustrator Leigh Viner's pretty girls all look like their cocktails are laced and Bowie's playing loud, pump-thumping through the wall-sized speakers at that new, shiny downtown club. Rendered in ink, or acrylic, or whatever Viner picks up to paint with, the beautiful faces she fashions are a result of a somewhat divine talent. With minimal art training, Viner has largely taught herself how to make magic on paper. Her raw technique is laudable, with its dependence on free-form lines, drips, and fabulous dribbles. The results of her skills are portraits with personality--the type of personality that you would never talk to at the party, but would always gawk at.

You can purchase Viner's work through her Etsy site for very reasonable prices. To get to know her better, and to see some of her fantastic photographs, check in on her blog.

All of the images above are copyright Leigh Viner, and are hers and hers alone. No stealing, wannabes!