Showing posts with label fashionistas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fashionistas. Show all posts
Thursday, 18 February 2010
Blooming lovely
When I was 17 I took half my first pay cheque into a boutique in Cardiff and spent £375 on a Moschino Cheap & Chic suit. The jacket had sewing thimbles for buttons. It was the most unusual, beautiful and expensive thing I had ever owned. It spoke to me, it spoke to others:
"Are those...thimbles?" people would ask.
16 years later and that jacket hangs in my wardrobe in New York. It's lasted longer than any man in my life and I can still just about fit into it. That in itself is testament to the miracle of Moschino.
With this sentimental connection proceeding, you can imagine my anticipation at an invite to Elisa Palomino's debut collection-this is the woman who started Cheap & Chic.
After that Palomino went to work at John Galliano, Dior, Roberto Cavalli and Diane Von Furstenbeg. Not to mention that she started in the fashion world by attending Central St Martins with Hussein Chalayn, Antonio Berardi and the late, great Alexander McQueen.
This all adds up to the fashion equivalent of a thorough bred racehorse. With all that pedigree, you know you're in for something special.
Excited, I persuade The Teenager to come along as my 'intern'. That I have to persuade her at all says a lot about the apathy of youth. She is even less keen when I tell her she will actually have to do something, like take notes or pictures. But after a hissy fit about what to wear, she tags along, in her BCBG heeled boots and we cab it uptown.
The General Society of Mechanics on W44th Street strikes me as as odd location on paper. In reality It's like walking back into the 1920's- an elegant old library, stuffed to the gills with hardbound dusty books and oak chests. Oriental lanterns have been strung all over the ceiling and the room is lit with a warm, amber hued glow.
The show begins. Three singers who stride balletically to their mics and begin to sing something operatic and enchanting.
The first model emerges from a backroom and teeters precariously down a small set of stairs looking like a geisha turned Oriental party princesses. The girls come out one by one with the same huge messy birdnest hair topped with giant flowers or bows. They balance on sky high heels and the music turns flapper to match the drop hem dresses.
Modern mixes with vintage as satin puffas are teamed with Japanese floral print bias cut dresses. There's an abundance of chunky knits with giant gardenias. Fur stoles come with floral embroidery and there's tons of ruffles and ruching. A gold sequin dress shimmies by and I notice it is embellised with yet more flowers.
The palate is rich orange, bright fuschia pink, creams and shades of gold.
There's lots of black too, but rather than severe in contrast to the colour, it's silky, seductive and surrounded by yet more flowers.
As in love as I am, I still want to be objective. I don't go looking for flaws but it strikes me that a few pieces in the collection are just a tad Per Una at M&S- the black knit with flowers and the orange silk skirt and matching cardie (below) in particular looks pretty middle aged Surrey housewife.
My Mum would like it, but that's no disparaging comment- my Mum is a pretty stylish sixtysomething and actually owns a few Moschino pieces herself.
The real litmus test is in the mouths of babes:
"What did you think?" I ask The Teenager
"It was amazing. I loved the clothes, they were soooo beautiful. "
I can see three generations of women wearing something by Elisa Palomino, unlikely her intention, but certainly the result. That has to translate as something that will become infinitely sellable.
More importantly is The Teen's reaction.
She never uses superlatives.
*
Saturday, 13 February 2010
Your name's on the list but don't bother coming in

Wide eyed, expectant and wondering if we can get away with sunglasses at 11 p.m. The American and I headed off to our first fash party last night.
As our taxi makes it's way to SoHo I fantasise about sharing a (free) drink at the (free) bar with Lady Ga Ga. I imagine how we'd talk of the genius of Armani Prive and she would compliment me on my asymmetric dress and I would laugh and reveal it was "...only from H&M." She would then introduce me to Anna Wintour who would find me side splittingly hilarious and sign me up for a Vogue column charting my acerbic take on the fashion industry. Did I mention the free bar?

We arrive to find an unmarked door-great start, everyone knows the coolest parties are hard to find. Then we're ushered into a goods lift that takes us to a corridor that smells of fish, that takes us to another corridor so dark I can't see my hand in front in me. We open the door in front of us and BOOM! Heat, people, sweat, small space. The clamber for the bar is 6 people deep.
"What is the point of a free bar when you can't get to it?" I wail.
I scan the room for Lady Ga Ga. I scan again for any celebs who might be drunk enough to do something stupid enough for me to get a story out of. I scan for some outfits at least interesting enough to write about, but everyone is too tightly packed in for me to even see. And it's fucking dark.
And there is nowhere to stand. If I weighed 100 pounds less I might be able to slide into a space between someone's armpit.
''I want to leave." says The American.
"Me too."

We head out and get a taxi over to the Tribecca Grand Hotel to party number two where there's a great DJ line up and Little Boots is playing.
My heart sinks when I see a line of at least 200 outside.
"Fuuuuuuuuuck"
This is my fault. I told The American we should be fashionably late. Turns out would should have been unfashionably early and then we might have been fashionably in the party rather than than unfashionably at the back of the queue.
We agree that we're too old to be standing in line for parties in zero degrees so instead we go to a nearby bar and pay fourteen bucks each for cocktails. When we get home where I read on twitter that Peaches Geldof was at the party. I watch in disgusted fascination as she conducts a hyper Z list post modern love-in with superblogger Bryan Boy.

"What are you doing?" says The American.
"I am at the party without being there." I say
"I don't understand." he says
"Virtually." I say
Virtually. Nearly. But not quite.
Night Night.
Friday, 12 February 2010
Best fashion friends forever

Today was a total fashion fuck up.
Locked out of Christian Siriano. Then trekked over to the Waldorf Astoria for what was billed as a 'Red Carpet Event' but was more like something that resembled a suburban sewing circle meet up. I noted that the hotel is like a Grandma who stills wear red lipstick at 90 even though it bleeds into the cracks. My fash week partner and I stopped to have a glass of bad Champagne while taking advantage of the free Wifi. I stroked a fake palm tree before I left and clocked a few mafioso types in the gift shop.
We then hopped over to Chelsea for Alexander Berardi and lined up for 30 minutes in the freezing cold for a show that was then 50 minutes late. At this point you need to be really impressed by the clothes. Let's just say I was more enthralled with the new fashion friend I made when I snagged myself a seat. And this man's legs (yes, man).

On the positive side, in addition to new friend at Berardi I saw my cohort from the Toni Mess-o-rama show at the tents and met two charming Californians who're starting a menswear design company. They'd just got a plane to New York and blagged it into the tents and were pretty convinced they were getting into the Naomi Campbell for Haiti show. It is for the best we didn't have tickets for this, I've always known that if I met Naomi, I'd be tempted to goad her to see if she'd attack me with the heel of her shoe.

When I left the Left Coasters they were about to start enjoying the free bar in the tent. Why not? This is the land of faking it till you make it after all. And fashion is all about fakery.
And when you live in this make believe land they called America, a good business card is essential. My new ones from moo.com were waiting for me when I got home today. If it wasn't for the parties I blagged new invites for tonight, this would have been the most exciting thing to happen to me today.

Tonight is two fashion soirees. I should probably not call them soirees, that sounds like something a Southern housewife visiting the city would say. I have styled The American so he can look a bit fash too. He says It was like having Rachel Zoe in the apartment. I said if Rachel Zoe was here, I'd probably eat her. He said that was just silly, as there obviously wouldn't be any meat on her.
They have a free bar at these parties. I don't know that the New York fashion scene has experienced the combination of Welsh girl plus free booze.
It could get messy than a Toni Maticevski dress.
*
No room at the in-crowd

So Welsh Alien is locked out of her first Fashion Show. Welsh Alien is now referring to herself under this moniker and in the third person.
This is because Welsh Alien is being extra fashion today, wearing an asymmetric dress, wedge lace up ankle boots, an ironic necklace, a fash pack oversized scarf and cherry red lipstick. Maybe Welsh Alien needs to fash it up even more like this lady in order to get in?
Her effort today did not prevent Welsh Alien getting denied admission to Christian Siriano due to what we will refer to as 'Lazy RSVPing'In Welsh Alien's defence, organization is not her strong point and the whole rigmarole of getting a ticket to a fashion show is multi layered (to use a fashion acronym). It involves you applying to attend to a show and then if they say yes, you an invite, but then you still have to RSVP-even though you said you wanted to come in the first place.
So Welsh Alien sits forlorn in the reception area of the tent drinking her limited edition fashion week Diet Coke watching the former winner of Project Runway's clothes whizz by on the small screen.

Welsh Alien's cherry red lips are pouting.
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