Finally, some good news!

Hermes, first stop when looking for gorgeous leather bags, sumptuous silk scarves, and beautifully made riding hats (should the need arise), is apparently not feeling the pinch at all: its share price has risen by almost 16 per cent in 2008, and predicts that its sales will increase by about 10 per cent in 2009.

Must be thanks to the Birkin waiting list, and Posh's personal collection.

and in other depressing news:

LVMH, the world's biggest luxury conglomorate, has binned plans for a new Louis Vuitton megastore, which was to be opened in Tokyo's Ginza district. While it has been predicted that profits in the £165 billion global luxury market should resist going into freefall for the moment, LVMH share values are in decline, with the conglomorate's shares dropping by 44 per cent in 2008.

We thought the 1980s was the time when self-interest reigned supreme: apparently not. There are those in the trade who believe the future of the industry is looking bleak, and that a decade of greed and easy money is to blame. Alain Nemarq, chairman of prestige jewellery firm Mauboussin, said that luxury brands were seduced by the notion that, when it came to prices and profit margins, the sky was the limit: “The pursuit of exclusive trophies ... is finished,” he wrote in Le Figaro last week. “We will now return to reason, decency and discretion.”

even more bad news for chanel...

The global recession seems to be kicking the French marque de grand luxe while it's down, with the house showing 200 of its Paris staff the door. Le Parisien newspaper reports “In the little world of luxury goods, the news has had the impact of a bombshell”.

Up until recently, high-end fashion labels have claimed to be weathering the storm, attributing their success to continuing demand for luxury products from China, Russia, and other emerging economic powers.

But it would appear that the honeymoon is finally over, with even the nouveaux riches steering clearing of Paris' 'golden triangle' boutiques, located off the Champs Élysées. Equivalent high-end fashion locations in New York and London have been similarly deserted, and business in Japan has hit a new low.

Looks like Chanel might have to tighten the belt further still in coming months.

give me 2.55!

... or not. the credit crunch has claimed its latest victim: Chanel's Mobile Art tour. The brainchild of Karl Lagerfeld, this was a touring exhibition of artworks inspired by the design house's iconic 2.55 bag, with Daniel Buren, Sylvie Fleury, Yoko Ono and Wim Delvoye all contributing.

The exhibition, which is housed in a space-age-inspired structure designed by architectural darling Zaha Hadid, made it to Hong Kong, Tokyo and New York, but the tour has faltered before reaching London.

A spokeswoman for Chanel has stated to WWD "Considering the current economic crisis, we decided it was best to stop the project. We will [instead] be concentrating on strategic growth investments."

Despite this setback, Lagerfeld remains unfazed: "Today, everyone can say that something is for financial reasons when they want. For me, artistic reasons are more important. I always thought the building was a sculpture. I prefer it empty."

Luckily for the designer it looks like every bag does have a silver lining. Having said this, the whole financial crisis is getting very boring; does it really have to ruin all our fun? Not impressed.

runway review: af vandevorst s/s 09

There was a distinct lack of colour on the runway for af vandevorst's spring/summer 2009 show. This is not to say that it was overly missed, nor that the collection was bland, or relentlessly greyscale. It was just something that you noticed.

But what the collection lacked in bright hues, it made up for in simple, chic style. Crisp white shirts, tailored waistcoats, lingerie-inspired outerwear - An Vandevorst and Filip Arickx did not deviate from what they know they excel at.

Ladylike lace, prim collars and girlish white dresses were offset by tousled locks and red lips that would put Jessica Rabbit to shame. Other gorgeous details included an asymmetrical skirt that managed to be both tutu and tennis skirt, kimono sleeves that provided just the right amount of volume at the elbow, and a forest-green draped wrap top and skirt that provided the perfect foil for the red hues of lips and heels. Grey hoisery featured throughout, in various guises, and was the perfect antidote to the purely feminine styling.

There were a few questionable choices: deep orange looks seemed somewhat unanchored amidst the greys and greens, and the white leggings with floral cut-outs and over-use of floral-printed satin were a bit mid-90s - we all adore Clueless, but sartorially-speaking it is less than spectacular.

These things aside, however, it was another pleasing offering from the Belgian duo.

recession is the new black at paul smith

for £10, paul smith does valuable financial advice.

next season's ultimate recession accessory

pastel headgear at giles. let pacman be your muse.

runway review: zac posen s/s 2009

“It’s about the new rock queen’s first journey to Mars, and the luxury outfits she’d wear”: Zac Posen summarises his spring/summer 2009 simply and economically, albeit cryptically. The intergalactic travels of a rock goddess have been translated into the flirtatious, whimsical dresses which are Posen’s forte, and which have garnered him adoration from young socialites everywhere.

Gone for the most part are the blacks and greys that featured strongly in Posen’s last spring/summer collection, replaced by colours that would not look out of place in the window of your favourite gelateria in Naples. Warm yellows, dusty pinks and ultra-pale greens dominated the runway, the perfect shades for sipping a cooling aperitif in the Mediterranean sun.

The focus often rests, once again, on the waist, with necklines frequently draped open to the waistline. Volume often settles at the hemline, silks and chiffons enhancing a gorgeous sense of movement. Ruffles, draping and tiers abound, pure Southern Belle, though sometimes somewhat unexpectedly, in a mini-bustle, or wrist-anchored train. All this lush femininity is broken up by draped 80s style tanks, mid-waisted minis, and biker-style jackets and waist coats – just so we don’t overdose on the saccharine sweetness – and Posen weaves in the tribal, and the gypsy, with oversized shoulder-grazing earrings, and Perspex and metal embellishments.

All in all, a successful astronomical adventure for Posen.

we're not prostitutes!

The other evening I was walking with my friend Sally through leicester square, on our way out to cause some mischief at a crappy bar (again).

We had just passed maccas, and the fifth angus steakhouse on coventry st, when a boy (could have been 18, could have been 23 – it’s had to tell) sidles up to us, and timidly asks me, “Um, excuse me, are you, uh, I mean, ummm…. Are you working tonight?” To which I replied – in a confused tone, because I thought it was pretty clear that I wasn’t at work, I was on my way to drink wine – “What? What are you talking about?”

He repeated, “Are you working tonight?” with a meaningful look in his eyes.

“OH MY GOD, WE’RE NOT PROSTITUTES!” I yelled at him. He looked startled, and, mumbling apologies, scampered away.

Well, we were both shocked. Look, I’m not going to say I’ve never worn outfits that may prompt gentlemen to mistake my profession for something entirely different – I’d be lying if I did. The thing was, this evening my friend and I were both dressed relatively conservatively – we were wearing scarves, mittens, tights and big winter coats. This was covering up more party-friendly attire, obviously (haven’t turned into a complete nana yet), but as far as he knew, we could have been wearing tweed and pearls under our coats. Which is why his inquiry was so bizarre. And let’s be realistic, it’s leicester square, there were about a thousand girls dressed more tartily than we were. He was a tourist, so maybe where he comes from there is just a higher class of prostitute. I don’t know, and I now kind of wish I’d asked him what prompted him to approach us, out of everyone else (or maybe he already had, bless him).

Sally and I laughed it off, because what else can you do, and didn’t really thing any more of it. But the next day I found myself wondering, again, is it something about the way we look? Or dress? Or act? Are guys just ridiculously desperate to pay for sex that they’ll approach any woman on the street, and hope for the best?

A few days after Sally and I found ourselves in leicester square again. A homeless guy was walking behind us, mumbling something. Sally turned to me in horror, grabbed my arm, and picked up the pace considerably. “Oh my god, did you hear that? He was telling us to drop our panties!” she exclaimed. We dual-shuddered, and carried on.

So my conclusion is this: maybe the problem is not us, what we wear, or what we look like. Perhaps it’s nothing to do with men, their expectations, or ability to sacrifice themselves to humiliation over and over again. I think the problem is something completely removed from any of those things, always has been, always will be.

The problem is leicester square.

brocade is a battlefield

Or is it in fact just plain hideous?

I came across a navy knee-length cap-sleeved brocade shift dress in Jigsaw this August, and honestly, it just made me want to cry. Especially when I realised that it would sit, neglected, on the rack until sale time, at which some point some poor woman would buy it, because it was reduced, and she had vaguely managed to talk herself into believing it look good on her (it didn’t). Every time she wears it she won’t feel comfortable in it; she won’t know which shoes and bag go with it, nor which way to sit in it so that it doesn’t crease unattractively (tip for you: there’s no way, creasing is inevitable).

And people will notice. They may not necessarily realise it’s the dress, but they’ll pick up on the fact that she feels awkward and ill-at-ease, and will in turn not feel relaxed around her, because they’ll think it’s something to do with them. Her best friend will get upset, convinced that she’s slighted our brocade-wearer in some way. Her children won’t be able to hug her because she’s so aware of avoiding the potential enhanced-crease factor, and it’s undesirability in the face of ‘formal dinner party’ that evening. And her husband will look at other women, happily ensconced in pleasing shades in cashmere, jersey or silk, and wonder why his wife doesn’t look like them. He may or may not eventually have an affair.

This is the worst-case scenario, you understand.

However, the lessons to be learned are these:
1. Steer clear of brocade unless it’s proper designer rtw, preferably dolce & gabbana, and;
2. Jigsaw, you are so relentlessly average in so many ways, I don’t know what is the point of you

i *heart* sequins

I really do. They’re just fabulous. After my brief stint in London I now own three sequin skirts: one silver, one black and gold, and one black and pink (Primark, I’m going to miss you when I’m in Sydney, bless your child-labour-exploiting heart).

The best thing about sequins is that you can dress them up or down. And no, I’m not being facetious, it’s totally true. In fact I truly believe that it’s when you dress down a sequinned piece that it really comes into its own. I like working a sequin skirt back with my grey and pink Queen tee from urban outfitters, ripped stockings, boots, and a trilby hat. Perfection – mind you, I did get a few looks when I went to the clachan for Sunday roast.

The other fab thing about sequins is that they’re very diy-friendly, something we’ll be seeing a lot of come s/s 2009 (at least something good will come out of the cadbury’s crunchie). Just grab a few sequins, in whatever colour you want, stitch them on in a pleasing pattern and – voilà! Insta-chic. And if you’re completely lazy, you can even glue them if you want (although it must be said, sewing them on has the added benefit of easy removal when a/w 2009-2010 arrives).

So this season, irrespective of hemisphere, try some sequins on your tee, your leggings, your bag – or grab some eyelash glue and use them to give an extra kick to your make-up. If nothing else, they will add a little sparkle to you life – and there’s nothing wrong with that.

let's get physical

The other day I was at the gym (and I say the other day, but I was actually still in Sydney, so it was more like three months ago) and I saw a woman doing her first-visit-fitness-evaluation thing. I always feel a bit sorry for people when I see them doing this – I felt like a total knob when I did mine. All that earnest discussion (all fictional on my part) about my eating habits, what I wanted to achieve and how I thought I could do it. And then half-heartedly doing a few reps on each machine while being scrutinised by the trainer, who wasn’t technically hot, but was cute enough that being unable to do more than 3 triceps lifts in front of him was embarrassing.

My personal gym neuroses aside, this woman would have been fairly innocuous-looking, were it not for the fact that she was wearing – at the gym, remember – a black sparkly one-shoulder Lycra top. Seriously. At Fitness First Willoughby.

So obviously I spent the rest of my 45 min stint on the treadmill gawking at her, and in fact time actually passed much more quickly than usual (must remember, judging makes exercise fun!). I just couldn’t figure out what the thinking was that led to the particular car-crash fashion moment. I finally concluded that she must have had a big night out at Jackson’s on George (for those not in the know, a heinously tacky Sydney psuedo-bar/club monstrosity) the night before, couldn’t find an appropriate gym top in the morning, so just threw on her faithful party top, even though she had spilled a bit of Malibu and pineapple on it (and don’t act as if that’s never happened to you).

Clearly this is all speculation. But I think I’m right.

There’s no real conclusion, or moral, to be drawn from this anecdote, but if there had to be one I suppose it would be, don’t be drunk when you get dressed for you gym evaluation, or mean fashion-hags who look like Cruella de Vil will judge you.

I’d like to see that come up in a fortune cookie.

hyper-what?

So I bought my first new millennium hypercolour piece just before I left Sydney in August. It’s a genius little green singlet (or vest) that goes white with heat. On it is a line drawing of someone hanging from a rope, and it says “you were my only friend”.

It’s not cheerful by any stretch of the imagination, but I love it. And my point is, it’s only a matter of time before we start seeing a lot more of this 90s gem.

It’ll be back – just wait.

when i grow up, i wanna be famous...

sometimes i think about fashion, and i'm all like, 'this is hard!'

Here’s a fashion fact for you: Maggie Tabberer was one of the first Australian women to wear trousers in the 1960s, an era when women were still essentially confined to dresses, skirts and blouses (honestly, do blouses still even exist anymore?).

Anyway, this was not a choice that went smoothly for her. She was regularly kicked out of restaurants and bars for being inappropriately dressed. Which is something that I can understand, obviously. Australia (and Sydney in particular, I think) can be a bastard of a country for having to adhere to ridiculous dress codes.

You may have already known this about our Mags, but when I came across this little anecdote, it raised a couple of questions for me.

For one, why is it that, even in a domain which is supposed to be almost exclusively of female concern, women still seem to be second-class citizens? Look at phrases like “You can tell who wears that pants in that relationship” and “He’s just being a big girl’s blouses" (genius though that one undoubtedly is). They employ undeniably gendered language and stereotypes about the role women play in society.

And another thing – why did women cross over into the realm of men’s clothing (ie. trousers, shorts, etc; YSL’s Le Smoking is a classic example), but men never did likewise (exceptions such as kilts and djebelas notwithstanding)? For men – and women as well – women’s clothing is inextricably linked to feminine characteristics, behaviour and mores. This is not necessarily a bad thing, it’s just simple human nature. However, I think when it comes to potentially incorporating female garb into their daily clothing ritual, most men are still strictly, and innately, of the opinion that any man who wears women’s clothes is aligning themselves with feminine sensibilities, and that is an exclusively negative thing (just look at the way many men react to drag queens and transvestites).

[Please note, I’m not exactly sure at what point feminine sensibilities became a pejorative notion, but it’s too much for me to think about at 7am, especially jet-lagged as I am.]

The funny thing is, I think if they gave it a go, men would love women’s clothing. I adore the dress because it is the ultimate in lazy dressing: just chuck it on and you’re done. How can men not love this idea? And the increased amount of room afforded by dresses and skirts for ‘the boys’? I would have thought men would be all over that (so to speak). And yet they’re not.

I’m not trying to be provocative, or evoke diatribes based on radical feminism or deep-set misogyny – I don’t care that much. It’s just something I was pondering (and there’s nothing wrong with a good ponder every now and then).

Any thoughts, class?

autumn...

and it's friday, still...

so i'm sitting at work. and i'm bored. but slightly (ok, extremely) mollified by the fact that it is friday, and that in a mere 87 minutes i shall be ensconsed in the warmth of the electricity showrooms in old street, scotch in one hand, gorgeous boy in the other (nothing wrong with being optimistic).

and after that, it only gets better. fair play, i have class tomorrow, which i will undoubtedly be hungover for, and which will therefore be rubbish. and it's true, after that, i am shooting in wembley park, which will be damp, muddy, and possibly a bit leechy (do they get them in london, or is it just squirrels?). however, the point is, i won't be at work, and throughout my potentially exhausting day, i have a night out at trailer trash with my girlies to look foward to.

and so, what to wear, what to wear, what to wear? have been advised by a girlfriend to wear my pink tutu and hightop adicolours. but, having recently turned 25, i am becoming increasingly wary of dressing in this manner, insofar as i wonder if it is really appropriate for a woman of my age to dress like a member of josie and the pussycats on crack.

in fact, i think now is the time to take off my black nail polish, hang up my tutu, drag a brush through my hair, and grow up. because after all, it has to happen sometime, and 25 seems as good a milestone as any. my days of satorial frivolity are over; i'm off to GAP to buy some chinos.

ps: just kidding darlings!

my two favourite punx

vivieen westwood takes on old-style glamour for s/s 2009

disco punx rocking out in style, sync and substance.

educate your ears:

fri 7-11-08, 9pm - 1pm aest

http://www.abc.net.au/triplej/mixup/

madonna, take note:

workout-inspired rtw does not have to equal lycra nightmare.

let's tone it down a little please. speak to abaete if you need some pointers.

red lips make a comback

we can finally drink red wine without a care in the world!

perfect timing, a.f vandervorst.

grey leather

our guilty pleasure.

haider ackermann makes us throw our morals out the window...

black is boring?

such a lie.

rad hourani proves the colour kids are wrong, wrong, wrong.

michael angel

a fabulous new take on roberto cavalli's free-flowing feminine gowns. walking never looked so good.

gareth pugh

we love you.

taking the silhouette to new planes, for once geometry is fun.

berardi is the new burberry

antonion berardi's take on burberry's overstyled metallic warrior look.

sartorial postmodernity is

Sigrid Agren wearing Hermes orange for Lanvin in Paris.

RUNWAY REVIEW: Alexander McQueen Spring/Summer 2001

LONDON, September 26, 2000 - The front row of a fashion week show is no stranger to scrutiny and judgement. It is rare, however, for the style mavens that grace it to be given a chance to be the subject of their own gaze. And yet this was exactly the case presented by Alexander McQueen's spring/summer show. The audience was seated on three sides of a two-way-mirrored cube, which presented a perfect, if unwelcome and unnerving, opportunity to consider one's place within the pre-show madness, as illuminated by stark fluorescent overhead lighting.

And this madness was not to end with the dimming of the lights. McQueen's models were imprisoned within this mirrored box, able to see only their reflections as the audience looked in. They walked around a dark rectangular box that reached almost to the ceiling; some wandered around, stroking the mirrors as if transfixed by their own image, others walked in the dazed manner of the heavily sedated. Still others moved disjointedly and jerkily, as if searching for a way out they knew they'd never find. Though the space was often frequented by more than one model at a time, they appeared oblivious to these other human beings, and moved across the space in a way that brought to mind rats in a maze. The mental-asylum references continued with bandaged head-gear; only a few strands were left loose on either side of the face, giving a very post-lobotomy, mentally unhinged feel, especially as at a glance it appeared as if perhaps their heads had been shaved.

McQueen's collection was a pastiche of what he does best; flawless tailoring that is femininely androgynous, sculptural heels, and classically elegant draped jersey dresses in taupes and pearl-greys, interspersed with pieces that imbued with the bizarre and the macabre as only this designer knows how. One model, having a Tippi Hendren moment, was surrounded from the shoulders up by stuffed birds, a motif which recurred in several elaborate feathered creations – the highlight being Erin O'Connor in a deep-red gown, with a feathered skirt that gradually bled to black at the base.

The show's finale was greatly influenced by the work of photographer Joel-Peter Witkin: the walls of the centre prism fell to the ground and shattered, revealing a masked naked woman reclining on a chaise, and breathing through a tube. As the walls fell scores of moths flew out towards the light, flitting around the room, as if retracing the steps of the models. It was the perfect surreal ending to an exceptionally unique collection.

superficiality: a moment of introspection

Last night I finished the Bill Bryson book I'd been reading. Being a filthy backpacker I can only carry around one book at a time – I need the rest of my backpack space for tubes of Vegemite, and boots (I can't give them up). So, desperate for something to read, I started browsing through my flatmate's bookcase. I didn't have great expectations; my reading tastes are erratic at best. However, I was still ill-prepared for how low-brow and inadequate I would feel mere seconds later.

The shelves contained every book I have ever aspired to read, but haven't. Rimbaud, Alain de Botton, and Nietzsche, the history of civilization, commentaries on the Arab-Israeli conflict. It was like the ghosts of good literary intentions past. I finally picked out The God of Small Things – the cover was pretty. After 50 pages I had to concede defeat. The wandering prose, subtle similes and sombre tone just didn't hold my interest. And it doesn't end there: the only thing I know about Salman Rushdie is that he cameoed in Bridget Jones' Diary. I have no idea what A Suitable Boy is about – relationship advice, I presume. Also, I hate The Catcher in the Rye. It's not for want of trying: I re-read it every a year, hoping in vain to see the light. I understand that within the context it was written it would have been ground-breaking and irreverent. Nowadays the ideas still resonate, but they are not extraordinary. Salinger's protagonist is essentially just another emo I don't want to hear from.

I'm not proud of this. I didn't set out to be a literary philistine, it's just turned out that way. I find these books are uniformly intimidating, and usually depressing, so to be honest I'd rather steer clear. Some might say that this is characteristic of younger generations – we're too used to things being dumbed down to appreciate fine linguistic turns of phrase and abstract esoteric thought. Personally, I think sometimes some of us need a break from the gloom and doom we are bombarded with on a daily basis. I hate that an inanimate object can make me feel obtuse, or depressed at the futility of existence, so mostly I'd just rather relax with a Ben Elton, or Dazed and Confused.

That or I'll give A Suitable Boy go - I could use the dating tips.

london college of fashion shoot

garden state

YEAH! is the answer.

Every so often you come across an accessory that stops you in your tracks, that makes your heart skip a beat. You know immediately you know you have to have it, whatever the price, whatever the impracticality.

This happened to me last weekend, shopping with my friend Amy at Spitalfields Markets. We were feeling fragile having over-indulged in vodka and hot chips the night before, and had been left looking like drowned rats, thanks to the kind of weather that is London’s specialty: not technically raining, but definitely not dry either. Suffice to say, we were not in the highest of spirits as we dragged ourselves along a cursory path through the stalls.

And then, the clouds parted (metaphorically that is - this is London, after all). There before us was the most amazing, most perfect necklace I had ever seen. The pendant was four gold block letters, each about an inch and a half high, an inch wide, and an inch deep. Their message was pure and direct: “YEAH!”.

Please don’t be fooled by this deceptively simple approach to form and sentiment: the “YEAH!” (as it shall henceforth be known) achieves a level of style and desirability that is rarely found in more elaborate pieces.

Its versatility makes it the holy grail of accessories. I will wear it with a baggy tee and high-top trainers, with my beloved tutu and slouchy boots, and with my oversized vest, fishnets and stilettos. It will even add a dash of funky-glam to my gold bikini, white palazzo pants, and tan leather sandals.

This is grown-up costume jewellery for the modern blingtellectual. It makes a subversive comment about today’s culture of ambivalence, and cheekily gives the finger to all the emos who think “WHATEVER” is the way forward.

So give the “YEAH!” a go. After all, no may mean no, but “YEAH!” will change your life.



nb. Having saved my hard-earned coppers for weeks, the "YEAH!" will finally be mine this Sunday. Pics to follow.

use your words...

After weeks, possibly months, of procrastination, I have finally uploaded pics from the various photoshoots I've done. This is basically just based on the hypothetical possibility that someone from a magazine could stumble across a little-known blog ('We hate fluoro'? 'Fluoro is bad'? Something like that, anyway), like the author's test shots, and decide to give the her a job in the fashion office. It's the new stylist's version of Julia Roberts in 'Pretty Woman' (ie. the idea of it is so ludicrous as to be unbelievable), but I though I'd better do it, especially seeing as I don't have a website (can you get them at an 'Everything One Pound' shop?).

The downside of having my pics here is that there is now very little writing to be seen. So here is some. I'm trying to give this a point, but struggling somewhat.

I do have this to say: I need to buy a winter coat, and the prospect is stressing me out somewhat. Was informed by a guy at work today that it can get down to one degree here in January and February, and I'm trying to ascertain exactly what fabric will keep a notoriously cold-sensitive Sydney chick (who may or may not in fact be cold-blooded) warm in such antisocial weather conditions. Does Prada make a winter overcoat in merino wool, cashmere and that stuff you use to insulate your house (preferably not asbestos)?

Alternatively, I'm wondering how wildly inappropriate it would be to take to the streets of London in February in full ski gear - minus the actual skiing equipment, obviously (though I may need the goggles), and in fact now that I think about it ski poles would be handy for when I need to knee-cap people on the tube.

Something to consider, anyway. You heard it here first.

loitering, with balloons