Thursday, November 13, 2008
Friday, November 7, 2008
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!
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
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
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.
michael angel
a fabulous new take on roberto cavalli's free-flowing feminine gowns. walking never looked so good.
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.
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