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.

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!

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.

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.

garden state

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.

flannel

it's over. it should never even have started. the '90s were av enough, we don't need to relive them.

that's all.

jackets are not the enemy

I love the Ivy. I really do. I think Cruise Bar and the Argyle are pretty good too. They all look gorgeous, have good-looking bar staff, and non-sticky tables. However, I never go to these places. Apparently, I am inevitably destined (or perhaps doomed) to spend a significant proportion of my weekend in Kings Cross, weaving my way through patches of puke and getting welded to tables that have been liberally soaked with god knows what (I HOPE it's alcohol). And all this is accompanied by the haunting sounds of 'Blister in the Sun,' a favourite of the busker outside New York Slice.

Anyway, over the last few Cross weekends, I have noticed a rather baffling and slightly disturbing trend: Darlinghurst and Bayswater Roads have become infested with girls who don't wear jackets. Or stockings. Or scarves. Or gloves.

Now, in autumn, this behaviour is perfectly acceptable. Still unwise, perhaps, but not completely deranged. Who of us hasn't stood shivering outside World Bar at 3am, on a chilly May morning, waiting for an empty cab to drive past (PS. It usually doesn't)? Trying to convince ourselves it’s still summer, and therefore absolutely fine to go out in next to nothing, is almost a rite of passage.

But when it's July, and it's 8 degrees, I'm sorry, but put a jacket on. You look completely ridiculous. It's annoying carrying round a jacket, believe me, I know. But bring a bag big enough to carry it in, or get your gormless-looking boyfriend to carry it for you. Isn't that what you got him for? And if you're single, take the hint: guys tend not to like girls with blue lips and goose-bump-covered skin.

I know you just adore your new Josh Goot/sass & bide/LIFEwithBIRD dress, and don't see the point in spending that much money on clothes only to cover them up, but let me explain: once inside, the jacket comes off. People will still be impressed by how fabulous you look, and you won't have frostbite. Really, it's a double bonus. Besides, are you really that desperate to wow the people loitering outside 4 Seasons and Mansions?

I must admit though, I suspect I was once one of these girls. I have vague recollections of spending hours sitting outside at raves in the freezing cold, talking to assorted randoms. And then in the morning, waiting for the first train out of Engadine, or god knows where, blue-lipped and goose-bumped. This was probably due to sheer stupidity, rather than wanting to show off my tartan skirt, leg warmers and candy, but regardless, I was the Josh Goot/sass & bide/LIFEwithBIRD girl. All I can conclude from this is that somewhere along the line, without even noticing it happening, I have turned into one of those scowly middle-aged women who tut-tuts 'young people' for listening to their mp3s players at an unacceptable volume, or for wearing chipped nail polish. I have gotten old. And that is perhaps the most upsetting thing of all.

Still, at least I don't have frostbite.