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.