Saturday, January 11th
What do people do, after a short vacation, when they come to the end of a week that picks up where the day of Christmas eve left it? I don’t really know, but I do know what I did – I fell into the tight void of depression, self-abhorrence and unconsciously welcomed a sudden cast of doubt upon the eventual use of all those never-ending daily duties. I felt weakened and stupid, I felt like I couldn’t pull any string of my destiny and I feared that I just might wake up one day and wonder where my life had leaked in – was it between Facebook and a lousy article? Between doing the dishes and fighting with the food they held onto? Between a shitty piece of news about a country that has been shitty for a massive amount of time, and continues to be shittier than ever, and a generous glass of wine, to add a touch of predictable unexpectedness and tone the soreness down? I had no wine last night, so I asked my husband to get me some beer, and I drank it at a fast pace, so that my sight became slightly foggy, and my head started to seem light, and a smile got stuck to my face the way that lunatics get stuck with asymmetrical expressions which they maintain even while sleeping, which they cannot control in any way, expressions that start a life of their own on the skin of a face that welcomes all things unknown and unseen by us, those who have never been warmly accommodated to a mental facility. I was hanging by a thread over the crevasse of desperation, and while sipping hastily from that glass of dark beer, I kept trying to figure out a way that I could get to do absolutely nothing, for what was left of the evening. What is nothing, anyway, I asked myself, all while I could hardly pull myself from tearing this damn computer apart. Then, it just dawned on me that I hadn’t seen a slideshow on Style.com since at least 2 months before. I refreshed my browser and started looking, and in a matter of minutes, I felt the bless of familiarity. I had been missing fashion, in the old-fashioned way – on the catwalk, on the screen of my desktop.
Phillip Lim usually nails everything he can: from cut and asymmetry, to color, and fabric, and effective use of layering, all getting to one result and one only – the ultimate urban cool that (bold) women nowadays seem to ask for. My favorite was the suit with floral brocade side panels (wasn’t it obvious?).
Another very appealing solution to urban cool. In-between seasons are all about transition and mild experimentation, usually with fabric and cut. 10 Crosby also had a bold styling in the mix – just think about the first look, doesn’t it suddenly make you want to wear suede fringes and masculine tailoring at once? I also thought that the overcoat and vest above were some sort of fur, but it turns out, they’re made of mohair, handled way better than we’re accustomed to.
Comfort doesn’t get cooler than this. Fuck everyone who states that womanly shapes are ought to be ‘cherished’ and revealed, rather than hidden beneath blanket capes and wide pants. Womanly shapes also ought to be stylishly hugged, every once in a while.
It seems that masculine tailoring and slightly sporty outerwear is still to be considered a trend, for the following year. I neither like or dislike that – I’m fine with it. What I’m not fine with are ugly-as-hell shoes – and by my own standards, that’s a harsh one. However, Alexander Wang convinced me (as always) by the sort of ‘déshabillé’ feeling that I tend to fall for extremely easily – the roughness and finesse, combined, collided, crashed into one another, making you feel like wearing your heart on the outside. Which is most likely to resemble a sweater torn in the back or a skirt that’s lost its hem, somewhere in the process.
It’s hard to imagine a look by Antonio Berardi that doesn’t include a skintight or column dress, or some graphic play, either in fabric or tailoring (let alone a look without some very sharp & pointed heels). Hence, it felt refreshing to see him venture a bit out of his comfort zone – frilled capes and fluffy sweaters included. Although, the heels were just the same.
Am I the only one who still regrets that Antonio Marras left the helm of Kenzo? It’s really not the same, without him. As of coincidences, the first show I actually came across (of pre-fall, that is) was Kenzo, and apart from the library-shooting thing, absolutely nothing caught my eye. It was just stuff I’ve seen before, stuff that was well known to be sold and worn outside other future shows, as a proof of how shallow and hungry for the latest coolness fashion really turns us into. There was not much of a story there, nothing that gets beneath the skin. All while Marras always gets beneath the skin – and I don’t even know if he wants to.Photos via Style.com, put together by the undersigned.
- And darkness spreads over the snow