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Shock of the, Um, Un-New
There's something kind of familiar about them new clothes
I have to admit it. I'm not completely enthralled.
I expected to be, as I was for Fall. Fall was like a tweed and cloche and suede orgasm. Fall was wanting to sleep with my shoes on so I could wake up and fall right back in love again. Spring is a little flat. A little saccharine, a little more than a little derivative, even a little flimsy. I see a lot of dresses, still, and strong colors (but that yellow, no one looks good in that yellow, not even Alex Wek), and voluminous pants and cinched waists, and cutesy mini things, but somehow it's not getting to me.
I heart Gwen Stefani for all sorts of reasons, but the L.A.M.B. clothes were a disappointment. They looked kind of last year, kind of badly cut shorts gotten at the mall, kind of haven't I seen this already? Part of L.A.M.B. is that secret hope that by wearing something Gwen made (presumably), you'll look like Gwen. But a day later, you look down at your thighs rubbing against the rough edge of that plaid skirt, and you look in the mirror and see that while short, the skirt makes your hips look like they start at your rib cage, and you know you do not look like Gwen.
Certain editors would wag a bony finger and say, "There's a lesson in that." Really, sometimes it takes a designer to design designer clothes. But I'm not that trad. I'm an open-minded spectator, gullibly awaiting that wondrously cut something, and I don't care if Jessica Simpson designed it. (As if.)
What's new? Form's intense way with, well, form, is somewhat new and rings true days after the show. Miss Sixty, where the feminine got kind of edgy: The conceit of a rocker chick out for breakfast, exceedingly cool, is new in that it presents an entirely up-to-date attitude. I don't think the clothes themselves are any kind of revelation, but they're not meant to be. And it didn't hurt that Irina Lazareanu walked, exceeding everyone else in broody-doll offhanded It-ness.
I expected to be, as I was for Fall. Fall was like a tweed and cloche and suede orgasm. Fall was wanting to sleep with my shoes on so I could wake up and fall right back in love again. Spring is a little flat. A little saccharine, a little more than a little derivative, even a little flimsy. I see a lot of dresses, still, and strong colors (but that yellow, no one looks good in that yellow, not even Alex Wek), and voluminous pants and cinched waists, and cutesy mini things, but somehow it's not getting to me.
I heart Gwen Stefani for all sorts of reasons, but the L.A.M.B. clothes were a disappointment. They looked kind of last year, kind of badly cut shorts gotten at the mall, kind of haven't I seen this already? Part of L.A.M.B. is that secret hope that by wearing something Gwen made (presumably), you'll look like Gwen. But a day later, you look down at your thighs rubbing against the rough edge of that plaid skirt, and you look in the mirror and see that while short, the skirt makes your hips look like they start at your rib cage, and you know you do not look like Gwen.
Certain editors would wag a bony finger and say, "There's a lesson in that." Really, sometimes it takes a designer to design designer clothes. But I'm not that trad. I'm an open-minded spectator, gullibly awaiting that wondrously cut something, and I don't care if Jessica Simpson designed it. (As if.)
What's new? Form's intense way with, well, form, is somewhat new and rings true days after the show. Miss Sixty, where the feminine got kind of edgy: The conceit of a rocker chick out for breakfast, exceedingly cool, is new in that it presents an entirely up-to-date attitude. I don't think the clothes themselves are any kind of revelation, but they're not meant to be. And it didn't hurt that Irina Lazareanu walked, exceeding everyone else in broody-doll offhanded It-ness.
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15:05 EDT, 10.Sep.07
16:26 EDT, 08.Sep.07