Sunday, August 30, 2009

For my millions of fans.

It was brought to my attention that commenting on this blog is impossible. I fiddled, and think it might be possible now.



GO CRAZY, READERS.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Bananas.

Get ready for some shamless fawning over the smallest person alive.

I am completely in love with Rachel Zoe, celebrity stylist. The construction of that sentence would probably be better suited to "Rachel Zoe, private eye," but we'll leave that for when she decides to pursue a career change. If you don't know of Ms. Zoe, here's the skinny (literally): She weighs about as much as my right leg, has got bigger hair than any lion's mane, wears more gold jewelry and fur than a pimp, and when she likes something, she either "DIES," thinks it's "bananas," or knows that one of her clients will "shut it down" when wearing it. Oh, and she styles most of the celebrities that people pay attention to--Anne Hathaway, Eva Mendes, Jennifer Garner, etc.

Those precious sound bytes don't come from a personal friendship with Zoe--UNFORTNATELY--but from her reality show on Bravo, The Rachel Zoe Project. The second season started on Monday, and I won't lie: I've been anticipating it since June. She may be the personification of everything that's screwed up in the fashion world (namely, her lack of concern about eating), but I have to admire anyone who is so passionate about something that people often scoff at. Instead of simply focusing on the dress, the woman doesn't rest until she's found the vintage Van Cleef and Arpels cuff that complements it perfectly. She also possesses an interesting trait that celebrity stylists can often lack: marketing savvy. Zoe has a reverence for fashion, but she also knows that a misunderstood couture dress could land a client on any number of worst-dressed lists.

Case in point: on Monday's premiere episode, she was DYING over a fuschia Chanel haute couture dress that she wanted to get Cameron Diaz to wear at the Golden Globes. However, she felt that the assymmetrical sleeve on the dress made the overall shape too avant-garde for the American public to appreciate. Rather than simply move on and find another dress, she contacted the Chanel house and asked the head--Karl Lagerfield--if he would be willing to CUT THE SLEEVE OFF. Stylists are not fashion designers, and they are certainly not haute couture seamstresses. Haute couture is highly respected and marked by its intricate craftsmanship and the days/weeks that go into making one piece. Oh, and when something is haute couture, that means there's only one. In the entire world.

And Rachel Zoe--who admitted that she cannot sketch, much less sew--asked Karl Lagerfield to lop off a sleeve as if it was nothing.

I'll keep you in stylish suspense as to whether or not Karl did the deed, but the sheer fact that she asked one of the most respected designers in the world to change a dress of his should give you an indication of just how committed to a particular vision she can be.

That kind of commitment to one's craft--even if she's not designing anything herself--will always be in style. Welcome back to the television, Rachel. I know I've missed you.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

BREAKING NEWS

Vogue is clocking in at approximately 580 measley pages. HEAVENS TO MURGATROYD! A mere two posts ago, I claimed that the September issue could almost always be counted on to clock in at around 700 pages. I DID NOT MEAN THE "ALMOST" THAT I PUT IN THAT SENTENCE. I've not seen a Vogue this tiny in all my consumin' years. Everything I once believed in has gone out the window. Full analysis of this earth-shattering situation to come once I've gotten a hold of myself. Gimme a couple of days.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

A galactic version of the '80s cocktail dress? Yes, please.

As I hinted at in my last post, I'm sort of happy that ridiculously overwrought fashion has made a comeback. Yes, the cultural, political, ethical, and every other -al implications of that statement make me cringe from time to time, but I can't help it. I love when designers do what I feel like they're supposed to do--design for the world they wished they could live in. That's why I find it so funny when critics bemoan how "unwearable" a certain collection is. When that criticism surfaces, I'm all the more excited to take a peek at what that designer is offering. A 50-pound tulle confection of a dress, accented by real gold leaves on the bodice? That's EXACTLY what I need when I'm getting married in an enchanted forest! What makes the design world great is the amount of imagination that goes into the conception of the pieces, as well the the imagination of the viewer.

That being said, I'm absolutely loving that nearly every single designer is harkening back to the '80s this fall, but doing so to varying degrees and levels of wearability. One of my favorite designers of the season in Balmain, a French label. Every time I see the insanely exagerrated shoulders, or the absolute abuse of sequins, I let out an audible squeal.

I mean, just look at this. LOOK AT THIS.

AND THESE.


Sigh. Time to go stuff the shoulders of all my clothes with tissues so that I can look cool.

The September "Issue"

Ever since my sophmore year of high school, fall has been my favorite season. My love of the crunching leaves and increasingly cool temperatures was two-fold--since i'm an unapologetic nerd, I loved all of the "back-to-school" hubub. When I wasn't shopping for pencil cases though, I was scanning the magazine racks nearly every day in August so I could snatch up all the fall fashion issue of Vogue.

When people say something like "Vogue is my bible," they're talking about the famed September issue--it's the only one of the year that carries the same physical weight as the Bible. It can almost always be counted on to clock in at over 700 pages, and even if half of that is advertisements, that's still pretty hefty for a magazine. Why all that weight? As is the case with the academic year, the fashion year starts in September. That's right. January. No one really likes you.

Last year, though, thanks to the pesky recession reeling its head, editor-in-chief Anna Wintour had to get "creative." I say "creative" because except for the few Depression-era photo spreads the magazine has featured and the occasional $220 watch in place of the $2,200 watch, Vogue has not done much to bring itself down from its gold and diamond-encrusted pedastal. When a magazine works as hard to set itself apart from other magazines in terms of class, a little thing like a recession isn't going to be something they become concerned with.

However, the fall 2008 issue of the magazine did have some pithy "money-saving" ideas--this may have been where the insufferable "shop your closet!" idea came about--and the page length had drastically been reduced. The fall 2007 issue was 840 pages, and the fall 2008 was a measly 798. That may not seem like much of a difference, but it followed a trend that most fashion designers had resigned themselves to--minimalism was in, and it stemmed from a necessity, not from a desire. If there's anything that designers seem to hate, it's being forced to change their vision for a collection, rather than wanting to change.

So, what can we expect from Vogue this fall? If the fall collections are any indication, it's this: designers have been polite to the economic crisis for an entire year. So...it's time to party! Sequins! Huge shoulders! Alligator shoes! F**k you, recession--the worst is over, right? RIGHT. If we just cover our ears with our $1,000 clutches, we won't hear that we're still not entirely out of the woods yet. And maybe, just maybe, the return of fashion and the eschewing of frugality will be just what this recession needs.

Maybe.

Friday, August 14, 2009

I like you so much better when you're naked.

People need to tell me this more often, especially in these horrifically sweltering temperatures. It would make my sartorial choices so much simpler.


Yes, I'm aware it's August. And Chicago has had a surprisingly mild summer, so I should shut up. NO. I despise most things about heat, and the only thing that makes it better is the breeze my fingers create from flying across the keyboard while typing a heated rant. Sure, it's fun for the first few days, but then I start sticking to all sorts of surfaces, I'm sweaty, and thanks to the fact that my ghostly complexion knows no hues other than "Powder" and "What Up, Lobster?", I don't look easy, breezy, or beautiful from the months of June to August. Gross is the word that comes to mind for a description.

Now, I'm extra upset because I'm trying to figure out what to wear into the city tomorrow. My lovely friend Zac and I are meeting for a matinee (by the way, I'm 65 years old), and then wandering around in 87-degree heat. He's handsome as all get out, so I need to look decent so as to not embarass myself. But, because my fashion sense wilts along with everything else in this weather, I'm planning on royally embarassing myself. Current outfit options include a nightgown masquerading as a dress by layering it on top of...another nightgown, a criminally tiny t-shirt dress that will SURELY offer everyone a delightful view of my baby-makin' parts when the Windy City lives up to its name, and a bathing suit. Masquerading as nothing other than what it is. And this, my friends, is why fall needs to hurry up and get here. I own upwards of 25 scarves, 10 pairs of tights, and a whole mess of cardigans. All of which need to be worn soon, because my creative styling juices are gone. GONE, I SAY.

Help a sister out, Mother Nature. Send me 50-degree weather, and I swear I'll look adorable every day to thank you for it.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Remember that I love you

How dare I ignore the internet for so long! It's like I don't even care about the needs of my (two) dear readers. Though some personal poop has kept me away, I rushed back to discuss something of utmost importance to me--comfort clothes.

You see, when the proverbial shit hits the fan in my life and in the lives of my beautiful friends, clothings and aesthetics manage to become both more and less important. In the "more important" corner, I do the whole "shop away your feelings" thing. Since emotions are high during these sprees though, I come away with purchases that are a touch extreme, even for my tastes--like this gloriously gaudy two-finger peacock ring. Yes, that will be mine in 2-8 days. And I will wear it with everything.

In the "less important" realm, all I want to wear are paint-stained jeans, Hanes tank tops, hilariously large basketball shorts (Michigan State, thank you very much), and sweatpants (Go Eastern Illinois University!). As someone who concerns herself with fashion and personal style, it may seem like I should abhor any item of clothing with "sweat" in its description. Or for that matter, anything with the name of a college written across the ass. However, I still say that I'd rather have my bootay support higher education than "Juicy," or something along those lines.

But, in these rough economic and emotional times, sometimes the best thing you can do is throw on the comfiest, softest thing you can find, and save your aesthetic energies for another day. For me, "another day" means "the moment that peacock ring arrives in my mailbox." From then on, depression be damned! I'll be wearing sequined prom dresses to live up to it's flair.