I always count on Marc to lift my spirits amidst the jumble, rumble and tumble of Fashion Week. How many harem pants, draped silhouettes and printed leggings can one look at before just not giving a Furstenberg?
And then here comes Marc, looking 12 years old and gorgeous in his requisite kilt, giving us crazy curly-cue details, feudal Japan references and an instantly must-have fanny pack and I’m inspired again. His Spring 2010 is a grab bag of exquisitely-crafted pieces, some for the average joanne in need of a staple trench or jacket, and plenty for the gals at AnA who’ve never met a ruffle we didn’t like.
Marc wants us to have fun with our clothes, an idea with which I could not agree more. Why not wear GIANT pajama pants with an exposed garter and a bra as a top with a bold scarf wrapped about the neck? I’m going to Key Food and I need something comfortable. These touches of underwear as outerwear, though not new at all by this point, felt fresh with Marc at the helm.
I didn’t, however, die for everything: those sandals though adorable looked painful as a mother and some of the later Aztec (I’m guessing)-inspired dresses left me a little apathetic.
But the finale dress, which looked like the tears of a sea nymph woven together by the thread of Grace Jones enchanted pubes (delightful image, no?) brought the show to a thrilling close.
The genius that is Marc Jacobs remains untainted, and the hotness that is Marc Jacobs, like a fine wine, seems to only improve with age. Lucky is the chubby Brazilian ad exec who gets to pop that cork.
Dolly From the wreckage of Lady Parton's forgotten hairsprayed wigs rose the petit and honey blond Dolly, anatomically male but emotionally an enlightened gay fashionista. A product of overzealous heteronormative familial units, Dolly flighted from rural America in a denim DKNY jacket (currently on view at the Met), moved to the West Village, and now canters daily to the AnA loft in ornate heels and Balmain. In between snacks of tap water and the occasional stick of gum, this yoga devotee (because Christy said so) ponders fashion history, personal styles of the rich and fabulous, trends in fashion editorials, and of course whatever shiny things catch her eye.
Ms.Ross Whilst sabotaging the careers of any pretenders to her throne of super-cunty divadom, Ms. Ross managed to pick up an American Vogue (this was ages before it's disappointing homogenization, natch) and was inspired by the colorful and intoxicating images therein. Before you can say "I'm Coming Out," Ms. Ross secured an internship in the hallowed, cashmere walls of the mag and her career in fashion began in earnest. Now a self-styled fashionista, Ms. Ross can be found stomping down the runways of Paris and Milan, throwing tantrums for the hell of it and vomiting up lunch in the trendiest of restaurant bathrooms. Ms.Streisand A young Jewish ingenue from deep, deep, deep Brooklyn, Ms. Streisand boarded a blue tugboat clad only in an orange dress, fur hat with matching muff and booked it straight for Manhattan, where she lived the first six months fresh and free at Isaac Mizrahi's Garment District studio. Finding work as a fit, showroom, and presentation model beneath her, this lady of naught but seventeen years traded in her four-inch stilettos for the bright lights of Broadway and the broad shoulders of at least three wealthy financiers, all of whom have disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Despite protests from fans, Ms. Streisand is currently pondering moving to New Jersey to participate in the Real Housewives series.
Have a hunch to reccommend? A Tyra/Latifah sighting? Send it to the AnA loft! akimbo (dot) arms (at) gmail.com