Friday, April 30, 2010
Bespectacled visionary and reality show alum, Fern Mallis is catwalking from IMG to start her own company. The fashion world heaves a collective sigh. Then passes out from the extra exertion.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
He cried tears of joy when he saw me...or that might have been because I videotaped the murder and put it on repeat as a slideshow projected over his head for the entire ceremony.
It was a really beautiful and classy affair.
According to the gals over at Fashionista, Naomi signed a promise not to throw her phone while in the presence of Mama O's audience.
In other news, the body of Gayle King was found stuffed into a Louis Vuitton travel bag with a Blackberry wedged in her forehead. Naomi's people have "no comment."
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
I sincerely hope you've been watching this season of RuPaul's Drag Race (start yo EN-GINES) because it's the best thing on TV. Sorry, Glee (though this makes a strong argument).
Last night was the epic season finale and Ru and her goils seriously delivered. The top three -- Tyra Sanchez, Raven and Jujubee -- had a Dynasty moment with Ru, learned fight choreography with the best person ever and filmed scenes for the "Jealous of My Boogie" vidjo. Juju had to sashay away, leaving Raven and Tyra to lip synch. For their. Lives.
When the glitter settled, there was one queer winner. The other Tyra. Or, in all drag realness, the only Tyra. Girl brought it hard and consistently throughout the entire season, which was shockingly even better than the first.
The girls and I laughed, we cried, we threw shade and then we strutted around in our heels during the equally epic reunion show. Honestly, if Drag Race doesn't win an Emmy, I plan on stealing the one the other Tyra allegedly won, driving by RuPaul's house and throwing it in her god damn face.
Long live the tranny!
Monday, April 26, 2010
Directed by Irving Rapper
Costumes by Orry-Kelly
Did I just wander into a middle school production of The Hours and are you little Virginia Woolf?
What's in this? Chronic? Hashish? Cuz I am FUCKED up.
Turn. It. Tranny.
Yeah, that's right, I just lit my cigarette on a dead homeless man. And I killed him. Who's gonna judge me?
Thursday, April 22, 2010
P.S. If anyone deserves a blood diamond, I think we can all agree it would be this tranny.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Handle the May issue of Vogue Paris with care. There are enough chiseled cheekbones on this cover to induce severe bleeding.
Pepe serves as guest editor for this month's mag and corralled several of my favorite actresses...and Gwyneth Paltrow, for what is literally perfection.
They're all wearing Gap (Red) T-shirts benefiting some charity, which explains Bono's presence amidst all this sapphic delight.
And Pepe and Meryl are clearly fucking, which explains this little slice of heaven.
I love when actresses bump Oscars.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Recently I finished reading André Leon Talley’s memoir, entitled simply A.L.T. and felt I had to share, a la Oprah’s Book Club (A HARPO Production). Expecting a series of pronouncements on the wheres, whens and hows of the glamorous life, to my surprise and initial chagrin, the book is full of – can it be? – actual sincerity.
More a memoir of his sainted grandmother and the saintly Diana Vreeland, the two women who helped to mold him into the Chado Ralph Rucci-cape wearing international diva and style icon he is, than an out and out autobiography, A.L.T. spends a great deal of time dwelling in his southern roots. He clearly takes great pride in his humble origins, and rather than try to escape from where he comes from, openly embraces it.
Bennie sans the jets
Bennie Francis Davis, André’s grandmother, whom he refers to as Mama, was a simple woman with great style and strength, under whose care he enjoyed the freedom to be himself. Who that is still remains a bit of a mystery at book’s end, as La Talley rarely goes into anything too personal. For instance, he never goes into his sexual awakening, which is par for the course for any memoir in my opinion. He nver even mentions the topic of his sexuality.
However, this can probably be traced back to his religious and conservative upbringing where it would no doubt be deemed entirely inappropriate to speak of such things in a public forum. A.L.T. still regularly attends church, as a matter of fact, and visits his childhood home in Durham, NC, as a means of grounding himself from the jetset high fashion world.
Diana Vreeland, WORKING.
From Benie Francis Davis, André learned how to find luxury in his everyday world. As a child, luxury was embodied by the crisp, clean white sheets on his bed, his grandmother’s cooking and his Sunday clothes. From Diana Vreeland, he gained his entrée, and a brilliant entrée it was, into the world of fashion. Growing up, as so many little girls did, wrapped up in the pages of Vogue, A.L.T. long regarded Vreeland as one of his personal heroes and his first job was literally a dream come true: assisting her at the Metropolitan Museum’s Costume Institute.
Diva and apprentice
André Leon Talley’s story is one of idealism, perseverance, hard work, good luck and unmistakable talent. Girl knows what she is doing. The way he writes about beauty and luxury, no matter how simple or decadent, is inspiring:
“Luxury in the greatest sense, in the grand sense, could be something as simple as watching two cardinals cavorting outside my bedroom window, or receiving from my uncle’s big, callused hands a basket of tomatoes, still smelling of the salt and sunshine of the vine.”
He is a true and passionate connoisseur of beauty and this is evident from his earliest youth as he is marveled by the spectacularly attired ladies of his family, particularly Bennie Francis, and his church. So strong is his grandmother’s influence on his life, that A.L.T. lacks the air of scandal, of sex, drugs and haute couture, that one would expect from someone such as the Editor-at-Large for Vogue. André Leon Talley is, in effect, kind of boring.
Which is, by no means, an insult. Rather, it’s a testament to his family, his faith and his friends that he’s managed to cultivate such a glamorous life, and such an esteemed career, while lacking the usual vices and corruptions rampant in the circles he so frequently travels. That’s not to say there aren’t a few choice tidbits to relish.
Well finally there's photographic proof of my parentage. André Leon Taley and Diana Ross -- 9 months later, I came deathdropping into the world .
One of my favorite anecdotes has to do with Halston inviting André over to dinner, which consisted of a mountain of coke for good old Roy and potatoes and caviar for André. And then there’s Grace Jones showing up late to Monaco for a Chanel show and demanding her gloves from André for “attitude.” He was at 54, he was part of Warhol's circle, he's lived a life I have only dreamed and obsessed about.
A.L.T. name drops everyone: Karl Lagerfeld, Anna Wintour, John Galliano, Jackie O, Truman Capote, Diane von Furstenberg, Miuccia Prada, Diana Ross, Liza Minnelli, Bianca Jagger, etc. But his memoirs
are full more of his grandmother and his mentor, Diana Vreeland, than any of these 20th century luminaries. These two women are really what matter to him most in life: family.
Papa, can you hear me?
André Leon Talley is a real person. Who knew? He has values and morals, a normal life that is punctuated by his deep passion for luxury, beauty and fashion. But as he put it, “Fashion is no substitute for family.” Not a sentiment I particularly share, but one I can respect nonetheless. If anything, reading André Leon Talley's memoirs has given me a little more understanding of someone I've considered an idol since he first came into my consciousness, and a newfound respect for him as more than an idol, but as someone strikingly human.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Directed by Billy Wilder
Costumes by Edith Head
A large part of what makes Norma so tragic a character is her wardrobe, realized by legendary costume designer, Edith Head. Head gives Norma Desmond an air of dilapidated glamour; her clothes are gorgeous, but they're a bit worn, a bit shoddy, a bit off. Much like the lady herself.
honored woman in Oscar history (sorry, Meryl...again) was not nominated for her work, but instead won for work she did on another little movie that year. Fair enough. However, Norma Desmond remains one of the most haunting and interesting fictional characters of the 20th century, and her larger than life style continues to inspire drag queens to this day.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Meanwhile, my freshman year at NYU was spent losing 30 lbs and learning to binge drink. I'm glad to know my youth was completely wasted.
And yes, I am very bitter. Very, very bitter.
Premiering in September of 2001, at least one reason why its birth is muddled in the haze (this being another), I was but a sophomore in high school, taking baby steps through my first issues of Vogue.
Then this giant, modestly-priced number came along and I slipped into it as easily as Karlie Kloss into a couture bodysuit. Nearly ten years later, here we both are, a little worse for wear, but still actively turning it.
Below, in my not so humble opinion, are the greatest covers in W's short history, year by year.
W's first great cover came a good 9 months into its inception. This was the first cover I actually remember hearing about, though it certainly wouldn't be the last buzzworthy cover for the mag. A post-klepto Winona, tussled hair, punk attitude and all, sporting her own ubiquitous T whose image is weirdly reminiscent of a young Mary Tyler Moore, sans the innocence or Dick van Dyke.
Selma Blair, where are you? Her January 2003 cover is simple and perfect, with those GIANT mod eyelashes (that I would wear everyday if I could) and slightly agape mouth. Meanwhile, Pam Anderson strikes an all together completely different pose, giving windswept 80s sex pot.
Androgyny, always a favorite topic in fashion, is given double exposure via Gisele's (hunching for her life) January 2004 cover and W's "Asexual Revolution" issue later that year.
Karen Elson, MOVE! The Brangelina cover, the issue that really made W's one-letter name, is still one of their best. The 60-page Steven Klein shoot now seems eerily prescient, given the beaten up state of Angie's vagina. He was a bit off on the kids' shading, though.
Probably the best year for W, I had trouble picking only four covers. Usually and openly not a fan of Cammy D, she looks AMAZING in the December 2006 issue. Mostly because it doesn't look anything like her. Meanwhile, Christina Ricci's stunning fur-trimmed hunch caused those uptight PETA assholes to wet themselves. And Meryl's and La Lohan's cover is still HILARIOUS.
Someone I'm also not a fan of, Gwynny Paltrow, has never looked better, or more equine, than in September 2007. A month earlier, alien-robot couple, The Beckhams, had one of the sexiest shoots, perhaps ever and enough cannot be said about Naomi's photojournal. I'm still gagging over it.
Little Orphan Annie Hathaway was about to hop on the Oscar train as a front-runner for her wonderful performance in Rachel Getting Married, and was having a serious moment. Though Hath lost, August cover girl, Pepe Cruz, snatched a trophy with the same delicate hand that's caressing her shoulder.
Madonna and W have always had a great relationship, and thanks to W, the icon got another relationship out of the deal. After spinning her divorce into yet another publicity stunt, she began dating her barely legal co-star from the shoot. Somethings, thank god, never change.