Haute and Cold Couture

The loss of Lacroix, Dahling! was certainly felt this couture season with a less than stellar showing, with only Dior and Chanel, the two powerhouse couturiers, delivering.

Gaultier was a joke and Sarah Mower was not laughing. Armani and Givenchy were boring.

Etc, etc, blah blah, give me a bowed bouffant and a riding crop.

I expect a lot from couture, a fantasy that I can only hope to attain, so don't give me whatever the hell this is. The queens on Drag Race could come up with better.

Chanel

Uncle Karl delivered one of his best couture collections, replete with silver and jewels entwined with the fabric, a wink to the future he doesn't believe in.

I really want to get married in this. In either look, really.

Dior

Galliano kind of phoned it in, but even half-assing it he's better than almost everyone else.

Just throw in some equestrian references, some lace and a few gorgeous, heart-stopping satin gowns and you've got a hit.

Alexander McQueen: When in Doubt, Give Me Batshit Crazy

Fashion’s always been obsessed about the future; I mean, hi, these shows forecast what we’ll all be wearing in the seasons to come, right? What will be hot? Which trends are next? Who’s the next great designer? In fashion, one day you’re in, the next…oh, you know.

P.S. Is anyone as bored by PJ Runway as I am?

But the Internet has opened up the world, accelerated progress, propelling us into the future at light speed, whereas before we were simply crawling. The current state of fashion, with the future sitting at the forefront of the imagination, is both frightening and exhilarating.

Remember the 60s and their vision of the future? Well, the 00s vision is rather more perverse. The Jetsons, however, were not too far off with their penchant for dramatic shoulders and onesies; a possible influence for last season’s Nina Ricci, Balenciaga and McQueen shows? If Jane Jetson had thrown on a tranny heel, we might be zipping around in flying cars and eating meals in pill form by now…though my vicodin/percocet lunch was tres delish.

Everyone’s anticipating the end of the world, or at least a dramatic shift in the way life is now, and it is reflected in the clothes. Alexander McQueen’s Spring 2010 collection has the lady of the future rocking impossible dome shoes, for which all the gals at AnA’s loft are watering at the mouth, and cocktail dresses featuring digital patterns and shapes haloing around the body like armor. There’s a hardness to all that beauty. A sort of primal aggression in the silhouettes. The vibrancy of the prints offset by the starkness of the make-up. And the hair is simply epic.

This is fashion, this is science fiction, this is my cocktail hour come spring. McQueen is dragging us into the future, hobbling on 13-inch heels, telling us there’s nothing to worry about. We'll all be robots with impeccable styling.

New (York) New York: A Hell of a Town

New (York) New York – 17 September, 2013

Dearests Dolly and Ms. Streisand,

The skies have turned a jaundiced yellow, the air, sickly and stale, is too toxic to breathe. All around me people are dying slowly from the radiation poisoning. Our days are numbered…but at least I look fierce. Thanks to these inhabitable conditions, I’ve finally gotten down to a perfect size 2, and my spine has curved into a permanent hunch. I now have an entire wardrobe to suit this Mad Max world we’ve suddenly entered. Since money is practically obsolete, or so I like to think, I just murdered the salesgays at Rodarte and stole the entire Spring 2010 line. I know it’s a few seasons old, but it’s so apropos for how I’m feeling. And everyone’s envious. At least I think it’s envy, it might just be the H1N1. Either way, I’m looking amazing and I expect to be dead within the week. Thus, I’ve included the wardrobe for the rest of my life, as I went about my daily tasks. Wish you were here (instead of living it up in the newfound paradise that is New New Jersey).

xoxo,
Ms. Ross

Here I am on the way to the munitions hut ...

This is after I tore out and ate the heart of Plum Sykes...not very filling...

I felt cute and flirty after leading a rather bloody stampede on Wall St...

Popping off to work at Trader Joe's...

Just came from the gym where I did 3 hours (!) of zombie takedown cardio

I had a hot date with what was left of Anderson Cooper...three locks of

silver hair and a Ralph Lauren suit...Gloria says 'Hi.'

End of the world party at Marc Jacobs'; Marc's dead, obvi, but I still like to use his townhouse.
I think he'd approve

Oh hi...

Precioussssss…

Enjoy your stroll while you can, Wang Chung. You may have escaped the sartorial purgatory that is the ceremonial cinching of bridal bodices, but do not dare forget to whom you are in debt.

The tithe is high, Wang. And is payable on receipt. In accordance with our deal, I expect the head of Mischa Barton on my doorstep in the morning.

I doubt she will be missed.

Dammit, Coddington, get your damn ginger hair out of my face! I’ve had it up to HERE with you upstaging me.

Yes. Everybody Wang Chung tonight.

Marcy Marc and the Funky Hunch

Porcelain

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?

Hey Everybody!

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.