by Emilio Pucci
$690 at net-a-porter.com
02 March 2007
I was wrong, it *could* get worse
Or was worse, to be more accurate.
The more I thought about Chloë's mess of a dress, the more I knew I'd seen it somewhere before.
After much searching, my eyes are lovely shade of lab-rat pink, but at least we all now know that like the pair of button-adorned, multi-color, multi-fabric "booties" on this poor, poor model's feet, the dress in question is a Luella creation.
If I go through this much trouble to identify the clothes I hate, just imagine what I'll do for the ones I love.
All sorts of wrong
It's not as if I have Rachel Bilson-like standards for a woman who has a body this fine but chooses to drape it in outfits like this and this, but come on, this sticky-sweet-pink Jessica McClintock circa 1991 prom lookbook dress with exaggerated sweetheart neckline and giant fabric front-folds has got to be a joke.
It just has to be. How else could Chloë Sevigny justify wearing this thing, not to mention her eerily symmetrical, got-my-hair-done-by-a-mall-stylist side tendrils, and an oversized gold and citrine crucifix a la the "Live a Virgin" video at her first mainstream movie premiere since, well, ever.
If it weren't for her bow-adorned row-toeds and hands-in-pocket stance (why do I love that so much?), Ms. Sevigny would be relegated to joining the committee of style assbackwardness spearheaded by co-chairs - and (yawn) pageant queens - Beyoncé and Vanessa Minillo.
One has to wonder, though, with the hard-to-box judgment Chloë has clearly and intentionally demonstrated in her acting career (The Brown Bunny, anyone?), could this dress just be an ironic 'eff-you to the Hollywood community that for nearly a decade has failed to get her searingly intense and cerebral tastes?
Who knows, but I'm sticking with my first instinct -- I just don't think she can dress herself.
Oh, DC.
It's 60 degrees.
It's sunny.
It's dry.
And, it's Friday.
When I stepped out my door this morning in black skinny jeans, snakeskin t-strap flats, pouf-sleeved tailored oxford shirt, silver/black/ivory brocade 3/4-sleeve mid-weight showpiece coat and wide black headband, I thought for sure I would catch my first glimpse of spring wear -- inspired spring wear. It's the day we're allowed to be inspired, after all, right?
But in the five blocks I strutted to work taking in an on-the-go mix of Journey ("Separate Ways"), Chicago ("Saturday in the Park") and Survivor ("The Search is Over") - to me, the soundtrack of early Spring - I saw a landscape of nothing but the same boxy black overcoats, scuffed square-toed boots, dry, cracked hands and pasty cheeks.
"Am I the only one who wears bronzer in this city?" I thought to myself, remembering with pride - and admiring in the reflective glass at Palette on 15th and M - how near-professionally I'd applied my swipes of Goddess this morning.
But then, literally steps from the garish gold trim of my office building, I saw something promising. Very promising. Waiting at the intersection of ConnAve and M, a young woman no older than 25, was not only in a great pair of skinny-heeled faux croc platform peep-toes but the new DvF Roberts dress as well. Don't let the model in the picture fool you into thinking this is a minidress, because it's not. The hem hit the woman's knees right to the caps, and she was about 5'8."
Unfortunately, every ray of sunshine has it's thunderstorm, and in this case, it was her supremely bad heel-walk -- she was a wobbly, amateurish clomp-clomp-clomper.
It's early in the season, though, and I'll take what bit of inspiration I can get.
Only three days left.
This Sunday marks the final day of the Metropolitan Museum of Art's three month exhibit of the late Nan Kempner's extraordinary collection of vintage couture evening gowns.
Admission is $20 per person; museum hours are 9:30am-9pm on Friday and Saturday and 9:30am-5:30pm on Sunday.
As an early birthday present, a dear friend surprised me a couple of weeks ago with his plan to Amtrak us up there where we would enjoy a Friday night eating true, make-your-lips-blister-and-bleed Sichuan laziji and sipping cocktails tens of tens of floors above Central Park South.
The shiny penny of the 24 hour trip, however, is that on Saturday, following a traditional lox-and-bagels brunch, we will take in the penultimate day of 'American Chic,' an experience from what I've read in several media outlets feels less like a formal exhibit than it does an intimate tour through the seven color, fabric and event coordinated closets of the woman Yves Saint Laurent referred to throughout his life as "his greatest muse."
I'd try to get there yourself, but if you can't, expect a full, starry-eyed report sometime Saturday evening.
01 March 2007
I just wanted to rescue it.
You know how you feel when you see a parent smack a child just a little too hard for what looks to you like no real reason?
Or when someone yanks on their dog's leash a bit too abruptly because the sweet thing isn't moving quickly enough for its late-for-work owner?
Well, somewhere in between these offenses, with the latter, for me, obviously being the more serious of the two, is how I felt today while waiting in line to buy a birthday card and the Bringing Up Baby DVD at the Borders on 18th and M.
The woman in question wasn't disciplining a child or, for her sake, maltreating a dog in my presence, but she was in criminal possession of a handbag her cheap navy suit, four shades of brown Coach logo-print buckled slides and yes, hunter-green waffle-textured scrunchie not only implied but SCREAMED she did not deserve.
This woman didn't just have a nice handbag, she had a Fendi Spy Bag. A real one.
How do I know it was real? Well, when you covet material items well outside your price range as I do, you tend to spend a great deal of time getting to know the bag, pair of trousers, deconstructed-bow patent leather peep-toes, etc., in whatever form to which you do have access. For me, that pretty much means nothin' but a whole lot of lookin'.
For example, on the ones I've seen sold for $90 on the side streets of Georgetown, the leather braid that cuts down the middle is very loosely knit together with sub-quality leather and often numbers more than six leather diamonds across. On the original, and you can check here, whether you start at the top, in the middle or at the bottom, you'll never find anything less than the highest-quality leather, and no fewer and no more than four diamonds across. Another tell-tale sign of a faux Spy Bag is the absence of the leather grommets on the left and right-hand sides of the straps. And finally, above the upper gold clasp, there should be a leather inlay within another leather inlay shaped like a women's mouth.
This woman's bag had four diamonds across, side-strap leather grommets and the double leather inlay. The more I listened to her and her companion's conversation - both, despite their not-so-much-ready-for-a-bikini figures, had recently stayed at the Four Seasons near Puerto Vallerta - the surer I became I had correctly identified the $2,270 Nicole Richie and Hilary Duff favorite.
Like the puppy I'm convinced is living in squalor next door to me, I so wanted but knew I had no legal right to reach out and rescue this poor, indefensible piece of accessory gorgeousness. I wanted to put it up against my pencil skirt and silk blouse, rock it back and forth and tell it, no, of course it didn't have to go back to the woman with the red, cracked cuticles, thick-strapped beige bra and more than just a little bit of an underbite.
She stepped up to the cashier to buy her Redbook and Gourmet, and then a few minutes later as she was lumbering out the door, I could've sworn I saw those leather inlaid lips open and whisper, "help me, please," but before I could be sure, they both vanished into the M Street lunch crowd cascading in indistinguishable droves past the windows.
It's like my mom always said when I was a child, "Johanna, you can't always help everyone."
Indeed, nor every thing.
Wardrobe staple alert
You must follow my lead and invest as quickly as you can in the sure-to-be-worn-multiple-times-a-week, slight-pouf, cap-sleeved silk button up from Ann Taylor I discovered yesterday after work. It comes in three colors, only one of which - creamy ivory - however, is worth your $68. The others - dusty rose and lavender - are sobering reminders of why Ann Taylor is, has been, and always will be a more-for-Mom kind of store.
Even so, sometimes, like yesterday, when I brave the bitchy, tired looks from the over-45 crowd with their uncared for split ends and three-inch cuffed, high-waisted-but-not-in-a-good-way poly-blend trousers, I can find wardrobe staples so powerfully versatile and so powerfully me they shake the very foundation of my outfit rotation.
Unlike similar silk cap-sleeve oxfords I've tried on over the past four months at Banana Republic, Barney's Co-op, Club Monaco, Nordstrom and various vintage boutiques, this AT blouse is tailored in such a way that when I tucked it into my DVF Marple skirt this morning on my very first try, I didn't have a single side pucker or errant material jut. It slid in as quickly and cleanly as...well, let's just say it was a good moment.
Not before this morning has it ever happened that I can't decide what to wear because I have too many favorable options. Usually, it's the case that something isn't dry-cleaned, something isn't ironed, or something was tragically left behind in a hurried 3am departure from an adjacent-to-the-White-House five-star. But not today.
Today, doing my best back-when-she-was-hot Elisabeth Shue impression standing in front of my closet in nothing but every woman's first, second and third order wardrobe components (i.e. peep-toes, bra and Brazilian Tangas), I couldn't decide among my new blouse and wide-legged black trousers, my new blouse and an at-the-waist black pencil skirt, my new blouse and an at-the-waist chocolate brown pencil skirt, my new blouse and dressy black bermudas, and so on. Finally, I turned to the fashion sage that is my 19 month old Jack Russell pup, and gave him a look that plainly said, "help."
Understanding the gravity of the time crunch his mother was under, the 13-pound style soldier pivoted on his back left paw, strode over to the row of below-the-waist items laid out on our bed, and after a few minutes of silent thought, he honed in on the black Marple skirt. Turning to me, he gave a subtle nod that indicated his decision had been made, and after kissing the paw in gratitude, I slipped on my favorite designer's silk jersey bow-accented masterpiece and was on my way.
I would provide you with a picture of my new discovery, but unfortunately, it's so new, so reasonably-priced and so fabulous, it's not yet listed on Ann Taylor's website. In case you're confused about what the style of this shirt looks like, this Banana Republic one comes pretty close, but as you might recall I discussed at length in a previous posting, that even when I tried this top on three clicks above my normal size, the fit across the chest made me look almost as unfortunate as the keyhole disaster that was Sela Ward at the 2002 Golden Globes.
My advice to you is to skip that trip to Cosi today, heck, skip lunch altogether, and head straight for the AT nearest your office. For those few of you who don't already know, the mirror rewards those with rumbly stomachs. And think of it this way, the $8-10 you don't spend on the Gorgonzola-filled salad and piece of side bread you don't really need, anyway, can be better invested in shoes, accessories, and appetite suppressants like gum and caffeinated beverages.
Diet caffeinated beverages.
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