I am simply wrung out, exhausted, barely able to move. I am dictating this blog-thing to my assistant while getting a foot message and pedicure (there is another masseuse giving Bucky a full-body message…the poor little dog had been banged around in so many different bags by frantic crowds! I do hope she remembers to put a muzzle on my darling before she paints his nails).
Because of my extreme weariness I shall simply give some thumbnail descriptions of various shows I visited during the past week. First of all, Diane von Furstenberg’s show was delightful, the dresses flowing, airy and comfortable. And many of the models were SMILING! Mon dieu! How refreshing! (Methinks Diane has found a man to have sex with, unlike her husband?) DVF even created a way to conceal Coco Rocha:
Brava, Diva!
As regular readers know, Marc Jacobs is not one of my favorite designers. However, one must reluctantly admit that his collection was…yes, I can say it…marvelous. Over the top, colorful, but so well-edited and with a sense of humor. It was at the Armory, and actually started on time! Last time spectators had to wait hours, and then MJ went ballistic, as they say, in the newspapers no less. One must do some reconsidering.
I am not usually a woman who is wrong, but in this case, I won’t say I have been wrong, but I will say that I have reconsidered. It was one of the best collections of the week. Cathy Horyn of the New York Times mentioned, that in this year of women in elections, perhaps some of Jacobs’s outfits were referencing turn-of-the-century suffragettes. Of that, I can only approve. And Cathy is simply one of the best, if not the best, fashion interpreters out there today.
Out of sheer curiosity, I would have gone to Michael Kors’s show, but participating in the New York Reality Television School the night before (how ironic!) left me reluctant to leave my bed until the Oscar de le Renta show.
And of course, your faithful correspondent was in the front row, across from the luminous Jennifer Lopez, who for some reason was wearing a black strapless ball gown for early afternoon (I mean, there are photo ops and there are photo ops, but really.) and Rachel Zoe. About the latter, my lips are sealed, friend-snatcher. Of course I wore Oscar from head to foot (well, not foot, because I have to have my shoes custom made, but I had managed to color coordinate my stilettos). So that I wouldn’t look too—I despise the phrase—“matchy matchy”, I carried a Louis Vuitton carrier for Bucky and a bright yellow Toblerone, extra large. One of those bars can get one through an entire day, provided one also brings a Red Bull or two. Yes, I do get a bit snappish at times—
WHY ARE YOU ROLLING YOUR EYES? WHAT AM I PAYING YOU FOR, YOU IDIOTIC SWINE? GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY FEET AT ONCE! GET OUT! NO, LEAVE YOUR ASSISTANT HERE! BUCKY'S TOES HAVE NOT BEEN PAINTED YET!
Ahem. Je ne souffrent pas des imbéciles heureux.
Absolutely beautiful, dahlings. One can always count on Oscar to deliver the goods.
And while we are at it, compare Oscar's swimsuit to Yigal's
Francisco Costa’s collection for Calvin Klein seemed a wee bit bizarre to your faithful correspondent, but he was going for an “architectural” look. For those of you who criticize moi for suggesting many of the models might have Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome, Serena Williams and Tyra Banks were in the audience… what a relief to see “real” women!
Christian Siriano executed a marvelous collection. He is truly growing as a designer, even though he’s almost as small in person as Bucky. (Seeing him stand next to my ex-friend Andre Leon Talley is seeing Mutt and Jeff personified, pardon the antique reference.)
As for the Project Runway show, my lips are sealed. You’ll simply have to wait, dahlings.
Ciao,
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