Fashion Week Sneak Peek #2: Ports 1961

DAHLINGS -

Ports 1961, which creates simply marvelous fashion, sent a few sketches of their Spring 2010 Fashion Week presentation to your faithful correspondent this week. It has me simply craving to see them in person!

Ports Creative Director Tia Cibani has stated, that despite the economy: “Give
women beautiful clothes that represent value and quality and they will still find a way to buy them.” 'Tis true, 'tis true.

Cibani is moving from boutique and online marketing to the Bryant Park tents, bringing the customers along with her. Spring 2010 will explore the concept of "craft meets innovation".

See you under the tents!

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

A Fabulous Fashion Dude Thinks I'm Fabulous!

DAHLINGS -

We interrupt our coverage of Project Runway to toot our own horn! Wilbur Pack Jr., an incredibly talented fashion designer, wrote a blog entry about moi in his blog, "I Am Fabulous: A Black FashionDude's Odyssey"!

Here is the link:
http://iamfabulous-ablackfashiondudesodyssey.blogspot.com/

We met last February, at a benefit for the McClellan Cooper Foundation (which featured Korto Momolu's runway show, chronicled in this blog). I first spotted his sister in an astounding denim evening dress. When I gasped, "Where did you get that dress," she indicated the tall, handsome man next to her and replied, "My brother designed it."

A model, Wilbur Pack, and his sister (both dresses SKWilbur designs)

I am overcome, simply overcome. So you can look out for moi in the coming months in one of Wilbur Pack's creations! (And do go to his website, http://skwilbur.com/to see his latest line of colorful sportswear!)

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Metropolitan Museum Costume Gala Best Dressed 2009

DAHLINGS -

It took a bit of doing to find women who were neither excessive nor simply idiotic in their choice of garb at Monday's Metropolitan Museum Costume Institute gala opening for "The Model As Muse: Embodying Fashion." However, there were some absolutely stunning choices. And while mine may not agree with everyone, I'm certain that my first pick is one of the winners across the board:



Imam, who always displays the most amazing good taste, in a satin gown by Donna Karan.



Anne Grauso--so nice to see a real woman amongst the stick figures, in such a beautiful dress. If anyone knows who created it, please do let me know! (Although I am not a fan of skimmed back hair on high foreheads, but let's not quibble.)

Speaking of stick figures, I know that jaws will drop all over the world at my next selection.



Anne Hathaway covers up her gaunt figure in a wonderful purple dress by Marc Jacobs, with a 60s inspired bouffant hairdo that transforms her from princess to wild thing. In my opinion, it's a welcome change for her usual red carpet needing a glucose IV look.



And how gorgeous was model Oluchi Onweagba in her (of course) Oscar de la Renta black and white ballgown? I MUST own this one ASAP.



Here is Liv Tyler working a Jane Russell look in a dark blue Stella McCartney gown with smoky makeup to match.

Speaking of old Hollywood...



Special kudos to Marisa Tomei for wearing vintage ADRIAN!! She looks beyond beautiful, every inch the movie star. The designer would be so proud.

Sorry if there were fewer than expected, particularly at a fashion gala, but the truth is, there was less to choose from than I would have expected. For one thing, the Omnipresent Silhouette from the recent Fashion Week was everywhere: a tight waisted short dress with a bouffant skirt and overstated shoulders. Oh, there were variations...strapless, or one-shouldered...but not much inspiration, IMO. And yes, it looks beautiful on beautiful women, but how much effort does that take?

I also think I'm starting to suffer from Pose Fatigue. All of those hundreds of women standing in variations of two or three poses...hands on hips, hips forward, one leg forward, one hand on one hip...eventually they all start to blur together, dahlings.

Oh, dear, I really think I must lie down. Coming soon: entries about a new salon on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, Isaac Mizhari, and anything else I feel like writing about. It is my blog-thing, after all.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

From Project Runway to ELEVEN MINUTES: Jay McCarroll's Bumpy Ride

DAHLINGS -

Rabid fans of “Project Runway” who have followed the show since its inception will certainly enjoy ELEVEN MINUTES, the story of how first season winner Jay McCarroll went on to design and show his first independent line at Fashion Week at Bryant Park two years later. For others, however, the appeal of this small exercise in cinema-verite (directed and produced by Michael Seiditch and Rob Tate) may seem puzzling.

For one thing, McCarroll, a rotund, baby-faced man with a goatee and an endless supply of flamboyant headgear, has charm but is not deeply compelling enough for us to want to follow him for the film’s 103-minute running time. In fact, the first third seems meandering and pointless. However, as one of my viewing companions put it, McCarroll has no subtext—whatever his subtext is, it comes right out of his mouth unedited. “I’m the fucking poster boy for angry insecurity!” he yells at one point in the film, and tells interviewers that his collection inspiration is “vaginal discharge.”

Unlike most conventional documentaries, ELEVEN MINUTES contains no flashbacks and almost no back story, other than the stated fact that after McCarroll won “Project Runway,” in his words, “the cord was cut.” The film stays completely in the present moment from start to finish, during the eight frantic months it takes Jay to design and prepare his fashion show.

Once the actual planning, etc. starts, the film gains momentum, as we watch Jay’s friends (all working for free), and see how truly enormous the creative process behind a show like this is. Unlike reality TV, with its scripted conflict and contrived setbacks, this is reality; where conflict arises from exhaustion, frayed nerves, and no money. The setbacks are genuine (will the shoes arrive in time for the show? Will the factory be able to make the dress he designed that has 140 individual pieces of fabric?). It also exposes the enormous cruelty within the fashion business on every level, from model selection (“she’s old!” Kelly Cutrone says of one candidate) to seat selection for the show. There are the “Front Rows” and behind them, the “Who Gives A Shits.”

McCarroll is caught between worrying about the mass production of his designs, and worrying about how that affects his design aesthetic. (One thing McCarroll must be applauded for: as he says, "No emaciated models! I want one with a boob!" ) The showing of his collection, called “Transport” after his obsession with hot air balloons, is the eleven minutes the film refers to.



The majority of documentaries about creative people are about genius, and extolling that genius (for instance, THE DEVIL AND DANIEL JOHNSTON, although nobody will ever convince me that Johnston is a talented musician). ELEVEN MINUTES, however, is not essentially about the ecology of creativity; it is essentially about the ecology of business. Jay McCarroll knows that his personality/notoriety is a more marketable commodity at this stage than his actual design talent. As he says at the beginning, “I have a short shelf life.” For this niche film, there is definitely an audience in the fashion world. But for the general public, this shelf life might have already passed.

Sincerely,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Official website: http://www.elevenminutes-jaymccarroll.com/

Fashion Week 2009 Wrap Up, Dahlings!

DAHLINGS –

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,

Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Fatigue Sets In At Fashion Week 2009...

DAHLINGS –

Because of my evening at the New York Reality Television School, I missed the ho-hum Halston collection. No great loss, as my friends at the Bryant Park Hotel told me when I stopped by the Zimmerman Spring Preview.

But I did manage to take in three earlier shows (although how anyone expects an important, busy woman to get up at dawn to attend a 9 AM collection, no matter by whom, baffles me).

Speaking of ho-hum, my day started with the Monique Lhuillier show in the promenade. Maybe it was fashion fatigue setting in, but this collection seemed dull, derivative and uninspired, even if many of the fabrics were lovely. This poor model was absolutely wall-eyed with exhaustion and hunger.



As she passed , I was nibbling on a chocolate croissant, and for a second I feared she was going to attack me, as Natasha Poly had a few seasons back. Fortunately, as always during Fashion Week, there were paramedics stationed at perimeter points armed with Ensure, cigarettes, and crystal meth.

But back on topic, haven’t you seen varations of this dress in catalogs a hundred times?




Next, it was over to the Betsey Johnson show, where I was quite pleasantly surprised. Ms. Johnson and I do not have the same style sense by any means. But this collection was a delightful campy romp, and there were giant cupcakes for all of us in the front row! The big-little-girl dresses and adorable wigs brought back strong memories of my childhood. Particularly since dear, darling Mama forced me to pretend to be eleven years old for ten years.




As Maurice Chevalier sang, "Ah, yes, I remember it well." By the time she allowed me to turn twelve, I was far more zaftig than any of these models, I can tell you that. Ms. Johnson herself astonished me by coming out looking quite chic before she did her trademark cartwheel.



The final show I had time to attend was Dennis Basso, who obviously does not believe personally in the gaunt aesthetic he promotes. Basso profundo, indeed! More like Basso gigundo.



My idol Anna Wintour was in attendance, as was Nina Garcia of "Project Runway," and a galaxy of socialites. Basso's clothes were lovely, but could any model have looked more miserable than Cecilia Mendez?



It made for a bit of cognitive dissonance. However, I made a note to order this stunner for myself. Imagine it with a real body inside!



Oh, damn, I hear whining from the bedroom, and Bucky is curled up at my feet. It must be my assistant. She gets SO confused at the simplest instructions; all she has to do is lay out my five outfits for tomorrow, with matching shoes and jewelry! Is that so very much to ask?

Must dash –

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Fashion Week Part Three - all hail Francisco Costa!

DAHLINGS -

Before I write about any more of the shows, I must tell you about last night (well, some parts of last night). My assistant was missing when I came in this evening, it's quite annoying. She was supposed to lay out my ensembles for tomorrow! She's been in a royal sulk since I informed her she was far too low-class to be seen out and about with me at Bryant Park.

But enough about my domestic troubles. After the shows, it was off to the party of parties, the grand event, the 40th anniversary of Calvin Klein!Of course I had to change in the limo, but I'm an expert at that by now. It was into, of course, a vintage Calvin long chiffon gown (you thought I would wear his vintage jeans? Quel stupide!). This gala event was exactly what your faithful correspondent needed to soothe her jangled senses. Fortunately, I was able to avoid Vincent Gallo. Don't ask me why, but I wonder why he is allowed to live.

The party was held at the High Line, three stories high on 10th Avenue, where I'm told some railroad or something used to be. There were white roses and Calvin Klein adverts everywhere, overwhelming the senses. (And the nostrils.) Our host was the sensational Francisco Costa (I might replace Andre with Francisco, if he is willing!).



If you had laid every celebrity and fashion maven end to end...you would have had what the party looked like by the time it broke up. Here's a glass of champagne to you, mon bien-aimé lecteurs, I only wish you could have been there with me.

Or maybe not.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Fashion Week Continues--Recovering From Heartbreak

This is Miss DeCarlo’s assistant…I snuck out of here and didn’t dare come back until she left again. A girlfriend of mine over at Bryant Park said she saw this big blonde screaming in French at a huge black dude who was cowering behind Rachel Zoe. That is so my boss. Jesus wept! So, like I made sure I was outta here. She left me a ton of stuff sent from her Iphone, so I guess it’s going to be one of those nights. What a weirdo.

DAHLINGS –

Genuine apologies for the interruption. My delicate nerves are unraveled, raw, indeed, flayed! Andre Leon Talley shall never darken my silk napkins again.

But to business. Before I was so rudely interrupted (and betrayed!) by Andre’s alliance with that Los Angeles trend-hound, I was about to tell you of Fashion Week on Saturday. The first show I attended was Abaete, designed by Laura Poretsky. One was so hoping to be diverted from one’s private pain by wonderful fashion. Instead, a parade of fashion oddities strutted before me. I know that vintage is in, but this made me think of men’s swimwear circa 1910. All the model needed was a large mustache to sing in a barbershop quartet.



And I am sorry, but this was simply what the young folk like to call “a hot mess,” as was much of the show.



It was simply a MONSOON outside all day, and my poor dear darling Bucky detests the rain! It is a known characteristic of miniature pinschers, along with licking their private parts when one has company.

My little dog was trembling so violently that he urinated on my Oscar de la Renta dress, so it was back to my luxurious apartment on Central Park West to change clothes and let the poor little dear stay home (after giving him a pinch of valium in his dog food). I chose a Bill Blass pants ensemble designed by Peter Som for the 2008 Pre-Fall Collection, opting for fashionable comfort over getting my legs drenched.

At least not by the rain, this time.

My return, unfortunately, coincided with the Alexander Wang show. Back down to 21st Street...I should have confined myself to the tents! Wang had declared that he was going to give us "color", and this was his version of color.



Ah, yes, tres jolie, particularly with the "Pinhead" horror movie hat on.



Your faithful correspondent should have known better than to return to Bryant Park in time for the Rock & Republic show. Why, oh, why, would they let one of those horrendously emaciated anorexic models pretend she had even a chance in Hell of looking curvaceous?



One flashes back to a childhood memory of watching Fred Astaire with dear, darling Mama at the Museum of Modern Art. I might have been an adolescent by that time, but Mama was still forcing me to pretend I was eleven years old (explained elsewhere). The thought occured to moi that having sex with Mr. Astaire might result in some very bad cuts from his razor sharp elbows and knees. Thank goodness I did not yet know about hipbones!

Until next time,

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Very Slim Pickings At Fashion Week 2009

This is Mademoiselle’s assistant, transcribing her notes from her Iphone. Yeah, there’s nothing I’d rather be doing right now after midnight on Sunday than be stuck in the office while she’s out seeing all the big celebrities and those beautiful models—what is her problem with them?? Anyway, here’s what she has sent me so far. It broke off kind of abruptly, but she says there's more.

DAHLINGS –

It’s only day two of Fashion Week, and already a disturbing trend has shown itself. No, not the extreme gauntness of the models, that is a given in these times. The fleshless arms, the huge spaces between their nonexistent thighs, the gurgling of their stomachs from hunger; all commonplace. Not even the occasional fainting spell makes the jaded spectators turn their heads.

But for reasons known only to themselves, many designers are playing up the models’ resemblance to survivors of the Holocaust. For instance:



Need I say more?

It did not help that the first show I attended, all the way down on 21st Street, was the dependably depressing Yigal Azrouel, who showed this:



Marching off to the labor camp, one assumes. And really, did one need to start one’s day seeing THIS?

Give the poor thing some pencils and a tin cup, I say.

I dashed out of Nicole Miller’s show early to cunningly sneak in to the Erin Fetherston show (one is loathe to admit that one is officially banned for pelting a model with bonbons a season or two ago). As it happened, I was dressed in a stunning ensemble by Ms. Miller, and as always, had my loyal companion Bucky with me, today in an exceptionally large Gucci tote. (On the practical side, the tote has been specially lined with plastic; Bucky has been known to be unable to wait until the end of a show for his walkies.) It was a bit annoying having to watch from the back, as I usually sit in the front row. But I did not want to give away my presence before I could get a look at the collection.

Fetherston’s designs are meant to be ethereal, but look as though they had been put together from a combination of what the catalogs like to call “tissue weight” fabric (another word for faible qualité) and the kind of bizarre shiny wrapping paper one buys (not moi!) at the local dollar store.

On Saturday, I started my day with—wait a moment, that can’t be! Andre Leon Talley, my bosom friend, talking to…RACHEL ZOE? A dagger in my heart!

Later for Saturday! The traitorous rogue!

Added by me:

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

A Plus-Sized Sister, Sarah Conley, At Fashion Week!

DAHLINGS -

One casualty of my busy life (along with my sanity), has been keeping up with current events. No, no, not politics, that will have to wait until the truly important matters have finished--FASHION WEEK!

The blog "StyleIt" has entered a whole new level of blogging, as author Sarah Conley, a luxuriously sized woman, is making a documentary about her experiences at Fashion Week!



Titled "On The Plus Side," both video and written entries are being downloaded daily, at:

http://styleit.onsugar.com/

Unlike moi, she is slightly lacking in self-confidence, but has a wonderful camera presence, a delightful sense of humor, and great courage. Here is an excerpt from the "On The Plus Side" home page:

The experience is designed to empower and motivate women to embrace their figure, no matter their size. Being 6'2", and a size 26 with size 12 feet, Sarah has always felt out of place due to her size. Now, as a professional in the fashion industry, she faces a new set of challenges relating to body image and self confidence. Her daily videos will approach the issues related to being a fashionable fuller figured woman in an industry obsessed with being thin. Additionally, she plans to help empower every woman by showing them that they too can be a fashionable, confident and well put together woman.

I urge my readers to bookmark this site and follow Sarah's adventures in Fashion Land. (And of course, this one, too!).

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Too Exhausted To Rail At My Assistant...

DAHLINGS -

Night and day I have been toiling on my show, "Diary of A Mad Fashionista," sacrificing everything in its wake...Fashion Week, timely posts on Project Runway, calls from various handsome males missing my favors...

Even selling my beauteous vintage. I ORDERED my idiotic assistant to list new vintage items on my site on Specialist Auctions, Bodaciously Yours Vintage. But the lowlife chose to use my being so preoccupied to start playing something called World of Warcraft.

However, I caught her in the act and confiscated her headset. She's in withdrawal now, shaking and drooling. Fortunately, I was able to lock her in the office bathroom so she would not drool on anything valuable. I'll have the maid look in on her when the moans stop being so loud.

But I digress. I shall be parading on stage in a series of fabulous outfits, in all my robust glory, and I promise all of you out there a good time!

Note to the handsome males: especially after the show.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

It's Fashion Week AGAIN! Oh, My GOD!

DAHLINGS –

Just when I wasn’t looking, Fashion Week Fall 2008 crept up on me! Yes, I know I have simply STACKS of invitations on my desk that my moronic assistant didn’t bother answering (or even tell me about). It was with horror that I awoke this morning in my silk-sheeted bed, Bucky nestled beside me, and realized that Fashion Week started TWO DAYS AGO!

Wait until that assistant comes in tomorrow…I’m going to make her life a living hell, let me tell you.

The most I can do for now is give you my impressions from looking over the shows on the Internet…a poor substitute, I know, but better than no coverage at all, n’cest pas?

First, that continuing blight on the fashion landscape, Yigal Azrouel, who can always be counted to present a large collection of boring, sexless fashion. Suddenly, the designs on “Project Runway” seem like works of GENIUS. He continued with his strange brand of scruffy androgyny:




I thank the Gods that be that I was not in attendance. I might have pelted the models with chocolate-covered cherries, and started a stampede (that got me ejected from the Erin Fetherston show a few years back).

For her show this year, Nicole Miller claimed to have been inspired by Joan of Arc. (That's Jeanne d'Arc to those of us who parle Francais.) One supposes there are worse inspirations than a hallucinating religious maniac who hears voices and ends up getting killed at the age of nineteen. Actually, that profile would fit quite a few modern pop singers, wouldn't it? It was a nice show, but not one of her best; in fact, one has a rather hard time connecting this puffer jacket gone wild with Catholicism:



Tonight we close with a rather frightening image from the Alexander Wang show. As much as I may rail in this blog against the terrifyingly thin models that stagger down the runways, it seems that nothing will stop the shrinking. Today when I at last arrived at Bryant Park, there were the usual paramedics armed with Ensure, cocaine and dextroamphetamine. The show must go on.



Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

The Three Tomatoes Write About Moi!

DAHLINGS -

Fashion Week is over at last, and now I have some time to myself. And I truly mean to myself, because my assistant and my maid both resigned during the past week. So, it's been calls to the employment agencies and take-out from Pastis, until this dry spell is over.

Fortunately, my wonderful pup Bucky is always there for me, in good times and bad. As I type this, he is on my lap, which makes typing slightly difficult. Because his head is resting on my right forearm. But move him? Never! A dog's love is forever--

Oh! He jumped off my lap and trotted out of the room! Damn the beast! Bucky must have smelled the leftover coq au vin in the kitchen that I was heating up.

Heating up my own leftovers...that is what your faithful correspondent is reduced to. But life could be far worse.

This same week, I was profiled in The Three Tomatoes, a simply marvelous e-newsletter aimed at the fairer sex, with both tremendous aplomb and wide circulation. It's an absolute must-read, mes amis.

Here’s the link to yesterday’s newsletter:
http://app.e2ma.net/campaign/ac406fa71ac2798786156408886d7501

Read and enjoy! And envy me, of course. (But then, who does not?) The only fact they got wrong is that I have never been in rehab...that horrible doppelganger with the same name of mine has been, and HOW she got mentioned in the article is beyond me! Being confused with her is so deeply annoying. I have sent letters from my lawyer demanding she change her name, but so far the upstart has refused.

With that one small exception, it is a delightful article in a wonderful publication, so I shall graciously overlook it. Pardonnez moi, I have to go rescue the coq au vin. Bucky has a terribly sensitive little tummy and I cannot have him messing the carpets.

Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the not-so-Wonderdog

Fashion Week. Marc and Marc: A Study In Contrasts

DAHLINGS -

As you might guess, my new assistant did not quite work out.

So I am actually transcribing this myself, which explains the delay. I have tried to keep up, but there are only so many hours in the day, particularly when you have to keep changing your attire. (I dreaded being criticized by the Fugly Girls in New York magazine for wearing the same outfit twice! They are tres amusant, but merciless.)

Unfortunately, on Monday I had the unpleasant task of not only firing my would-be assistant, but that meant that my maid resigned as well. I was effectively left with NO staff whatsoever, except for my limo driver!

However! Your faithful correspondent is not a woman who bows down before Fate; I dressed myself in a silk robins-egg blue Calvin Klein dress with matching shoes and a carrier for Bucky, and packed a vintage Chanel outfit for the Marc Jacobs show.

I started by attending the Marc Bouwer show at the Promenade. The set design was cool and apaiser, a glowing green runway and backdrop. On each seat was a little tin of sugarless mints, labeled Marc Bouwer Glimints. (Since I arrived early and several seats were still empty, I helped myself. A woman can never have too many breath mints. One might find oneself talking to Roger Federer!)

At first I was a tad de'céu. The first dresses were well cut, but so billowy. Perfect if one is having what is called a “fat day,” but not my idea of Fashion In The True Sense. And there was one white bathing suit that was the image of Rudi Gernreich. The models were all wearing top knots that looked extremely painful, except for one blonde with short hair. So no hats.

However, once the colors came in, matters quickly improved! Turquoise is one of my favorite colors, and it was well represented in dresses, bathing suits, and other garments. The rest of the show was a dazzling sea of color. There was a magnificent red gown that I would have torn off the model’s back had I been sitting close enough. The overall look for the collection was flowing, drapy, and soft.

The only misstep, to moi, was the simply hideous sequined beaded patchwork minidress. What was the man thinking? That Halloween is coming?



However, he saved the best for last: the spectacular dress that closed the show, a turquoise goddess gown with a satin and chiffon train and a matching shredded capelet that mimicked feathers.



Ivana Trump was in the front row near me, of course, with her youthful charge, and on the other side sat a number of models who were to do the Marc Jacobs show much, much, much later in the evening. Tim Gunn and Veronica Webb were there. Fortunately Mr. Gunn didn’t recognize me in the dark. Also nearby was Lisa Marie Presley, who has gone blonde, a most unfortunate choice.

Backstage, I snuck out my camera and got a shot of the designer being interviewed by Veronica Webb (forgive the quality of the shot).



There was an after-party at a hot, tiny storefront down on West 18th Street, where I drank diet soda and made small talk with a rather drunk foreign blonde whom I believe was Donatella Versace.

Then it was back into the limo, out of the Calvin Klein, into the Chanel, put Bucky in a matching burgundy carrier, and back to the Lexington Avenue Armory for the Marc Jacobs show. I had already been informed it was going to start late, but two hours? I had been banned from his show during the last Fashion Week, but I managed to wrangle an invitation in exchange for...well, let's just say it was not exactly legal and involved going to Chinatown in dark glasses.

I am sorry, mon cher readers, but I simply. Didn’t. Get it. There was all this talk of “breaking the barriers of old fashioned sexuality,” which is a lovely idea…Victoria Beckham looked truly ridiculous in the tightest dress this side of a Lower East Side drag queen…but to moi, this is not what is going to take its place. Who needs funny hats when you can have hair like a homeless person?





Courtney Love, swaying slightly, seemed to be enjoying it all, however. I was going to take her to task for inflicting babydoll dresses on us all. But then I remembered it was actually her husband, Kurt Cobain, who introduced that particular phenomenon. A pity that he was the one with the looks and the talent.



The only thing more ridiculous was this outfit from Marc for Marc Jacobs...he absolutely outdid himself, if that's the word I want.



What the well-dressed young lunatic is wearing, no doubt.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

from ms decarlos notes fashion week

this miss decarlos new assistant. she a mean lady. a very mean lady. but my mother said i gotta do this or things gonna get way fucked up.

miss decarlos notes

luca luca was dull dull. transparant shapeless dresses one after the other i cant spell the names in the front row what kind of name is ivanka? gawnt models covered up, thank g-d.

on the other hand, the diane vonfirstenberg show was marvelous. colorful, femenine, and fun. i intend to order a number of her dresses.

(dios mio, this woman has money!)

despite her browlift diane looked radiant at the end as well she should. and the funny hat kwowshent was low. a few straw hats, but mostly had scarfs.

Chow

Ralph Lauren Has A Surprise...

DAHLINGS -

At Ralph Lauren’s 40th anniversary celebration at the Central Park Conservatory, your faithful correspondent was truly rendered speechless. It was not merely the celebrity-packed audience, one gets used to those, it was not even the fashions. They were marvelous. Although I shall never understand the appeal of jodhpurs. Why intentionally make one’s thighs look larger?

It was the hats. Not a single funny hat to be seen in the entire collection of over 70 looks! Wide-brimmed hats, top hats with veils, chic little 40s hats…all exactly right. I was slack-jawed with amaze.



The other simply astounding feat pulled off by the designer was that some of the models…

Smiled.



After the endless misery I had been watching on the runways since September 5th, there are no words.

But then I returned home the next morning before dawn to—DISASTER!

My assistant, that lumpkin, that peasant, that selfish pig, had RESIGNED in my absence!

There was a letter on my desk. I refuse to reveal the contents on the grounds that I might incriminate myself, or whatever it is they say on Court TV. Suffice to say she was not coming back.

The impudence! During FASHION WEEK, of all the times to quit! The baggage knew exactly how this would stab me in the back.

I fell back on the chaise lounge, Bucky licking my face sympathetically. Thank goodness dogs don’t know how to give notice. I had to think, and think fast. I needed an assistant, but where to get one?

Then I remembered…my maid has a teenage daughter, who speaks passable English, at least better than her mother’s. What girl wouldn’t leap at such a chance, if only for a few days until I could hire someone better qualified and kick her out?

I summoned the maid, and ordered her to bring her daughter to me immediately. I will write more later, after I get the detective’s report on where my assistant has vanished to.

No-one leaves the Fashionista in the lurch. No-one.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

As Fashion Week Continues, The Funny Hats March On!

DAHLINGS -

I could kill that idiot of an assistant of mine! I send her my notes from my Blackberry, and the fool DELETES two of the shows I attended on Thursday!

Bad enough that she made utter HASH of the names Badgley Mishka, but then to ERASE my deathless impressions of Stephen Burrows and Miss Sixty! She knew enough to be nowhere in sight when I reeled in on Thursday night after the after-party at Fashion Rocks. (Note: Carrie Underwood again displayed the common touch, which seems to be her strong suit.)



Miss Sixty displayed utterly ridiculous acid-washed jeans, low-waisted and short. Only the Olsen twins could pull them off, and that is being charitable. The hats were, for the most part, large-brimmed and transparent. Really, the only redeeming feature were the enormous envelope clutch bags.

I much preferred the Burrows show, if only because I love bright colors and I needed some cheering up. The dresses were lively and sweet, and more important; there wasn’t a hat to be seen!

Naturally I had written much more, but it is all GONE.

And my assistant was not in the office yet when I set out this morning. DAMN!

Nevertheless, I bundled up Bucky in his hand-made Dooney & Bourke carrier and hopped into the limo. This year, perhaps to make up for the starved appearance of the models, there are abundant sweet treats everywhere. The models merely stare at them, a little drool escaping their pale lips. And most of the fashion industry folk look as though—how do I describe it? —as if they are looking at the opposite of crystal meth. But I’ve been thoroughly enjoying myself. Too bad poor little Bucky cannot have chocolate…but he did get a praline or two.

Behnaz Sarafpour seems to have gotten back onto her medication. Which has also had the effect of dulling whatever creative faculties she possessed. Dozens of dull identical shirtwaist silhouettes, although she had her own contribution of the Fashion Week 2008 theme: funny hats.




Max Azaria’s show was quite nice if you like lingerie, and I do, but I could not quite imagine it as daywear. Although the heterosexual men in the audience, what few there were, seemed to be able to. As I watched the models march down the pink runway to the tune of "I Like to Play," their expressions numb with misery, the thought came to mind: "Would it kill them to smile?"

Perhaps it would. Perhaps they would simultaneously combust or some such.

The major commotion at the show was caused by celebrity void Nicole Richie, who, it is rumored, is pregnant and has what is now tastelessly called a “bump” showing. If indeed this gaunt attention addict is pregnant, we can expect some very special attention at the preemie ward at Lenox Hill hospital.

Meanwhile, Demi Moore was at the Proenza Schouler show at the Armory, surrounded by bodyguards and looking astonishingly wide-eyed at close range. (In fact, one is not sure she can actually blink.) My revered Anna Wintour was there, in what appeared to be a vintage dress! Oh, be still, my heart!

I am not a fan of this design team, and their choice of layered vests over various...things was only redeemed by the funny hat of choice for this show: tall military helmets with feathers. (Yes, one can quite imagine the fashionable young things at luncheon getting their helmets caught in the chandeliers and hanging plants.)



Ciao for now,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog