DAHLINGS -
I was thrilled to find out that at last the Sundance Channel is airing The Red Carpet Issue, a documentary about the Academy Awards. I am more than ready for my close-up!
As the website states:
"French journalist and filmmaker Olivier Nicklaus explores the mystique, risks and rewards surrounding the fabled red carpet on which designers, stylists, and celebrities vie for the attention of the world's media. Featuring interviews with red carpet veterans Karl Lagerfeld, Marc Jacobs, Monica Bellucci, Milla Jovovich and Perez Hilton."
AND your faithful correspondent! I was interviewed during last September's Mercedes Benz Fashion Week. And of course, my fabulousness is to be seen in The Red Carpet Issue!
http://www.sundancechannel.com/fullfrontalfashion/series/
Do check the link for future showings on the Sundance Channel.
Plus (pardon the pun), I got a lovely write-up from the amazing Curvy Fashionista, whose blog is NECESSARY for those of us who want to be, in her words: Curvy. Confident.Chic.
http://thecurvyfashionista.mariedenee.com/2010/02/the-plus-size-insider-blogging-from-inside-the-tents-at-new-york-fashion-week/
Thank you, Marie!
Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog
Showing posts with label Marc Jacobs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Marc Jacobs. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Fashion Week 2009 Wrap Up Part One: Cathy Horyn Calls It!
DAHLINGS –
Fashion Week is over at last.
I am having to write this blog-thing myself. I cannot reach my assistant, damn the woman. I’ve had no rest at all, I tell you, no rest at all, and neither has Bucky.
In a rare moment of confession, I have to tell you that Cathy Horyn’s article in The New York Times yesterday (http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/21/fashion/21REVIEW.html?_r=1) sums up much of my thoughts. I was not allowed into Marc Jacob’s collection, I shall not lie to you. Your high opinion of me means too much.
Your faithful correspondent enjoyed Ralph Lauren’s collection more than Ms. Horyn, but I am a bit more of a traditionalist than that fine critic.
(All photos by Marcio Madeira)
Note that this one example of the Omnipresent Silhouette (above) is covered by a gorgeous coat!
And yes, Francisco Costa of Calvin Klein knocked it out of the park for yours truly. Cathy and I are in agreement. Creativity and elegance, my favorite combination.
Although even the great Mr. Costa could not resist the lure of the Silhouette...I was asked repeatedly what it means: youth, hope, optimism? To tell the truth, mon cher lectuers, I have not the foggiest idea. But that's fashion. Silhouettes happen.
More later,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog
Fashion Week is over at last.
I am having to write this blog-thing myself. I cannot reach my assistant, damn the woman. I’ve had no rest at all, I tell you, no rest at all, and neither has Bucky.
In a rare moment of confession, I have to tell you that Cathy Horyn’s article in The New York Times yesterday (http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/21/fashion/21REVIEW.html?_r=1) sums up much of my thoughts. I was not allowed into Marc Jacob’s collection, I shall not lie to you. Your high opinion of me means too much.
Your faithful correspondent enjoyed Ralph Lauren’s collection more than Ms. Horyn, but I am a bit more of a traditionalist than that fine critic.
(All photos by Marcio Madeira)
Note that this one example of the Omnipresent Silhouette (above) is covered by a gorgeous coat!
And yes, Francisco Costa of Calvin Klein knocked it out of the park for yours truly. Cathy and I are in agreement. Creativity and elegance, my favorite combination.
Although even the great Mr. Costa could not resist the lure of the Silhouette...I was asked repeatedly what it means: youth, hope, optimism? To tell the truth, mon cher lectuers, I have not the foggiest idea. But that's fashion. Silhouettes happen.
More later,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog
Sunday, September 14, 2008
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.
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,
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
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
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
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Andre Leon Talley & I Have A Smackdown!
DAHLINGS -
Apologies for my long absence!
I am "covered in shame" not to have communicated with you all, mes enfants, when I know you need it so. Especially now, as the weather grows warmer and here in beautiful New York City, the fashion-challenged come out from under their huge colorless coats and woven Sherpa hats (shudder).
"Haute Cou-Poor," my program at the Fashion Institute of Technology to teach the indigent about Fashion In The True Sense, has been literally taking up all of my time, day and night! Who knew something so hellishly close to work could be so...well, hellish? Even with all of those idiotic student interns? They are almost as stupid as my personal assistant!
(Well, no one is that stupid, but I digress.)
Andre Leon Talley and I had what can only be called in today's parlance, a "smackdown" about that HIDEOUS jacket he put on beautiful, voluptuous Jennifer Hudson for the Oscars. The man simply cannot handle criticism of the mildest kind. It comes with the territory, everyone pussyfooting around him, afraid they'll lose their job. Now he is one of my dearest friends; and anyone I have to look UP at when I'm talking to them has a special place in my heart.
But that jacket. No.
It was bad enough, I told him, that he adored Marc Jacobs's collection, and appeared on the Style network calling Nicholas Guest one of fashion's greatest thinkers (excuse me?). But the jacket was unpardonable, a major failing of taste on an international scale. In all candor, I should have had the sense to have this conversation in public, perhaps at Pastis, instead of my beautiful Central Park West apartment.
Dahlings, the man went simply berserk. You would have thought nobody had questioned his taste since 1973. Perhaps no one has. First, a torrent of abuse directed at yours truly, saying that I wasn't fit to vomit on Anna Wintour's skirt (cf. my February 4th post on Fashion Week). Then Andre grabbed one of my prized Faberge' eggs, blue and gold, and CRUSHED IT in his massive hand, whereupon I screamed!
I confess. I lost control of myself. I sicc'ed Bucky on Andre Leon Talley.
No one breaks my blue and gold Faberge' egg and gets away with it.
(This is Bucky sharpening his teeth on a rawhide.)
Bucky may only weigh 14 pounds and stand 16 inches tall next to Andre's 6 feet 9 inches or whatever it is, but that dog is a well-trained little minpin and defended his mistress!
The fearless beast leapt upward and sank his teeth deep into the back of Andre's calf, right out of Andre's reach (Bucky is a very sensible canine). As much as he swatted, Andre could not dislodge my dog, until I gave the command to let go and run!* Bucky galloped out of the sitting room, a flap of black linen pant fabric still in his jaws.
Andre collapsed on my divan, which for a moment I feared would collapse under Andre, in hysterical tears, threatening to sue me, to ruin my reputation, to tell people the heinous lie my hair is not naturally blonde!
In the interest of Andre's dignity, I will spare you further details of the next half hour. Suffice to say we parted still friends, although I will be receiving some hefty medical bills ere long, and "Haute Cou-Poor" will be the less for Andre's non-participation. But one must take the rough with the smooth. Thank goodness Bucky has had all of his shots, and I have very expensive lawyers at the ready.
One must always be prepared, cést vrai.
Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the Heroic Wonderdog
*Let go and run was, unfortunately, a command I had to teach my darling dog early on.
Apologies for my long absence!
I am "covered in shame" not to have communicated with you all, mes enfants, when I know you need it so. Especially now, as the weather grows warmer and here in beautiful New York City, the fashion-challenged come out from under their huge colorless coats and woven Sherpa hats (shudder).
"Haute Cou-Poor," my program at the Fashion Institute of Technology to teach the indigent about Fashion In The True Sense, has been literally taking up all of my time, day and night! Who knew something so hellishly close to work could be so...well, hellish? Even with all of those idiotic student interns? They are almost as stupid as my personal assistant!
(Well, no one is that stupid, but I digress.)
Andre Leon Talley and I had what can only be called in today's parlance, a "smackdown" about that HIDEOUS jacket he put on beautiful, voluptuous Jennifer Hudson for the Oscars. The man simply cannot handle criticism of the mildest kind. It comes with the territory, everyone pussyfooting around him, afraid they'll lose their job. Now he is one of my dearest friends; and anyone I have to look UP at when I'm talking to them has a special place in my heart.
But that jacket. No.
It was bad enough, I told him, that he adored Marc Jacobs's collection, and appeared on the Style network calling Nicholas Guest one of fashion's greatest thinkers (excuse me?). But the jacket was unpardonable, a major failing of taste on an international scale. In all candor, I should have had the sense to have this conversation in public, perhaps at Pastis, instead of my beautiful Central Park West apartment.
Dahlings, the man went simply berserk. You would have thought nobody had questioned his taste since 1973. Perhaps no one has. First, a torrent of abuse directed at yours truly, saying that I wasn't fit to vomit on Anna Wintour's skirt (cf. my February 4th post on Fashion Week). Then Andre grabbed one of my prized Faberge' eggs, blue and gold, and CRUSHED IT in his massive hand, whereupon I screamed!
I confess. I lost control of myself. I sicc'ed Bucky on Andre Leon Talley.
No one breaks my blue and gold Faberge' egg and gets away with it.
(This is Bucky sharpening his teeth on a rawhide.)
Bucky may only weigh 14 pounds and stand 16 inches tall next to Andre's 6 feet 9 inches or whatever it is, but that dog is a well-trained little minpin and defended his mistress!
The fearless beast leapt upward and sank his teeth deep into the back of Andre's calf, right out of Andre's reach (Bucky is a very sensible canine). As much as he swatted, Andre could not dislodge my dog, until I gave the command to let go and run!* Bucky galloped out of the sitting room, a flap of black linen pant fabric still in his jaws.
Andre collapsed on my divan, which for a moment I feared would collapse under Andre, in hysterical tears, threatening to sue me, to ruin my reputation, to tell people the heinous lie my hair is not naturally blonde!
In the interest of Andre's dignity, I will spare you further details of the next half hour. Suffice to say we parted still friends, although I will be receiving some hefty medical bills ere long, and "Haute Cou-Poor" will be the less for Andre's non-participation. But one must take the rough with the smooth. Thank goodness Bucky has had all of his shots, and I have very expensive lawyers at the ready.
One must always be prepared, cést vrai.
Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the Heroic Wonderdog
*Let go and run was, unfortunately, a command I had to teach my darling dog early on.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Fashion Week - Coco Rocha, Why??
DAHLINGS –
I had to take a break to Blackberry my assistant to send you word of the shows…I only hope no mistakes are made in translation.
Since Saturday I admit, I have been looking at the collections with an even more jaundiced eye than before, if such a thing were possible. I was refused entrance at the Marc Jacobs for show for my unflattering remarks about his Venice party a few weeks ago. I say, if you can’t take the heat, stay out of the atelier.
Speaking of heat, we are having some of the coldest weather in donkeys years here in New York City. I jump into my limo as soon as I’m finished with one show to go to the next (and to change my outfit and my chocolate box--each have to match!). But all the same, those five seconds on the sidewalk make me quite sympathetic to the less privileged. As long as they don’t try to touch me.
Carolina Herrera’s collection spoke to moi the most. So elegant, so classic, a little flat, but after some of the ordure I have seen on the models’ backs I was grateful for some dullness. There was some lovely dresses, in sophisticated purples and the ever-present gray (too much like the weather for my taste). Including a strapless number I will be ordering for myself that will show off my creamy shoulders perfectly.
Jill Stuart showed her collection at the New York Public Library. If there is a worse setting for a show than a huge, frigid marble cavern in winter, I’d like to know where it is. She claimed to be “inspired by vintage,” and yes, most of the outfits were copies of Swinging Sixties styles. Inspiration, my foot. I see the same things on Ebay—A-line dresses, peacoats (although Stuart had a lovely shade of blue for many of her things), fur toppers—for a fraction of the cost. For a change, the models were dressed more warmly than the crowd, which included many shivering interns in thin blouses and short skirts.
If Stuart’s inspiration seemed a little thin, perhaps it is because she is busy launching more product lines than Halston did when he was desperate for drugs. Not that I imply a thing, mind you. Just musing.
Lara Stone receives my vote for Model Who Looks Most Like She Was Just Hit By A Two By Four Before Her Entrance
The ubiquitous Coco Rocha for Model That Makes You Ask, Why?
Tanya Dziahileva for Most Starved Model (A Ferocious Competition, but Tanya tried to snatch a truffle from my hand at the Luca Luca show!)
The Oscar de la Renta show was wonderfully luxe. Furs, checks, so much to buy! I'm wondering who has had the tightest brow lift...Barbara Walters or Diane Von Furstenberg? Feel free to write in with your vote.
I am simply mad for his beautiful evening gowns. This was my personal favorite:
Of course the ubiquitous Coco Rocha was modeling, as was Tanya Dziahileva, who can look staggeringly gaunt in anything:
Off to see more…I’ve heard that Rod Stewart is in attendance. Did you know that he looks remarkably like my dear Mama did in her dotage?
I did have a lovely time at the Marchesa party (banned from the Marc Jacobs party, of course, and I know better than to try to get in). Harvey Weinstein is such fun, and we played "find the almond" in my decolletage.
A few more days of this and Rosie O’Donnell is going to seem like a breath of fresh air.
Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog
I had to take a break to Blackberry my assistant to send you word of the shows…I only hope no mistakes are made in translation.
Since Saturday I admit, I have been looking at the collections with an even more jaundiced eye than before, if such a thing were possible. I was refused entrance at the Marc Jacobs for show for my unflattering remarks about his Venice party a few weeks ago. I say, if you can’t take the heat, stay out of the atelier.
Speaking of heat, we are having some of the coldest weather in donkeys years here in New York City. I jump into my limo as soon as I’m finished with one show to go to the next (and to change my outfit and my chocolate box--each have to match!). But all the same, those five seconds on the sidewalk make me quite sympathetic to the less privileged. As long as they don’t try to touch me.
Carolina Herrera’s collection spoke to moi the most. So elegant, so classic, a little flat, but after some of the ordure I have seen on the models’ backs I was grateful for some dullness. There was some lovely dresses, in sophisticated purples and the ever-present gray (too much like the weather for my taste). Including a strapless number I will be ordering for myself that will show off my creamy shoulders perfectly.
Jill Stuart showed her collection at the New York Public Library. If there is a worse setting for a show than a huge, frigid marble cavern in winter, I’d like to know where it is. She claimed to be “inspired by vintage,” and yes, most of the outfits were copies of Swinging Sixties styles. Inspiration, my foot. I see the same things on Ebay—A-line dresses, peacoats (although Stuart had a lovely shade of blue for many of her things), fur toppers—for a fraction of the cost. For a change, the models were dressed more warmly than the crowd, which included many shivering interns in thin blouses and short skirts.
If Stuart’s inspiration seemed a little thin, perhaps it is because she is busy launching more product lines than Halston did when he was desperate for drugs. Not that I imply a thing, mind you. Just musing.
Lara Stone receives my vote for Model Who Looks Most Like She Was Just Hit By A Two By Four Before Her Entrance
The ubiquitous Coco Rocha for Model That Makes You Ask, Why?
Tanya Dziahileva for Most Starved Model (A Ferocious Competition, but Tanya tried to snatch a truffle from my hand at the Luca Luca show!)
The Oscar de la Renta show was wonderfully luxe. Furs, checks, so much to buy! I'm wondering who has had the tightest brow lift...Barbara Walters or Diane Von Furstenberg? Feel free to write in with your vote.
I am simply mad for his beautiful evening gowns. This was my personal favorite:
Of course the ubiquitous Coco Rocha was modeling, as was Tanya Dziahileva, who can look staggeringly gaunt in anything:
Off to see more…I’ve heard that Rod Stewart is in attendance. Did you know that he looks remarkably like my dear Mama did in her dotage?
I did have a lovely time at the Marchesa party (banned from the Marc Jacobs party, of course, and I know better than to try to get in). Harvey Weinstein is such fun, and we played "find the almond" in my decolletage.
A few more days of this and Rosie O’Donnell is going to seem like a breath of fresh air.
Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Late At Night With Joey Reynolds, the Italian Stallion
DAHLINGS -
The telephone call came Thursday afternoon, shortly after I published my last post. A slightly gravely voice was on the phone. It was a lovely woman I know, Myra Chanin, who sees everything in New York and books whoever she can seduce into coming down to WOR during hours when sane people won't step foot into the street. She books "The Joey Reynolds Show," an overnight radio program heard coast to coast.
"Are ya Jewish?" she asked.
"No."
"Good. You're gonna be on The Jewish Hour tomorrow night. Be at the studio at 11:50."
Myra's logic escaped me, but midnight found me at WOR Radio, along with a large number of Jewish people. A large number of large Jewish people, I should add, including one rotund fellow who never spoke a word the entire time I was there. Nor did he go into the studio, just sat in the outer office, smiling and eating sandwiches. And Mark, Joey's sweet personal assistant (FAR more competent than mine), a photographer whose work you have seen on the front page of The New York Post, especially if it has recently exploded.
And best of all, a man I adore, The King and Queen of Cabaret, Sidney Myer. Dahlings, until you have seen this man perform "Pheromones," you cannot say that you have Lived.
Joey Reynolds, who is quite trim, is not Jewish, so I am at a loss to explain the origin of The Jewish Hour. Appropriately, a deli catered an enormous amount of lox, corned beef, bagels, and other food that Borat would never touch.
The interview went quite well. A very pretty woman named Goldie DVer explained (off the air) what it means to have a "Jewish ass." (Apparently a pronounced lack of flesh.) According to Myra, Goldie's husband Paul is too cheap to buy her an extra vowel for her name. Curious. And Joey was a complete gentleman, as well as quite amusing. He even asked me about Bucky the Wonderdog, and I told the story of taking Bucky to Marc Jacobs's party.
The wizened gentleman sitting next to me, however, fell out of my favor by immediately telling fat jokes at my expense. His name is Mickey Freeman, I believe, and he did a lot of work in television in the black and white days. As much as I admire the history of Borscht Belt humor, personally I'll take my borscht cold, with sour cream. However, I ignored the man and carried on as best I could. I related my encounter with Eli Weisel (cf. an earlier post, "Some Ghosts Have Too Much Attitude,") and discussed spring trends in fashion.
After it was over, I allowed myself a few delicate bites of lox and some chopped liver. I would not have minded taking a bite out of Joey Reynolds...he really is quite handsome in person. Just another night in my fabulous life.
Here is a link to his WOR site:
http://www.wor710.com/pages/46370.php
And yes, I PROMISE to get those beautiful satin robes listed, size 6X and 8X! After all, Valentine's Day will be here soon.
Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog
The telephone call came Thursday afternoon, shortly after I published my last post. A slightly gravely voice was on the phone. It was a lovely woman I know, Myra Chanin, who sees everything in New York and books whoever she can seduce into coming down to WOR during hours when sane people won't step foot into the street. She books "The Joey Reynolds Show," an overnight radio program heard coast to coast.
"Are ya Jewish?" she asked.
"No."
"Good. You're gonna be on The Jewish Hour tomorrow night. Be at the studio at 11:50."
Myra's logic escaped me, but midnight found me at WOR Radio, along with a large number of Jewish people. A large number of large Jewish people, I should add, including one rotund fellow who never spoke a word the entire time I was there. Nor did he go into the studio, just sat in the outer office, smiling and eating sandwiches. And Mark, Joey's sweet personal assistant (FAR more competent than mine), a photographer whose work you have seen on the front page of The New York Post, especially if it has recently exploded.
And best of all, a man I adore, The King and Queen of Cabaret, Sidney Myer. Dahlings, until you have seen this man perform "Pheromones," you cannot say that you have Lived.
Joey Reynolds, who is quite trim, is not Jewish, so I am at a loss to explain the origin of The Jewish Hour. Appropriately, a deli catered an enormous amount of lox, corned beef, bagels, and other food that Borat would never touch.
The interview went quite well. A very pretty woman named Goldie DVer explained (off the air) what it means to have a "Jewish ass." (Apparently a pronounced lack of flesh.) According to Myra, Goldie's husband Paul is too cheap to buy her an extra vowel for her name. Curious. And Joey was a complete gentleman, as well as quite amusing. He even asked me about Bucky the Wonderdog, and I told the story of taking Bucky to Marc Jacobs's party.
The wizened gentleman sitting next to me, however, fell out of my favor by immediately telling fat jokes at my expense. His name is Mickey Freeman, I believe, and he did a lot of work in television in the black and white days. As much as I admire the history of Borscht Belt humor, personally I'll take my borscht cold, with sour cream. However, I ignored the man and carried on as best I could. I related my encounter with Eli Weisel (cf. an earlier post, "Some Ghosts Have Too Much Attitude,") and discussed spring trends in fashion.
After it was over, I allowed myself a few delicate bites of lox and some chopped liver. I would not have minded taking a bite out of Joey Reynolds...he really is quite handsome in person. Just another night in my fabulous life.
Here is a link to his WOR site:
http://www.wor710.com/pages/46370.php
And yes, I PROMISE to get those beautiful satin robes listed, size 6X and 8X! After all, Valentine's Day will be here soon.
Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog
Saturday, December 16, 2006
When Is A Pigeon A Turkey? When It's Marc Jacobs
Dahlings -
Well, Gotham Hall was simply packed on Wednesday night, where Marc Jacobs and his extremely tall partner Robert Duffy held their Venice Carnival-themed soiree. Marc simply loves New York--witness his Spring Ready To Wear 2007 collection, in which the clothes bear an eery resemblance to midtown New York street trash:
Note particularly how the second dress looks like dirty old newspaper on subway tracks. Quel chic!
Marc Jacobs contributed to trumpet his love of our fair city by costuming himselves as a pigeon, those filthy birds that drink out of puddles on the street and poop on your new Yves St. Laurent suit the first time you wear it out. Here he is, gaily befeathered, surrounded by syncophants of varying persuasions:
In real life, Marc Jacobs looks remarkably like Neckthing--I mean of course (ugh) Jeffrey Sebalia, who won this past season's "Project Runway".
So perhaps covering himself entirely was a wise choice on Marc's part. I for one, smiled at him and said nothing. At least Marc has the sense not to get his neck tattoed--yet.
Your faithful correspondent was dressed in a truly fabulous silk Venetian ballgown in a sapphire blue that matched my eyes, created in a small atelier in Paris. Rather than go with the prevailing trend of huge gold-like accessories, I wore a simple string of white pearls (real, of course) with earrings to match, my blonde hair swept up high with a small sapphire ribbon. Plunging decolletage as always. Even that hideous thing Lepore was hard-pressed to match it! Her mouth looks like a Salvador Dali artwork gone very, very wrong.
Bucky The Wonderdog made an ideal match, since he is the perfect size to be a dog at a Venetian court. He had a silk dog coat that matched my dress (the underside was synthetic, because you cannot remove dog urine from silk without leaving a noticeable stain). I carried him in my left arm. Bucky came in quite handy when any of the noticeably annoying nearly-naked dance performers mingling amongst the crowd on the dance floor came too close--as I've written before, those little teeth are razor sharp--and so fast, bless his heart! I was fortunate enough to have my dance partner whirl me away before they quite knew what hit them--or in this case, bit them. Doubtless unlike them, Bucky has had all of his shots.
The food left something to be desired...I've never read that they served Mini-Ritz crackers with the Brie in Venice of long-ago.
I danced the night away with George Milles, Robert Duffy (who whispered in my ear that just once he'd like to have his name on a purse!), and even a few important heterosexual men who would probably prefer their names not appear in print. When the final dance music ended, a shower of feathers fell from the ceiling, and a huge chorus of sneezes arose among the throng. Marc Jacobs had not taken into account his guests' allergies.
A typical uncaring New Yorker, you might say. But what can you expect of a man who dresses like a bird that defecates on couture?
Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog
Well, Gotham Hall was simply packed on Wednesday night, where Marc Jacobs and his extremely tall partner Robert Duffy held their Venice Carnival-themed soiree. Marc simply loves New York--witness his Spring Ready To Wear 2007 collection, in which the clothes bear an eery resemblance to midtown New York street trash:
Note particularly how the second dress looks like dirty old newspaper on subway tracks. Quel chic!
Marc Jacobs contributed to trumpet his love of our fair city by costuming himselves as a pigeon, those filthy birds that drink out of puddles on the street and poop on your new Yves St. Laurent suit the first time you wear it out. Here he is, gaily befeathered, surrounded by syncophants of varying persuasions:
In real life, Marc Jacobs looks remarkably like Neckthing--I mean of course (ugh) Jeffrey Sebalia, who won this past season's "Project Runway".
So perhaps covering himself entirely was a wise choice on Marc's part. I for one, smiled at him and said nothing. At least Marc has the sense not to get his neck tattoed--yet.
Your faithful correspondent was dressed in a truly fabulous silk Venetian ballgown in a sapphire blue that matched my eyes, created in a small atelier in Paris. Rather than go with the prevailing trend of huge gold-like accessories, I wore a simple string of white pearls (real, of course) with earrings to match, my blonde hair swept up high with a small sapphire ribbon. Plunging decolletage as always. Even that hideous thing Lepore was hard-pressed to match it! Her mouth looks like a Salvador Dali artwork gone very, very wrong.
Bucky The Wonderdog made an ideal match, since he is the perfect size to be a dog at a Venetian court. He had a silk dog coat that matched my dress (the underside was synthetic, because you cannot remove dog urine from silk without leaving a noticeable stain). I carried him in my left arm. Bucky came in quite handy when any of the noticeably annoying nearly-naked dance performers mingling amongst the crowd on the dance floor came too close--as I've written before, those little teeth are razor sharp--and so fast, bless his heart! I was fortunate enough to have my dance partner whirl me away before they quite knew what hit them--or in this case, bit them. Doubtless unlike them, Bucky has had all of his shots.
The food left something to be desired...I've never read that they served Mini-Ritz crackers with the Brie in Venice of long-ago.
I danced the night away with George Milles, Robert Duffy (who whispered in my ear that just once he'd like to have his name on a purse!), and even a few important heterosexual men who would probably prefer their names not appear in print. When the final dance music ended, a shower of feathers fell from the ceiling, and a huge chorus of sneezes arose among the throng. Marc Jacobs had not taken into account his guests' allergies.
A typical uncaring New Yorker, you might say. But what can you expect of a man who dresses like a bird that defecates on couture?
Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog
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