Paris: Piaf and Python
Several days ago, many moons ago, Kim—our Kim of the blog—made the comment that, despite all the videos and other coverage, she wasn’t entirely seeing what those of us in Paris were seeing. I thought that was an interesting observation, if I’ve conveyed it correctly, and it has stayed on my mind. I can only say that a lot of us in Paris had trouble seeing things clearly, too. (I am back at home now.) It’s hard to find a sense of clarity and rhythm in the constant bombardment of images, opinion, wrong information, displays of poor management (I refer to the way Facchinetti was dismissed from Valentino, though not the decision ultimately to change designers), and the gloom supplied at once by the economic crisis and the expensive orgy of the shows. Of course designers have to go on designing—that’s what they do. But the excellence has to be on all levels right now, from the integrity and muscle of the design to an evident awareness of what is happening in the global marketplace. We all have our favorite collections—for me, Marc Jacobs, Jil Sander, Dries Van Noten, elements of Chanel—and I suppose what makes them standout is that they are able to cut through the noise and show us something that genuinely feels new or interesting and useful.
The last couple of days have been hectic, and then the flight home. But the time was all well-spent and funny. There was the ceremony on Sunday night for Bill Cunningham, who received an Officer of Arts and Letters from the French government, and before that the Miu Miu show, with pleated dresses in satin, classical Roman prints and burlap (I do love a burlap dress!). There was the scene backstage at Louis Vuitton before the show, as everyone waited for Bernard Arnault, the boss man, to arrive. And yesterday I dropped by Azzedine Alaia’s to have a look at a few things he’s making for spring. Then it was sayonara and the airport.
When I got to the Vuitton show, which was expected to start at 2:30 p.m. sharp, I was surprised when Robert Duffy said, “Come on backstage.” It was 2:25 p.m. Arnault was running a few minutes late and I think Jacobs, aside from being very happy with the collection, was proud of the fact that he was on time. The models were all lined up, in their outfits, behind a rope, and Pat McGrath and her crew were giving them a final dusting. It was a great scene: 50-some models, in their poodle hairdos, glossy burgundy lips, and big sculptural hoop earrings, all decked out in their Parisian duds. “I love Paris,” Jacobs kept saying, adding that he had brought a music player to the office and had been listening and singing along to show tunes. (Edith Piaf was on the soundtrack.) Duffy mentioned the models’ point d’esprit and LV monogrammed underpants, and some of the girls turned around and flipped their skirts. Nothing fazes them. I liked the visual sense that Jacobs gave, the mix of colors and textures like green ostrich feathers and lavender metallics, and the number of great pieces in the Parisian montage, like the snippy jackets, the squashy leopard bags, and an obi-tied khaki cotton shirt dress.
There have been a number of African influences around, so I laughed when I saw Alaia’s raffia platforms (in brown, black or mottled gold) with huge sprouts of raffia fringe at the ankles. He really goes for it, doesn’t he? He also has stiletto sandals with straps of python climbing up the ankles and jangling with tiny bells. Among the looks he showed me were skirts and fitted tops in brown python, the waistbands little more than a cord from which the snakeskin was seemingly suspended. He also draped python for a claret red dress with a full skirt and half-open back. There was a semi-transparent black raffia skirt, and one of my favorite looks—very Alaia—was a slim black dress in a ribbed knit over which he had put a cropped, school-girlish white cotton blouse. The long-sleeved shirt was smooth in the front and then gathered across the back and around the hem, so it belled slightly away from the dark dress. Later, in his studio he showed me some dresses he was still working on. The Japanese fabric, a silk mousseline printed or embroidered with open rings the size of a quarter, felt like nothing in your hands.Balenciaga bag
You touched it, yet you weren’t sure you had touched anything at all.