a rose by any other name would smell as sweet

Christian Dior Couture. F/W 2010.

It was apparent at Dior that the inspiration d’jour (abundant bouquets of burgeoning blossoms) had reached positively obsessive levels within the mind of head designer, John Galliano. Revelations into his muse was garnered from, in addition to the plethora of natural subjects at his disposal, the photographic works of such famously renowned fashion photographers as Irving Penn and Nick Knight. Penn’s works in particular manage to capture the ambiance of brilliantly uncontrived natural occurrences as they came to pass, such as dewy droplets clinging precariously to a dandelion’s spores or a poppy’s petals dried out and coming to resemble a texture akin to the most tenuous crepe paper.

Such glorious visual rapture obviously had Galliano’s hand smitten as he imagined the creations to grow in his jardin of efflorescent grandeur. A buxom cottage tulip, lush and in full bloom, was transposed into the curling petals of a satin skirt complete with blushing ruffles which flourished at the knee. A delicately fronded trim brimmed atop a gorgeous aubergine bubble coat, while another gown flaunted excessive amounts of cerulean organza falling in deluge from beneath a delicately tinted peony overlay. Fuchsia ruching cascaded in thickly scalloped echelons above a vast expanse of lavender tulle. Decadent swathes of black taffeta were parted to reveal a generously layered crinoline of saffron boasting vibrantly rendered hand-painted pansies. The elaborate pallet of arresting hues was further embellished with romantic degrade washes of colour, from resplendent splashes of violet and cerise to the faintest iridescent sheen of lemon or lilac when catching the light.

The collection’s indulgent frivolity was further garnished upon with whimsical headgear designed to evoke the image of a florist’s coloured plastic wrap, sitting with capricious glee atop the models gravity-defying spherical up-dos. Lacquered plum lips and electric eyeshadows confirmed that these fragrant fauna were definitely not of the wallflower variety. What a deliciously fanciful vision to feed the starved cult of couture with such a banquet of visual splendor that it will not soon wilt among the industry’s tastemakers. Editorial Eden, if I do say so myself.

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining,
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,
Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,
Buds that open only to decay;

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,
Flaunting gayly in the golden light;
Large desires, with most uncertain issues,
Tender wishes, blossoming at night.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Flowers

enjoy your days, mes petites fleurs

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