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

x o x o

leo

Chanel Couture. F/W 2010.

Chanel’s fall couture collection was centred around an enormous sculpture of a majestic bronzed lion, captured mid-stance as it pawed around a massive opalescent bauble, perhaps foreshadowing the collection’s distinct fondness for elaborate pearl embroidery. The monument’s musculature was rendered in powerful detail; a proud tail caught at ease between sinewy legs that were drawn tight in restless anticipation, as if to suddenly seize forward upon a moment’s whim. A lustrous and thick mane cascaded into a crown of golden curls perched regally upon its stately brow; its powerful jaw left open, as if to invite the unheard echo of its wise and mighty roar.

The pieces emerging from beneath the effigy’s heavy paw reflected the kingly beast’s dignified aura in the sharp cut of their silhouettes and their poised sense of proportion. Cropped bodices grazed waistlines with 3/4 length sleeves while elongated skirts fell to mid-calf, resulting in a distinctly gauche outline that played with the mind’s perception of feminine form. The abrasive stance was offset by decidedly flirty accents, such as copious strings of beads, a profusion of glistening sequins, and a magnitude of fanciful tulle. Pearls were largely emphasized in sporty sheaths, made more ladylike by sensuous cutouts and a barrage of dainty strands draped gracefully across the body. Sumptuous lace hung in a tiered A-line skirt and revealed the intimate silhouette of elongated legs, while a gamine schoolgirl outfit was displayed with a sensuous body skimming high waisted skirt and a deceptively sweet black silk bow tied high at the neck.

An austere colour palette of rich maroons, navys, and matte nudes was complemented by lux gold adornments, such as the miniature lion head bust cinched around a midnight blue satin gown, or the assorted baubles liberally layered at the wrists in chunky cuffs and trinket chains. Notions of overt royalty were balanced out by elements borrowed from folk culture and lavish 18th century German porcelain decoration, such as boleros embroidered with intricate bohemian floral patterns. A subtlety pervasive military theme was incorporated with sharply tailored wool and tweed coats boasting double-breasted fronts, brass buttons, and glossy fur trim. Slouchy boots, unfussy hair, and scarlet stained pouts were the perfect finishing touches to this resplendent collection, which successfully wove together the fierce prowess of sophisticated style, the concentrated craftsmanship of artisan lore, and the dominant restraint of the proud and noble lion.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are —
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Lord Alfred Tennyson, Ulysses

kiss kiss

x o x o

the lovely bones

Couture shows are always theatrical in disposition, and it was evident that Givenchy’s fall couture offering was intended to be the subtlest of dramatic operas in this class. The creations were simultaneously romantic and tragic, celebrating the fluidity of the feminine form while eerily distorting it behind a cadaverous overlay. A sense of foreboding was tangibly perceived as intimate regions of skin were peeled back from beneath skeletal motifs, suggesting the fleeting nature of youth and the regression of form to our bare bones. And yet, an elegance is cultivated from within, so refined and peculiar in feeling that it could not be professed as anything but hauntingly beautiful. Anatomical precision displayed in the geometric replication of vertebrae, joints, and other minute cellular infrastructure. A neutral colour palette, once again alluding to the visceral relationship between the garments and the body, restrained the opulence of such accents. A coat of blonde hair hinged off a seemingly levitating model, whose lower calves were obscured by tenuous swathes of lace. Ivory gowns adorned with gilded embroidery were draped lithely over slim silhouettes and cinched with a spinal column belt constructed out of gleaming porcelain. Ivory fringe lay suspended in silky straight formation against an asymmetrical appliqué of a gown’s curling tawny gauze.

Curvaceous forms emphasized by gracefully draped sheers, wraithlike plumage exhibited in exquisitely blanched degrade, and the delicate intricacies of Chantilly lace rendered in meticulously manipulated leather all spoke to the literal tapestry of finely assembled detail pervading each nuanced aspect of the collection. The obsessive compulsion reflected in every scrupulous facet imbibed the pieces with a lover’s devotion; a harrowingly passionate romance placed on the precipice of the beyond as the mortal body falls into withered decay. Muted yet captivating, sullen and ethereal, the mysterious splendor provoked from this poignant collection is sure to be a crown jewel in Riccardo Tisci's direction at the House of Givenchy.

“women have lovely bones, arms, neck, thigh
and I admire them also, but your bones
supersede loveliness. they are the tough
ones that get broken and reset.”

anne sexton, the fury of beautiful bones

sorry i've been gone for so long...missed you terribly so
x o x o

n

les mis

The Parisian underworld; wistful longing for youth gone by, gorgeously sung with melancholic conviction. Living in poverty and destitution, surrounded constantly by cruel reminders of death, and yet still possessing an unwavering capacity for hope and love.

‘He slept a summer by my side, he filled my days with endless wonder, he took my childhood in his stride, but by autumn he was gone.’

Devotion to dreams that our hearts refuse to allow us to let go of, and the devastation that ensues upon realizing that they will never be. Played in and out to the strings of a graceful harp and rendered in a voice soft and bitter and intensely emotive, the despondent reality of Fantine is laid adjacent to the glittering memory of a fleeting romance.




Compelling and familiar, the heartbreak of unrequited love exposed and the sacrifices still made for those who unknowingly hold us captive. A meandering melody, spanning the streets of a darkened city, granting the imagination freedom to paint a vivid illusion of love desired. An enchanting appreciation for the beauty of the night, liquid silver and sparkling stars, the secrecy permitted to fantasize another life so removed from the garish truths of the daylight. And yet, the despondence of knowing that it is only a dream, that he loves another and will never be hers to possess. The unmatched fidelity is poignantly tragic, and yet the capacity to remain so faithful is enviable, her love truly pure and altruistic.

‘I love him… but only on my own..’

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m.m puffing a jay

the original luscious lips.

"I don't mind being burdened with being glamorous and sexual. Beauty and femininity are ageless and can't be contrived, and glamour, although the manufacturers won't like this, cannot be manufactured. Not real glamour; it's based on femininity. We are all born sexual creatures, thank God, but it's a pity so many people despise and crush this natural gift. Art, real art, comes from it, everything."

- mm

misty watercoloured memories

Do we ever pause to contemplate the construction of nostalgia? To drink in the little details of daily life? The insipid meanderings of routines, the placement of a jacket upon a bedpost, the smattering of jewelry tossed carelessly upon a bureau? This is the same house, the same bedroom, I have had for most of my life. The position of the closet and the view from my window has been the same for fourteen years. And yet, the furniture and objects contained inside of these walls is barely the same at all. To see what this room, this entire house, looked like fourteen years ago would be an unfathomable gift, a reversion straight back to childhood when responsibilities were nonexistent and everything in life was a game. And yet, back then it was nothing extraordinary, it was simply my room with my things and my life was ordinary and unremarkable. It is curious to think of how time adds value, both to literal and figurative embodiments. Mundane items can accumulate exponential wealth by becoming antiques, just as memories from two weeks ago may not seem significant although ten years from now they would remind you of a completely different life. It is still you and yet so much of what you surround yourself with and the person you have in fact become would be very different from who you were at that point in time. And still, it is a race to the finish, the preoccupation with what lies ahead often preventing us from appreciating the here and now. Perhaps as children we can be excused for this oversight, our minds not fully able to grasp complex concepts and feelings, however, as adults we cannot afford such a luxury. Life is truly a journey; there is no concrete destination. The memories we create allow for a mental catalog of this passage, and it is through those nuanced details (a smell, a touch, a sound) that we are allowed to preserve a feeling characterized by a time and a place. It is the medium by which we are permitted to remember ourselves.

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