Pink was NOT the color of the season, and yet it was out there in full force….
Maybe next year, if Elie Saab has anything to do with it…
Paris Fashion Week / pink
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Category Archives: Fashion
Paris Fashion Week / mystery couple
While stalking fashion week, I kept seeing the most intriguing couple at all the shows; Guy Laroche, Belmain, Chanel… they were even front and center at Elie Saab. She is just breathtakingly beautiful and was very friendly with the press. He looks spectacular. They were not a couple in the romantic sense, but I am dying to know their story. Generally, I am not good at identifying famous people. Earlier this week I was getting emails for readers telling me I had shot Nichol Ritchie, Laetia Castas and Rachel Zoe. Who knew? Despite a fairly decent education at UCLA, with stars like Barbara Streisand auditing my classes, or Bill Cosby waiting for me to liberate the tennis court, you’d think I’d learn. But people had to tell me I was sitting next to Babs and I recognized Bill’s name on the sign-up list, otherwise I’d never had known.
Anyone have a clue who these fabulous folk maybe? Any People magazine followers out there? Au secours!!!
Paris Fashion Week / feet
Shoes, glorious shoes, who would deny us? And at fashion week, you are guaranteed to see spectacular shoes. Some fun, some ridiculous (like the blue velours that was causing the wearer to bleed) and some you’d be simplyy honored to have mocking you from your closet…
Paris Fashion Week / details
They say the devil is in the details. We’ll, they’re not kidding if those details have a girl whinging for a 10,000€ accessory. It’s an evil plot, I tell you. So in my valorous attempt to stay angelic, I’ve collected a whole packet of beautiful things, but in pixels, which are virtually free to me, and now I can share them with you!!!
The End
Pinch me, I’m dreaming…
That maybe a title for another post. I can’t recall. It’s a feeling that happens to m fairly often since moving to Paris. And yesterday I got a big dose of it while attending the Elie Saab fashion show. This was my first large, international show with super stars and the über-chic crowd. After years of watching them saunter by as I ran errands or hurried to the office, I was finally “in”. And I got to be “in” with a truly fantastic designer who is more about style than brand, more about design than labels. I was as happy as a cat in a patch of sunlight on a winter’s day.
Elia Saab is an independent designer from Lebanon who was first invited by the Chambre Syndicale de la Haute Couture to show his collection at Paris Fashion Week in 2000. By 2006 he was a member of the Chambre. When I think of other designers, I may think of their classic cuts, nostalgic silhouettes, or daring designs. When I think of Elie Saab I immediately see sparkles and sumptuous fabrics that flow.Yesterday’s show did not let me down.
And I was not the only one soaking it all in.
Hundreds of international press were there recording every moment. Like when Taylor Swift showed up, or Rachel Zoe sashayed in. And my personal favorite, when the designer himself came out to acknowledge his fans, a brilliant, genuine smile on his face.
Rachel Zoe loving the blue dress
Taylor Swift loving the blue dress, too
What is it like going to one of the main shows? You get there on time, because if you’re late, they won’t let you in. Than you stand around for about half an hour until they start letting the press enter. As you wait the fashion press and bloggers are out milling about and shooting everything that moves while fashion students flirt with the guards, hoping for a nod in. Finally, you can enter, and within a few minutes close to 1000 people have taken their seats. The music begins to pump through the speakers, loud enough to vibrate in your chest and the first model steps out. Flashes start flying, iPhones start tweeting and a brief 12-15 minutes later it is over, you’ve seen the entire collection and the women return, walking out single file for a final viewing. Just as they disappear behind the screen, the designer walks out, gives an appreciative wave and the music stops as everyone files out.
The fashion was fantastic. Bright, solid colors flowed elegantly while enlightened with plays of lace and light. A couple of graphic dresses were young, modern and ready to hit the streets. It all looked wearable and even comfortable, which almost sounds like an insult in this world of tortured looks, and nearly impossible for formal wear, but it was a delight to the imagination and something of a dream come true.
Paris Fashion Week / Chanel
Yesterday, with sinuses swollen like two bagpipes and bags under my eyes the size of Louis Vuitton trunks, I dragged my drugged up self out of bed and started Dressing with a capital D. Its still fashion week and yesterday was the Chanel show at the Grand Palais. I was going to the spectacle even if it meant calling in medical reinforcements.
a sneak peek
Since following Paris Fashion Week, I’ve learned to arrive on time. Never early and there is no point in being late. But this was Chanel and I was expecting something different, so I went an hour early, camping out at a nearby café nursing a mint tea. Sitting there with my personal fan, Jane, we were surrounded by the crème de la crème of the fashion world, everyone proudly sporting their black and blue plaid, glossy invitation. Of course, I didn’t have one (sniff, sniff)
This lady showed up at our café on foot, and then had the limo drive her the 50 yrds to the backstage entrance!
Earlier than usual limos started to arrive and we started following the crowd, literally falling into the International press and the elbow of a super aggressive Japanese photographer as they waited for celebrities arriving by the back door. Photographers screamed for the attention of each fashionista as she poured out of a limo. I recognized no one and all the jostling had my instincts looking for the nearest shin to kick and I was afraid it would awake my inner parisienne like the full moon brings out the werewolves. It was time to move to the entrance
.
Good move, because that is where the party was full on. Aspiring, young designers from across the globe were wearing their most outrageous outfits, hoping to be discovered. Fashionista bloggers were in full outrageous mode, with same dream. And the fashion world started to arrive, the true professionals heart breakingly elegant and simply beautiful. Gala was handing out roses, American Apparel giving freebies and Les Echos had a Karl inspired magazine for everyone. And the shoes. OMG the shoes. Simply orgasmic. I got dizzy shooting all the amazing shoes walking in every direction, like watching a meteorite shower under the desert sky in August.
Don't know who it is, but the skirt is pure Alaïa
The man in the bordeaux cardigan is Bill Cunningham, my idol!!!
Half an hour after the show was supposed to begin, the doors opened and soon, the vibrant, pulsing music began. 20 minutes later it was over.
20 minutes is long for a fashion show in this part of the world. Karl was giving the crowd a generous fix. They poured out of the enormous hall looking happy and relaxed, which is another anomaly for fashion week. Pure magic.
Happy happy birthday
Satrapi window at Bon Marche
I have a thing for the Bon Marché. Sounds shallow and frivolous, but lets face it, I grew up listening to Madonna, so I seem to have “Material Girl”. But my crush on this store goes much deeper than that. It begins with Emile Zola and his novel “Au Bonheur des Dames” which chronicles the life and times of the shop girl Denise. It is a romance, but it is also a testament to the times and freedom that industrialization brought women, for better and some times for worse.
Boucicault, the force of nature behind the world’s first department store, was a marketing genius, coming up with ideas to get people into his shop that are still being used today, like the regularly held art exhibits at the Bon Marche. His wife a socialist before socialism, carefully looking after the well-being of their employees. They made a difference in society that is still felt today.
The Bon Marché is 160 years old this year and to celebrate they are throwing a party that seems to have leapt from the pages of Zola’s novel. Some of the most famous brands in the luxury world have created special limited editions to celebrate, all proudly displayed in a pop-up shop designed by the graphic novelist Marjane Satrapi. Satrapi’s illustrations also fly above the large open space, in the form of montgolfieres, bi-planes and Jules Vernes-like contraptions. Inside most of villages there is merchandise for sale. Fabulous designs to celebrate the Bon Marche’s 160th with inspired limited editions. Everything from iPhone covers to handbags, Baccarat crystal to Repetto ballet slippers.
In one area there is a documentary by Loïc Prigent, as he follows the city’s icon, Catherine Deneuve to all of her favorite Left Bank haunts. One of those haunts is Gerard Depardieu’s fish shop, Moby Dick, and its the film I saw them working on earlier in the year. I checked, and nope, I didn’t make it into the background, but it was very fun to see what had made the final cut!!!
Satrapi is the artistic force behind the film Perspolis. Her lines are bold and brilliant, the perfectly modern foil as her art continues outside, featuring more scenes of Catherine at places like her fish monger’s, the Café Fleurus and the Place Saint Sulpice in a specatcle that draws people in, and would make Boucicault proud.
Stepsister syndrome
Every girl has them… the pair of utterly gorgeous, to-die-for, more expensive than she ever should have spent of a pair shoes that are sitting in her closet mocking her. Perhaps they were a sale too good to pass up, or a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, the attempt to console a broken heart, or a lovely gift. Whatever the reason, these incredibly fantastic, dreamy shoes sit there and mock because as wonderful as they are, the girl can’t wear them. Like one of the evil step sisters, the magic slippers simply don’t fit, they are too small, or too tight, too high, or too outrageous to ever actually be worn. It breaks her heart.
I got my stepsister shoes quite innocently. We were preparing for NYC last May when I mentioned to Mr French that I did not have any decent walking flats for our trip. We were on the rue du Faubourg Saint Honoré running an errand at the time, and just as I said this, he noticed a fantastic antique mirror inside a shop. I didn’t have time to warn him that it was not an antique boutique before he was inside, with the intent to shop. We were in a shoe store. And not just any shoe store, it was THE shoe store, it was Roger Vivier.
Heading upstairs to see more of the design, Mr French soon started looking at the shoes and one thing led to another and before I knew it we were walking out the door with an Audrey Hepburn worthy masterpiece in python skin. The shoes fit. Perfectly. In the shop.
That Monday I shared my acquisition with the Yoga Yenta, telling her that I had some gorg new walking shoes for NYC.
A killer silhouette
“Oh no,” she moaned “try them first, Sylvia, I have a pair and after ten minutes that signature buckle of his digs a hole into my foot.”
I did not believe her, but I listened, wearing them on a quick errand to the dry cleaners. 10 minutes later I was home and my feet were bleeding; in three different places. I took them back to the shop and they were sent out to be stretched. I tried them again. This time only one area suffered, on top where the buckle digs in with each step, just as the YY had warned. I don’t blame Roger. I see numerous chic Parisiennes sauntering through the city streets with his iconic buckle. I blame it on my peasant ancestry and stubby toes. The shoe won’t fit. Its devastating.
Of course, I mean this in a relative way. No one is sick, and my life is pretty great without new shoes, but this was a pretty extravagant dream purchase and the shoes are now destined to sit in my closet well within my grasp, yet beyond my reach. Mocking me.
La rentrée
There is not really a concept for the French rentrée in English. The Brits used to call it the beginning of the season, and Hallmark has turned it into Back to School in the US, but La Rentrée is not about school, it is about getting back to life, particularly a social life. After the long (in France, anyway) summer hiatus spent with family, everyone is back in town and ready to play. Businesses open their doors, parking spaces fill up, there is activity on the street AND the invitations start pouring in as cultural events go into full swing. The “season” has begun.
There is the Biennale antiquaires at the Grand Palais, Dali expo at the Pompidou, Parcours des Mondes at the galleries, FIAC, Dom Juan at the Comedie Française, Les Nuits Blanches, Journées de la Patrimoine and the list just goes on and on…
Today the excitement really began, when I received my very first ever invitation to Vogue’s Fashion Night Out. I have gone the past few years, but only thanks to friends and their extra invites. This year, it is My invite, in My name. I felt like Christmas had come early!!! Now, to get an invite, you really just have to be a client and this year I got a very special pair of shoes from a very special address (whose initials are NOT CL). You can also snag one by buying the Fashion Night Out edition of Vogue, so my invite is not really all that, but it makes me happy, all the same.
What do you do on Fashion Night Out and what exactly is it? Its just a glorified block party where fashion houses uncork the champagne until it flows out on the streets. Lots of young, gorgeous people are paid to show up and prance around in fabulous fashions to tempt the ridiculously rich, who are a sight to behold in their own right. If you’ve got the budget for plastic surgery, this is the place to come and collect names of which doctors do a fantastic, natural looking job for your senior years and which doctors you would like to hire for your ex’s 28 year old girlfriend’s boob job. Design students flock the streets wearing the most outrageous silhouettes to catch your eye and hoping to be ‘discovered’, or at the very least, score a spare invite.
Marketing fashion on fashion night
For me it is total eye candy and the people watching highlight of my year. I’ll be there with bells on. Perhaps even literally…
And if you’d like to join me, drop me a line, because I just got a second invite and I’d LOVE to share it with one of my faithful readers!!!
A solid foundation
Lingerie shopping for that first date reminded me on my very first bra fitting in Paris. I was nearly 40, had had two children and had not changed bra sizes in a very, very long time. To be perfectly honest, I had not actually worn a bra in a very, very long time. Like an insect in metamorphosis, I was changing from a granola-munching, hairy-legged, commando-dressing Californian into me. I’d look at the moms picking up their kids at the girls’ school and, as a designer, I could not help noticing that having the proper under garments made a significant different to their lignes.
I was ready for some underwear. Remembering that my Mom had taught me to always purchase one bra for three matching panties (yes, my Mom was cool), I spent several hours strolling through the lingerie department looking for something I thought I could actually wear. I was finally ready to try on a few pretty, yet practical, everyday bras to see how they fit.
The woman at the changing room stopped me cold. “Are you sure you have the right size?”
“Oui, oui, madame.”
“Well, I’m not so sure,” she replied as she clinically took her hands and cupped them over my breast. I let out a startled squeak as my eyes popped out of my head and my feet left the ground in surprise. “You’re an A cup,” she announced loudly enough for anyone to hear. She then put her two hands on either side of my rib cage and declared me a 90. 90A. The bras in my hands were 85B, which confirms that I am an optimist.
It also confirms that I had not yet learned how important proper fitting underwear is for a chic Parisienne style. I started paying attention, and at the gym I noticed that even for a workout, the girls were all wearing properly fitting, matching underwear, just like my Mom had said. And it was not necessarily expensive, many of my Parisiennes get their Dim underwear at Monoprix for bras that give a great silhouette with a comfortable fit for everyday wear.
Since girls just wanna have fun, they also like the lacy stuff from time to time. Practical girls head to Orcanta, where they have a large selection of many different brands with a respectably diverse selection of ‘moods’ in a variety of price ranges. When I am feeling particularly up-scale and naughty, I like Marlies Dekkers, for her flattering, extra-odinarily comfortable designs that are hot enough for a girl like Fergie from the Red Hot Chili Peppers. When I am looking for luxurious fabrics with that silky feel, I head to Princesse Tam Tam. Sometimes I get so carried away that I have to remind myself that I am there to look lovely when I am dressed and need to think about how the garments flatter me and my outfits (or not). For that, Aubade has the “cheater’s panty” which I will not picture here because my Dad and my kids read this blog. Not to mention Mr French’s assistant! If I really want to splurge, and I don’t care about what I’ll be wearing on top, I look at Eres for sumptuous silks in girlie not-frilly designs that have been proven to drive men wild.
