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…
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
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
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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.
I love fashion. Don’t ask me why, because I am hardly a fashionista and when you check out the fashion crowd it is clear, I don’t belong. Not that I really want to, because looking that great is a LOT of hard work. 
I know because I tried it for a while in the 80’s. Turns out that I am really not that great at it, although I still think I looked absolutely fabulous sauntering around NY city in a plaid Grandpa nightgown with a wide black, elastic belt, black leggings, Richelieu shoes, shoulder pads and a widow’s hat.
True fashion, not the silly things I threw together as a teen, is way out of my starving artist 
budget, and I can’t say I have the lifestyle to wear any of it if I ever did indulge. On the plus side, fashion has no fat and its calorie free, so as long as I am only looking, great fashion is a decadent treat I indulge in daily from time to time, just like chocolate!
And right now is prime time for a little indulgence. n case you haven’t heard, it’s fashion week in Paris. And if you don’t FB or Tweet, you couldn’t possibly know that I’ll be going to a fashion show next week. A real live, international fashion show for the designer Elie Saab. I am thrilled to itsy bitsy little pieces.
When I re
ceived the email telling me that I’d be an insider this year, well I was OVER THE MOON. What does a girl do when she is that thrilled? She tweets it, to tell the world. People tweeted back, “Whatchya wearing to the show?” “Aren’t you stressed about what to wear?” Zut! You’re killing my unabashed joy, here, people! I am usually pretty confident in fashion circles (I did learn something from the 80’s debacle); black top, black pants with a killer pair of CFM pumps, preferably in red or with some kind of metal attached et voilà! You’re good to go.
But this is Paris Fashion Week, even the French capitalize each noun, so all of a sudden, I was feeling intimidated. I decided to go check out what was happening at the shows.
Which is when my good friend Mary Kay from Out and About in Paris comes in. We met up after I’d already seen the scene at Guy Laroche and Belmain. She “just happened” to be at the Place Vendôme and I was heading to scope out the Barbara Bui crowd at the neighboring Westin.
“Let’s go in” Mary Kay suggested.
“What? Walk into the hotel? Just like that?”
“Yeah, I had no problems doing this last year at the Ritz when I saw Beyoncé.”
Ritz? Beyoncé? I am IN. And I was, everyone assuming we were just a couple of clueless American tourists or part of some buying team. We sat in the plush, cosy lobby, cameras discretely in their totes, waiting out the show. Suddenly the music stopped, the doors swung open and ZOOM, the two of us were bobbing up and down like two buoys at sea, with prime spots for shooting the fashion crowd as they left the show. Ab-FAb, I am telling you. I was so excited, I lost my voice.
I’ve noticed that the insiders leave the show with expressions of thoughtful contemplation, or frantically texting away on their iPhones. Not a lot of smiles to be seen, although mine was so daff looking I got a huge one for a stunning woman in fantastic glasss. This is BETTER than being a kid in a candy shop. Next year, MK, we’ll order champagne as we wait. The drinks are on me!!!
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!!!
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.
The problem with attempting online dating in Paris, is that if you are at all successful, then eventually, your ‘date’ is going to want to take things offline and actually meet you. Of course, that is the goal anywhere you start chatting up people online, but in Paris, chances are pretty high that you’ll be meeting a Frenchman who is used to seeing Parisiennes all day, every day.
Now, if you are a happily confident soul, this is not an issue (and you are a very lucky person) but if, like me, you are slightly complexed about your rounder than the-averag-local-girl figure and painfully aware that you are NOT a chic Parisienne, and on top of that had not dated, had not even contemplated dating, in the previous two decades, much less meet a new man for anything more adventurous than a coffee to discuss business, the thought can be overwhelmingly INTIMIDATING.
And that is exactly how I felt after Mr French and I had been ‘seeing’ each other online for a while. I wanted to meet him live, but I had no confidence and was paralysed by the simplest possible question; what do you wear on your first date with a Frenchman that you’ve never seen before, and who, more importantly, has never seen you?
Being plugged in, I posted the question online to see what the fashionistas of France had to say, and I got some fantastic advice, “Wear your favorite outfit, whatever that is. Something you feel absolutely comfortable and at ease in, something you know and that knows your body. Whatever you do, do not go out and buy something new.”
The advice continued, “Then go out and buy yourself the sexiest, most fabulous lingerie you can find. Something that you love and that makes you feel wonderful.”
Those women, like most truly chic ladies, understood that bras and underwear were not called foundation wear for nothing. They are the foundation of your style, they define your silhouette, control how your clothing falls and flows as you move and if chosen properly, they can give you a delicious secret that is visible to none, but obvious to anyone paying attention.
I started going through my closet, choosing my favorite jeans, my favorite blazer and some adorable kitten heeled boots that I simply loved. The blazer and the shoes were a color that seemed particularly appropriate for a date; chocolate. Then I went to Chantal Thomass where I picked out a little (teeny, tiny, even) something in a warm chocolate satin with laces. Not lace, but laces.
A week later it was D-Date. I am not crazy. I did not know this person and I had met him online. All this build up and angst was about a coffee date. We’d be in a crowded room together for as little as 15 minutes and a maximum of two hours if things went exceedingly well. Being the old-fashioned girl that I am, there is no way that anyone but me was going to be seeing my underwear that day. But it worked like a charm, and I walked out my front door feeling very comfortable in my old jeans, yet standing tall with my little secret…
Today we are in the Kalahari desert, marveling at the intricate beading and treated skins worn by the nomadic San, once known as the bushmen. This remarkable community has thrived living in some of the most extreme, hostile land on earth. During our stay temperatures have gone from -7 in the morning, up to 27 by afternoon. Today, the San live a modern life style, and dress accordingly, but they are proud to share their traditions and knowledge with visitors, offering guided visits of the bush. These visits hlp them pass their quickly dying heritage on down to the younger generation, teaching us how to find water, build a fire, and dress.
Xarugke (pronounced Gah-rue-Ha) was our tracker in the central Kalahari. He’d sit at the front of our Land Cruiser, perched on a make-shift seat above the passenger side headlight, looking for tracks, and when he found something interesting, he’d hop down and start tracking, following winding lion prints through dense bush. He chose one afternoon to dress in his traditional springbok skin and share some of his culture with us.
Out on the Makgadikgadi salt pans thick woolen blankets protect against the frigid morning air, but they are quickly dropped as the sun rises.
Fashion is not a silly indulgence of the West. San women spend hours embroidering bright, cheerful beads in to their springbok skin outfits, and the men’s wildebeest tops. Steenbok is the preferred leather for the men’s handbags, and they are the only garment not decorated. Perhaps because they exist to tote around poison arrows to the hunt.
I even spotted a Loubou-shman fixing a lady’s antelope skin sandals while the others were digging for scorpion.
And jewelry has an important place, with gorgeous beaded pieces being worn around the head, wrists, fingers and ankles. Anything that can be adorned, without interfering with practical daily life, is made discretely colorful. Men get to wear a jaunty ostrich feather to complete the look.
Modern uniforms have become a status symbol that family members reserve for translators and guides, while their children get practical winter hats and wear sensible, western sneakers. It is nice to dress-up in one’s finest, but practicality rules the day, fashion be damned.
Well, folks, there is fashion here in Africa, too. It is winter in all of southern Africa, so hats are de rigeur for all Jo-berg fashionistas! As are warm, wool coats and the snazzy ankle boots that women around the world can’t seem to get enough of this year…
While in Africa, I spoke to the guides and asked their thoughts on safari fashion. Turns out, they MUST wear khakis, because that is what visitors expect, so it is considered unprofessional to wear jeans, or anything that is not standard-issue safari wear. This is NOT how they dress when out on their own. And this is not an evil corporate plot… the self-employed agree. Sunglasses are highly recommended. The gun, being modeled by our intrepid guide July, is optional and actively discouraged.
Packing for this trip I learned that safari fashion is a tricky affair, with a few key rules and regulations. You bag can not weigh more than 20 pounds, so you must pack light, but it is winter in southern Africa right not, so you must be prepared for the cold. They told us it would go as low as 10°c at night, but we’ve had temps as low as -7° since our arrival!?!
But despite the Antarctic chill, the sun shines brightly and hats are no longer just and accessory, they are a necessity. Scarves help, too, adding warming and protecting against any flying dust, or sand.
Then there are the colors. NO BLACK or dark blue. It attracts tsé tsé flies!!! Whites are discouraged because it may be mistaken for light by insects in the night. Oh, and the dirt. Since you’re packing light, you won’t be changing outfits every day. The lodges offer laundry services, but you’ll still be wearing things more than once, which makes earth-tones the best option. Oh, and those laundry ladies are brutal on clothing, so packing fragile garments is at your own risk.
Of course, the fashion forward Europeans in our crowd simply could not give up their denim, or white t-shirts. Even in the wild, we need a touch of civilization!
Friday@Flore goes to Hossegor and shows you the sights from the Café de Paris. The Café de Paris is an institution around here. Set in a classic 1920’s building, at the main intersection, the lazy come here to see and be seen throughout the day, then around 19h, the active set, just back from a day catching the waves, or cycling the hills, spills in to enjoy the live music and refreshing cocktails.
I am really on holidays, so I only have a few moments to take the briefest of snapshots… but sitting here for a morning coffee before a ride along the coast, I was really wishing I had the time to write more about all the fashions being sported by Parisiennes on holidays.
Even on their bicycles, they are looking fairly chic, yet sportive. Hossegor is a cycling town, with the town’s center reduced to one way streets and wide cycling paths.
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Those marine stripes I mentioned when packing are still in, although I was wrong about the Wayfarers. They have been replaced by Persols this summer. Any style will do, as long as it has the signature silver at the tips.
Then there were the market baskets that I loved coming, and going…. Mr French even got swept away in the fun and spotted this unique little bag, that he thought was fantastic.
There were even more, some sporting elegant leather trip, others boasting ethnic chic and a handful with polka dot cotton trims and bows.
Other stories, I didn’t get on film; orange or pink neon is THE thing to wear for runners this year; shoes, shoes laces, shorts or tanks, it doesn’t matter as long as it glows. The foutas Maroccan hammam towels are becoming more and more popular this year, being favored by the young surfer dudes as well as their grandmères.
Off to the beach. Bises!!!
