Leandra Medine's Blog, page 607

Genuinely Great: Narciso Rodriguez and Oscar de la Renta

Catch up on our breakdowns of Rodarte, Tory Burch and Altuzarra.

Amy Schumer sat in the front row at Narciso Rodriguez’s Spring 16 show — a detail I wouldn’t typically list first for a collection like his (the whole celebrities at fashion week thing can feel like someone’s dangling bait and you’re the fish on a diet trying to avoid sweets) — but she was as impossible to not watch as the clothes. If you’ve seen her act, you know that around Schumer, nothing is safe. She could pick apart a parody and parody that because she’s smart. She’s ruthless, unafraid to offend.

And fashion shows are an easy target.

But Rodriguez is smart too. Not for putting “a fun mixture of girls” in the front row (beside Schumer sat Jessica Alba and Kate Upton), but in his construction of the collection. For remaining staunch in his vision despite the noise of trends that erupt not twice, but four times a year. Everything he does is thoughtful: models walked a runway course as choreographed as an Olympic dressage test; the sequence of sunset colors brought fresh perspective to similar back-to-back silhouettes, and when it comes to the silhouettes, they were at once as loose and fluid as they were architecturally marvelous. Narciso Rodriguez is a man who has figured out how to dress women in a way that women crave as opposed to the other way around, and it’s why everyone loves his clothes. Nothing here to parody, you see. He’s too genuine.

The Oscar de la Renta show occurred earlier in the day and the immediate response that followed was a sigh of relief: in the hands of Peter Copping, the beloved house isn’t just going to be fine, it’s going to be great. He’s carried the brand through a few seasons now — Resort, Bridal, Fall 2015, and it’s clear that the former artistic director of Nina Ricci now feels at home.

The collection was dramatic, which was satisfying — it’s what you want from an Oscar show (and now I’m going to be dramatic: if Tchaikovsky had designed dresses…you know, the guy who did the music for The Nutcracker, Swan Lake, etc…it would look like the closing dress). The clothes were beautiful. And elegant. At times, a little bit sexy (there’s the Nina Ricci for you). It was so many things women want to feel when they put on clothes, because I think we all keep a bit of childhood hope that a dress has the power (maybe magic is a better word) to transform us, even if it’s just for a night. It’s the Cinderella hangover, I guess. But when it proves true, man does it feel good.

Photographs via Vogue Runway and NowFashion.com

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Wednesday Takeaways from Mansur Gavriel, Tory Burch & Coach

At Mansur Gavriel, know that the shape of the bag is changing: ditch the bucket, pick up a hat-box with handles instead. Think Miss Piggy Pink, lime green stripes and lipstick red for your color palette — or imagine a 1960s Slim Aarons print that can hold your stuff. You should also know that the brand is now doing shoes: minimalistic suede slides and a 90s take on the 70s platform. Three decades blended into ice cream soup? Must be Spring 2016. And it’s looking good.

Coach also hit blend on the sartorial Vitamix: it was an explosion of Liberty prints and British rockstar in a greenhouse atop the Manhattan Highline that produced a kind of colorful camouflage: the perfect vehicle for which to highlight leather jackets in red and brown. (You can skip the dark chiffon ones.) More jackets — these ones suede and with primary color patches — were the standouts even despite a general 1970s fatigue. But as Coach proved, it’s hard to say no to suede mosaics.

Man, these Spring collections are relentless with the summer: Tory Burch was more resort than any Resort collection we saw this year. Her models traipsed in embroidered tunics, woven pieces that ended in fringe and cotton Oh This Old Thing! I Just Threw It On-style dresses (although the organza closers would betray its wearer in a second; they say, Don’t lie, this look was planned, and we both know it). But as with Mansur Gavriel above, I can’t forget to tell you about the shoes: the heels were tall, and they were sculptural — a nice little edge for even the preppiest of Tory fans.

Runway photographs via Vogue Runway and NowFashion.com

Mansur Gavriel presentation photographs by Krista Anna Lewis and Elizabeth Tamkin

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Rodarte Takes the Pressure out of Personal Style

Rodarte doesn’t try to fit in with the rest of your wardrobe. The clothes do not care about blending with items you already own. They aren’t subtle. They aren’t understated. At times, they’re so referential and true to theme that, if viewed out of context, they could be misconstrued as a costume.

But then again, perhaps that’s exactly what Kate and Laura Mulleavy have in mind.

This Spring 2016 New York Fashion Week has found itself at a funny though not unpleasant plateau: we’re at an intersection between normcore and its dialed-up antidotes, somewhere over the 70s but still swimming under the rainbow, so used to the 90s-redux our cheap-thrills-retailers have adopted as staples that shapes once placed in time capsules now feel like common ground. This is both on the runway and in the streets if you’re taking notes. The lines are blurred. It’s exactly why Rodarte stands out.

What the Mulleavy sisters have done (for a while, not just with this collection, though this is the first time I’ve watched it unfold in person) is create a collection that celebrates fashion for the sake of fantasy — not personal style, which takes all pressure off the voyeur. It’s hard for most to look at suits that glitter, Yetti-armed coats or anything remotely “pirate'” and think, You know what, Carol? That is so me! And that’s okay. That’s good. Remember that if fashion is what helps us communicate who we are, not everyone is supposed to wear the same black tulle dress.

The brave and bold will stake intimate claim to this collection, of course, but for those who enjoy being a bit in awe of design, a little scared of it, the strange world of the Mulleavys comes as a relief.

“Don’t worry, guys,” they seem to say. “The Emperor isn’t naked (and you’re not crazy), but he is playing dress up in Rodarte.” It’s their own brand of personal style: fantastical, dramatic fashion.

Photographs via Vogue Runway and NowFashion.com

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How to Brag (Without Actually Bragging) on Instagram

To skinny-arm is a verb. It means: to pose in such a way that your shoulder and collarbone dislocate to boast the appearance of a lither limb, elbow spanned out like the world’s least free eagle while you either slouch into an unnatural hunch or stand aggressively straight, chest reaching towards the sky like your nipples have forgotten which way is up.

It’s a defense mechanism against gravity and our own bodies — no more of a farce than gut-flattening shape-wear and certainly no more comfortable, but also not a crime; I know too well the shock of being met with a photograph that begs the question, “When did my tricep swallow an armadillo?”

But I would never post a photo of me doing skinny-arm to my Instagram.

That’s saved for my BFSMM’s account.

A pause here to unpack this acronym. It stands for Best Friend Social Media Manager — the person with whom you’ve entrusted your vanity. Monitor of good hair days. Keeper of skinny arms.

Your own Instagram is likely a collection of trips and sunsets, candid laughter, pets and family. Since its inception you’ve learned to document the fine line between real and fabricated. You craft captions to balance out your photographs (something funny with an earnest shot) like a sommelier pairs food with wine. You’re being you, just not, “Me, me, me.” And all of this is fine.

However, because you avoid the obvious photos — the ones that call to mind such adjectives as “hot,” it’s possible your ex has no idea exactly how well you’re doing. Here’s where your BFSMM steps in, because your ex follows her, too. So does the new object of your secret affection. You made sure of it during group hang outs when everyone began sharing their favorite Insta-memes, or you got lucky and they became friends through social osmosis.

It is your BFSMM’s job to post all photos where you look like a full babe. (Likewise, it is her job to instantly delete any where you do not). Eliminated is the stigma of appearing cheesy or self-indulgent. Rather, you just appear — and look good.

Your BFSMM’s Instagram is a refrigerator for your most superficial accomplishments. Where your handle self-deprecates in a humorous light, hers brags like a proud mother. It’s like having a second account: one for business, the other for pleasure, but with the latter you get to shrug your shoulders and feign ignorance. “I didn’t know she posted that!”

A good BFSMM is strategic and discreet. She’s as invested in your well-portrayal as you are in your own. She will alert you when all the necessary people have liked the photo and will stay quiet (she’s polite) in the event they don’t. She has an arsenal of emergency TBTs stocked and ready should you feel the need to remind someone that you’re a catch.

Her catch? That you return the favor. She’s got a few skinny arms up her sleeve, too.

Illustration by Alessandra Olanow. Ch-ch-check out her Insta.

 

The post How to Brag (Without Actually Bragging) on Instagram appeared first on Man Repeller.

Everyone Needs a Good Social Media Manager

To skinny-arm is a verb. It means: to pose in such a way that your shoulder and collarbone dislocate to boast the appearance of a lither limb, elbow spanned out like the world’s least free eagle while you either slouch into an unnatural hunch or stand aggressively straight, chest reaching towards the sky like your nipples have forgotten which way is up.

It’s a defense mechanism against gravity and our own bodies — no more of a farce than gut-flattening shape-wear and certainly no more comfortable, but also not a crime; I know too well the shock of being met with a photograph that begs the question, “When did my tricep swallow an armadillo?”

But I would never post a photo of me doing skinny-arm to my Instagram.

That’s saved for my BFSMM’s account.

A pause here to unpack this acronym. It stands for Best Friend Social Media Manager — the person with whom you’ve entrusted your vanity. Monitor of good hair days. Keeper of skinny arms.

Your own Instagram is likely a collection of trips and sunsets, candid laughter, pets and family. Since its inception you’ve learned to document the fine line between real and fabricated. You craft captions to balance out your photographs (something funny with an earnest shot) like a sommelier pairs food with wine. You’re being you, just not, “Me, me, me.” And all of this is fine.

However, because you avoid the obvious photos — the ones that call to mind such adjectives as “hot,” it’s possible your ex has no idea exactly how well you’re doing. Here’s where your BFSMM steps in, because your ex follows her, too. So does the new object of your secret affection. You made sure of it during group hang outs when everyone began sharing their favorite Insta-memes, or you got lucky and they became friends through social osmosis.

It is your BFSMM’s job to post all photos where you look like a full babe. (Likewise, it is her job to instantly delete any where you do not). Eliminated is the stigma of appearing cheesy or self-indulgent. Rather, you just appear — and look good.

Your BFSMM’s Instagram is a refrigerator for your most superficial accomplishments. Where your handle self-deprecates in a humorous light, hers brags like a proud mother. It’s like having a second account: one for business, the other for pleasure, but with the latter you get to shrug your shoulders and feign ignorance. “I didn’t know she posted that!”

A good BFSMM is strategic and discreet. She’s as invested in your well-portrayal as you are in your own. She will alert you when all the necessary people have liked the photo and will stay quiet (she’s polite) in the event they don’t. She has an arsenal of emergency TBTs stocked and ready should you feel the need to remind someone that you’re a catch.

Her catch? That you return the favor. She’s got a few skinny arms up her sleeve, too.

Illustration by Alessandra Olanow. Ch-ch-check out her Insta.

 

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My Dad Drove Me to Fashion Week Again

Of all the many scenes in Clueless that helped me to become the person I am today, Travis Birkenstock’s tardiness acceptance speech is among the most important.

“Tardiness is not something you can do on your own,” he says from the podium. “Many, many people contributed to my tardiness.”

It’s inspirational and humbling. Travis is right — being late is a group effort; rarely is it “just” your fault. As such, I thought I’d give my own version of an acceptance speech to those who made me late, and on time!, for my day in the life during New York Fashion Week featuring Sunday, September 13.

12:00 PM: I’d first like to thank my dad, Eric Diamond, for our longstanding bi-annual tradition where he drives me to Derek Lam. This time, he dropped me off right in front of everyone and everything even though I asked him to let me off around the block.

12:05 PM: Then he did that toot-toot horn thing your own dad probably did after dropping you off at middle school.

1:30 PM: After Derek Lam, Leandra and I came back to my apartment where I sat on the couch and worked like a normal person while she sat on the floor, faced a bookshelf like a kid in time out and typed up her Day in the Life.

3:00 PM: We worked until Thakoon which made me want to wear high-thigh bias cut shorts and go immediately back on vacation. Then Leandra left me for two and a half days to observe the Jewish New Year.

She is lucky I don’t turn this into Horse.com while she’s away.

4:00 PM: I George-Michaeled all the way down to Milk Studios, which was kind of a long walk and if I’m being completely honest, I took a cab. With time to kill before the next show, I went into Chelsea Market, ate food, checked emails and glared at tourists for asking if the 123456 free seats next to me were taken.

5:45 PM: After Jonathan Simkhai (a super pretty collection of party dresses that read sexy and romantic rather than too-sweet with a group of white numbers that you can bet some laid-back girl will buck tulle tradition for and get married in), my early-streak ended, probably because I no longer had A) my dad nor B) our actual fashion week driver, who ruled and did not do the double-dad-honk upon drop off. Big shout out to him in my speech.

5:50 PM: Also, I did something risky: I had to change. Had to. I hated my outfit and I was cold and had a long night ahead of me, so I ran home on my own two dumb feet. Zero thanks goes to the espadrilles that kept making me roll my ankle.

5:55 PM: Yes I know I made fun of Leandra for going home to change in the newsletter.

I semi miss her.

5:58 PM: You should know that at this juncture I was changing in my apartment while an Uber driver sat outside and lowered my rating for being late.

5:59 PM: You should also know that Edun, my next show, was set to start at 6.

6:05 PM: However! Shows are notoriously late. Like Jack Bauer in 24, I texted my equivalent of Chloe who was handling the Edun show and asked for an update on the start time. At 6:19 they were still waiting for a celebrity (not me) so by pure luck and dumb shoes and my brilliant Uber driver who definitely did something illegal but much appreciated, I made it. Major thanks to you, dude.

6:44 PM: My pictures from the show sucked, but, I did get a pic of Lucy Chadwick post-show because we are style-stalking her at Team MR. Get ready 4 that.

6:46 PM: Here’s where I’d like to thank the New York City subway system. After five minutes of sitting on the Uptown 1 train at the Varick and Canal stop without moving, it was announced the train would never work again, at least until I had spent five billion dollars on a cab — then it would resume, without me.

7:00 PM: Got a cab. Sat in traffic. Sold my first-born. Bit my nails off.

7:40-something: I miraculously made it to Prabal Gurung on time (I’d like to thank the fashion world for also running equally as late), was calmed by chanting monks, and then headed uptown where I sat in more traffic.

!!! My favorite thing ever is spending rent money on cabs !!!

8:30 PM: Took a break from fashion to eat family dinner at my friend Trent’s apartment where we watched football and tennis except for me who napped in between bites of lobster mac and cheese. Add that to my NYFW diet, for real.

9:45 PM: After being sufficiently made fun of for wearing high waisted flares and a button down shirt (I was likened to Jessie from Toy Story 2, among other fun cowgirl references) I bid my friends goodbye.

10:00 PM: While seated at the Bloglovin’ Awards where I was mildly underdressed, I received the following text:

Hey look! Your butt is famous!

Turns out the guys were right. I did look like Jessie from Toy Story. 

11:30 PM: On time for bed. Shout out to all who got me there, and to all a good night.

Runway Photographs via Vogue.com. Amelia and Leandra via WhoWhatWear.

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Tackle Your Tuesday with 3 Fast Recaps: 3.1 Phillip Lim, Thom Browne, Maiyet

Catch up on the fash-up: see what Leandra did, what Amelia ate, what two designers said and what Krista captured. 

But first…

At 3.1 Phillip Lim, satin trousers and shorts blossomed at the waist thanks to thick fabric belts that caused a paper-bag effect — emphasis on the word “effect,” because there was nothing frumpy about the way in which in which they slouched. To do: fish out anything with a rip-chord toggle from the depths of your high school closet. Preferably windbreakers. The early 2000s are coming, but there are no reasons left to be scared.

Then..

Declan Kearney, former designer director at Alexander Wang and Maiyet’s newest creative director, ran so fast around the looping track to give his bow that it looked like he left his phone in a cab — but that’s New York for you, and it’s what the energy of the city will do to you. The models walked super fast, too.

It wasn’t Kearney’s runway debut, but it was Maiyet’s first time showing in Manhattan after seasons spent presenting in Europe. (It’s a NY-based brand: welcome back.) He’s added a bit of Wang edge to the clean, classic vibe while keeping the whole thing tidy and cool, but one of the most interesting things about Maiyet remains its message: the brand is dedicated to forging partnerships with global artisans, and this Spring 16 collection was dedicated to (I’m paraphrasing) bad ass women. Raise your hand if you can get behind that.

Later, but not last:

Thom Browne’s show was less theatrical than seasons past, but no less of a crowd-pleaser; it ended in uproarious applause. We clapped for the impeccably tailored jackets and pleated skirts, the deliberately shrunken sleeves and overall wearability (a big word this season) of Browne’s practical yet still whimsical, subversive collection.

There’s something creepy about combining geisha references (the makeup, riffs on the traditional “Geta” sandals) with an elementary school girl theme (forgot to tell you, the spectacle took place in a classroom), but that’s Browne — turning the industry up on its head, then blurring reality before you can get your bearings. It was never quite clear for the entire show: were the models the ones walking upside down (their pigtails pointed toward the sky as bikes and shrubs hung from the ceiling), or was it us? Of course, in the same way a magician never reveals his tricks, why should Thom Browne tell?

Photographs via Vogue Runway and NowFashion.com

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The Fashion Week Diet: Amelia

Eating during fashion week is a sport that only the most dedicated of culinary athletes have mastered. It’s in no way conducive to regular programming: everyone’s running late, running for real (to not be late), stuck in traffic in a food-barren cab or in an awkward waiting hold where you could grab food, but you’re scared to…because if you do, you’ll probably be late.

If you’re a 3-meal-a-dayer or a habitual snacker, unless you pack your own, you’re screwed. If you’re of the camp who forget to eat, you’re fine until you faint — but fainting is especially dangerous during fashion week because despite what I said in Krista’s street style post, fashion weekers and camera fleekers are terrible at looking both ways.

But I’ve been training for this, you see. I’ve been working out by eating at odd hours, conditioning my stomach to accept larger-than-normal quantities at a time, and then willing it to stay full during extended slumber, like a bear. By the time day 1 rolled around I was an absolute pro, and so, I thought I’d share my NYFW food diary. Just in case you, too, are working on a regimen.

Thursday, September 10, 2015. New York Fashion Week, Day 1.

7:00 AM: Haven’t eaten yet. Just wanted to brag about waking up.

8:30 AM: Breakfast was this weird Greek yogurt/muesli combo from a place called Chalait. It wasn’t bad but I spent the whole time questioning my life decisions. Washed it down with iced coffee of the cold brew variety which I drink, but hate.

11:00 AM: Got another iced coffee with Leandiva before Creatures of the Wind, ate a handful of dumb nut mix from Gourmet Garage. It was $6 and I hate myself for spending rent on owl food when I could have just foraged for it in the woods like a normal person.

2:00 PM: Had a break after the Brother Vellies presentation so I went home to work and ordered a BLT from Westville. BLTs are probably in my top tier of favorite foods. This one is especially good because they put Thousand Island dressing on the toasted bread.

Thousand Island dressing is a mixture of mayo, ketchup and relish, by the way, which is disgusting.

6:00 PM: Had a mini sleeve of french fries at the Edie Parker presentation. Like Leandra pointed out on Insta, designer Brett Heyman did a great job of reminding us that summer is a state of mind and that it’s endless so long as you’re carrying a clutch with raffia-tentacled jellyfish or a glittery buoy of a purse that says “Ahoy.” Heyman does a remarkable job of mixing kitsch and novelty with wearability, minus — this is the remarkable part, really — wear-out-ability. You can’t get sick of her stuff.

Can’t really get sick of fries, either. (And excuse the dirty nail. I took the subway today.)

9:30 PM: Home after Adam Selman feeling the kind of tired that makes it impossible to think about dinner. Turns out I didn’t have to: my roommate made us both giant bowls of vanilla frozen yogurt with raspberries and Tates chocolate chip cookies. I know, he’s a chef.

I know, it’s so sad he’s not single.

Illustration by Max Dower of Unfortunate Portrait.

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Thakoon and Edun in Under Two Minutes

Thakoon told a story of summer vacations, the indigo tie dye a salute to high tides and big waves without the surfer reference, to fresh fish dinners and salt water hair and aloe vera. The bathrobes (in white terrycloth with black piping, in chambray shirting with red accents) betrayed secrets of sleeping in and lounging around hotel rooms rather than going out to see the sights — luxury. Also luxurious: black and red mottled chiffon, glitzy sequined slips, cover ups and skirts that spoke loudly of lipstick-stained mojito glasses served poolside by the kind of place that doesn’t judge you for drinking before noon because who even knows what time it is when you’re actually, truly relaxed? Whether the crowd did all of this or none of this (maybe some if it, plus a little Grand Canyon/family reunion action) everyone collectively thought the same thing: “Take me back.”

At Edun, the crowd was kept in the present: drummers sat besides front row guests and created hand-made beats for the models to strut to in a way that would best-suite all the fringe, swoosh and tassel of the clothes. It was impossible not to dance in your seat — but that was the point. The label’s Spring 16 collection drew inspiration from the celebratory, ritual dressing of the Kuba People of Africa, then cited parallels between them and the “playful dressing of performance artists in 1930’s Europe.” Adding to the energy: a brushed canary gold jumpsuit, a black and white macrame dress. Continuing the brand’s mission of sourcing production and encouraging trade in Africa, they debuted their first hand bag collection constructed entirely in South Africa.

Designer Danielle Sherman

Photographs via Vogue Runway and NowFashion.com

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Say Something: Derek Lam, Prabal Gurung

A designer shows, not tells. The audience sits before a fabric message and decodes each look using immediate cues, then is left to interpret at will. But while he didn’t full on spell it out for us, Derek Lam — a man as precise in his words as he is in the construction of his clothes and the vision of his line — left his Spring 16 inspiration in the show notes regarding American singer Nina Simone:

“What Happened, Miss Simone?”

Iconic, iconoclastic. Fiercely feminine…a bold siren…but also tender, like a fresh bruise. A deep soul and an independent beauty, Nina Simone’s life, work and style inspire a wardrobe of femininity for a woman with a voice and purpose.

A black model named Lineisy Montero opened the show that explored what classic American sportswear means today: clean lines and practicality (you’ll need a trench, you’ll need a blazer); a palette that eases into the wardrobe you’ve already built (maroons and light blues and navy, black, white, cream — easy); nods to the frivolity necessary in fashion (fringed hems for the beautiful sake of it, bell sleeves, lace because why not). It was wonderful, wearable, strong, powerful and it made both Leandra and I want to go home and change.

It was a call for the industry to change as well: Derek Lam’s Spring 2016 muse was not only a musician. Simone was a civil-rights activist during a time period when America was in racial turmoil, the landscape was changing and the fight was painful. For Lam to focus on her in this fresh September of 2015 as our country once again struggles amid police brutality and racism may be his quiet way of speaking up — especially in an industry often criticized for its lack of diversity. Where Simone communicated with her voice, Derek Lam spoke through the clothes and range of models, and the message, though an interpreted one, has been heard. The conversation has only just begun.

Also heard: the post-earthquake devastation in Nepal. Designer Prabal Gurung wrote in a letter left on the seat for each guest that he was compelled to do something beyond raising money for the country in which he grew up. “I wanted the world to experience a glimpse of what Nepal means to me,” he said.

Buddhist monks chanted a prayer before the show began. It was a humbling moment of silence and reflection — a reminder of what’s important, followed by a collection of what home means to the Nepalese designer. There were dresses in hues of orange like that of the monks’ robes, paint-strokes inspired by Nepal-born artist Laxman Shreshtha splashed on airy fabrics and shimmering gold sequins that one can’t help but want to romanticize as inspiration taken from a sunrise (a new dawn, a new day — just like Nina Simone so famously sang about) over the same mountains the designer’s note described. The show was hopeful and beautiful — women will want to wear these gowns. For Prabal Gurung, it was a personal gesture of gratitude to the industry for supporting his efforts in relief; a way for him to find light after dark; a way to say something.

Photographs via Vogue Runway and NowFashion.com

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