Leandra Medine's Blog, page 653

Paris Dispatch: Adopt the Energy at Saint Laurent

Saint Laurent shows are great for two reasons:

Contrary to the belief that fashion week can successfully occur from a computer screen, it really does take being there to understand the precision with which Hedi Slimane has built the vitality that defines his Saint Laurent.

And though the shows aren’t quite big — or perhaps this is because they’re not big — they are always packed enough to create the kind of bottleneck that keeps you inching toward a passageway for ten plus minutes, which on the penultimate eve of fashion month unfailingly provides interesting conversational fodder from the surrounding critics.

Last night, after a 60-look crash course in skinny, high waist pants, ripped tights, loud, large prom skirts and all the kind of skin (and bone) bearing short stuff that you’d expect from Saint Laurent, the exodus that emerged maintained only one lyric. It’s the same one that has been fine tuned, chanted and re-preached since Slimane took over almost three years ago: that could have been Forever 21.

But here’s the thing: does that matter? The largest criticism of New York Fashion Week was that nothing felt “new.” That feeling came out of London, Milan and even Paris in a few instances, but how many times are we going to have to talk about the concept of wheel reinvention before we finally get that a wheel is a wheel and was always a wheel and if it ain’t broke, you don’t fix it? What we seek isn’t newness so much as it is a thoughtful challenge to the narrative. And sure, yes, you can say that the de facto clothes at Saint Laurent (which, it is worth pointing out, do look like the shiniest version of the wheel we’re already familiar with), don’t challenge you — but then again, can you really?

There are two kinds of fashion shows: the ones that sell clothes and the ones that sell an idea — an energy. Every now and then, you will discover a designer who can do both (see: Nicolas Ghesquiére), but that is rare. Slimane falls from the latter camp and the energy that he sells has become palpable only because of the clothes. For every nose up at the ripped tights of Fall 2015, there will be ten purchases to eradicate it. And that is genius of Saint Laurent. Slimane is quite possibly the only designer who is actually selling such a crystallized, literal version of cool. If two years ago, you couldn’t fake it, in 2015, you can and that’s because of him.

We talk about the end of trends as if it’s actually true that forever henceforth, we will live like black crows among closet staples and clean lines. That, in itself, is a trend. But we won’t. On Sunday, Vanessa Friedman wrote in a stellar review for The New York Times, “Gimme a fad!”

Unflinching in his conviction to challenge, freeze and define this fad — so much so that you are tricked into believing the clothes, the show, the energy will never change — Slimane is doing just that.

Click here for more Fashion Week coverage. 

Because It’s Going to Be 50 Degrees…

For the first time in one hundred billion days, it is not going to snow this week.

In fact, it’s not only not going to snow, it’s going to hang out like a koala bear on monkey bars at a steady 50 degrees. And sure I know that koalas aren’t bears, but have you ever seen bars made out monkeys, either? No way, Chalupa Joe. Let’s stop picking the nits and instead focus on sunshine.

More importantly, let’s focus on what we’re going to wear in this sunshine.

The Not-Quite-a-Coat Coat 

The duster coat – preferably of the pastel variety — is a good option both for its layering potential and its ability to double as a stylish Swiffer WetJet. A silk trench coat like this one won’t keep you warm should the weather decide to PMS again, but you’ll look cool as hell as you dodge ice pellets, so there. A military inspired style like this one by Marc by Marc Jacobs  will shield your neck, plus the cotton fabric is easy, breezy, and the enemy of impromptu sweat marks.

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The Denim Dress

A 70s resurgence means one thing: lots of denim. And per Alexa Chung’s demonstration, let us never underestimate the magic of true blue and an A-line hem. Layer a denim dress over a turtleneck, under a neoprene sweatshirt or with the one pair of tights you’ve managed not to tear this winter.

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Flatform Espadrilles 

Be bold, run free, give the ice sheet lying dormant outside of your apartment building a giant finger and wear a pair of flatform espadrilles. Be safe and pair them with some knit socks until the temperature climbs above 60. From then on out, we go nude.

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Now, grab a good book and an overpriced smoothie and head to the park. Pretend you’re Cher Horowitz and watch the boys play frisbee while you catch up on all of the latest fashion news coming out of Paris. Or stay home and re-watch GIRLS; it’s your monkey bar, after all — we’re just swinging from it.

Why Is Fashion, Of All Places, Still a Man’s World?

The house of Chanel is more than 100 years old. Dior is nearly 70.

While some fashion brands have managed to remain independent, most of those old-time-y names are owned by conglomerates. The people who run these super-companies — namely Kering’s Francois Pinault and LVMH’s Bernard Arnault — clearly believe in fashion as a craft and on some levels, an art form, but they are also shrewd businessmen. If a creative director has a few bad seasons, if clothes — or more importantly, accessories — aren’t selling, then he or she will be discarded.

This happens easily and often. In January, Frida Giannini was removed from Gucci and protege Alessandro Michele put in her place. Adam Andrascik, a relative newcomer, was named creative director at Guy Laroche. And in the wake of Guillaume Henry’s appointment at Nina Ricci last year, Alexis Martial and Adrien Caillaudaud took over at Carven.

But something funny is happening here. The names just listed above? All men. Barely any of the fashion world’s head designers are women.

I don’t have insider knowledge of what went on behind closed doors at Gucci when execs were searching for Giannini’s replacement. However, I do know that none of the names that were publicly tossed around were female, save for Valentino co-designer Maria Grazia Chiuri. Simone Rocha was briefly mentioned as a possible lead at Carven, but Dior, Margiela, Louis Vuitton, and Balenciaga have all hired new creative directors over the past few years and rarely — if at all — was a woman’s name a serious, considered part of the speculation.

But why? It’s not an easy question to answer. Phoebe Philo, Stella McCartney, Alessandra Facchinetti, Jenna Lyons, and Clare Waight-Keller run some of the most interesting, successful, creative studios in the industry. Comme des Garcons’ Rei Kawakubo has managed to achieve what every fashion house wants: commercial success without sacrificing challenging, groundbreaking design. While their partners are male, Kenzo’s Carol Lim and Valentino’s Grazia Chiuri are each co-running two of fashion’s biggest success stories of the past half-decade.

And yet, when you look at Style.com’s highlight reel from the Spring 2015 shows, only four of the 15 labels mentioned are run by women. Could it be that fashion is just another boys club?

Yes. Despite the fact that most fashion brands are catering mostly to women, very few are led by them. (LVMH’s Delphine Arnault is the most visible female exec in luxury, Net-a-Porter’s Natalie Massenet is another.) While women seem to have a better chance at succeeding in this space — out of the 24 female CEOs on the Fortune 500, nine of them run specialty retailers — there’s still an imbalance.

Think about the rest of the fashion industry, at least the creative side of it. What if the majority of fashion magazines were run by men? What if most stylists were men? While men can succeed, and have succeeded, in those roles, women are properly represented.

“Even though women are entering the industry at the bottom, they are not rising proportionally to the top,” Eric Wilson wrote in a 2005 column for the New York Times. A decade later, one would hope that an acknowledgement such as this might have made a difference by now. But instead, things have stayed the same.

So, is it up to the rising generation? Given that this is an industry largely driven by women — our style, our self-expression, our bodies — what will it take for us to lead the charge?

Girls: Season 4, Episode 8

During her mercifully brief appearance this week, Jessa advised Shosh to perform an unexpected act of love to win over Jason Ritter. She does so, distinguishing herself as maybe the first person ever to use the phrase “slimy vagina” to express the unfathomable depths of her adoration.

Indeed, colossal gestures — some failed, some bewildering, some so tragically successful — dominated this episode.

The most consequential revelation belongs to Tad Horvath: He’s gay. The Riesling enthusiast might have picked a better moment to offer up his proclamation, but no matter the bad timing: there is something poignant and remarkable about the urgency with which declares himself.

As the utter egotism that Loreen displays in this scene makes obvious, Hannah did not create her essential narcissism from nothing. That kind of delusion is hereditary. And yet there is subtler familial work at play here. The way Tad tries to makes himself known to the world, the way he cries for recognition and identity — that’s pure Hannah, too.

The horrific pain that she exacts on Maude Apatow’s “Cleo” is evidence of those dual inheritances. It’s selfish and sad at once. In what she defends as a bold act of friendship, Hannah insists that she and Cleo get matching “best frenulum” piercings. They’re kind of cool and sexual, she asserts. For several excruciating minutes, Cleo screams in agony. After the ordeal, Hannah refuses to endure the same treatment: “As an older woman and as your friend, a great lesson that I can teach you is that it’s okay to change your mind.”

When she and Cleo dance in the street and attract the unwanted attention of a construction worker earlier in the episode, Hannah admonishes, “Please, we’re children!” Like her father, Hannah wishes she could go back in time. And while she has only disappointed me at every turn, I want to shake both of them and yell: It’s never too late to change.

I have lower expectations of our newly betrothed lovers. Marnie — who cubes tofu now and is not a materialistic person, okay? — almost demonstrated higher brain function this week, calling Desi out for blowing their entire advance on used guitar pedals. But the brief exhibition of cognition did not last long. By the end of the episode, Desi had proposed over a milky latte. Tough break, Ray. “Fucking Marnie” is engaged.

Hannah goes on to attempt her own love connection by apologizing to Fran. “I’m not the person that you think I am,” she begins.

“You are exactly the person that I think you are,” Fran replies. “I think you’re not the person that you think you are. I think that’s where the confusion is.”

Ever the mature and rational adult, Hannah exclaims that this, this right here, is “the new frontier of misogyny.” You “take a woman who’s in control of her life and then silence her,” she pronounces. “And I’m up for it!”

Oof.

What makes Girls brilliant is that even this inane political statement is not total bullshit. As they hash out the vocabulary of failure, Shosh and her date sort of verify it. Yes, it makes me smile to see Shosh with someone who hands her both a new lens through which to see herself and a glass of rosé. But the fact is that Scott does quiet Shosh, in a way: “We don’t use those words.”

I want to like him. And because he recognized the cast of The Good Wife, I think I do. I suppose we just have to wait and see what happens next.

Completely behind on episodes or just can’t get enough? More GIRLS recaps here.

Ye Feather Peplum

They say that birds of a feather flock together. We’d like to amend that idiom with this: it’s actually the feathers of a Repeller that flock together.

In a story about the multifarious ways to wear a turtleneck that ran in January, I paired a feather peplum by Peter Som with a turtleneck and the same high waist jeans that are about to poke your eyes out right here and now. While the peplum left behind a trail that told of my travels, Charlotte, do-it-yourself wunderkind and photo taker extraordinaire began waxing poetic on the simplicity with which we could likely execute our own DIY.

And so, we took to Amazon in pursuit of boas that we would order, cut and ultimately paste.

After having settled on colors that called to mind the kind of visions of Sesame Street that only a true sociopath couldn’t happily recognize, the process began. Below you’ll find a step-by-step tutorial so that you too can DIY, and the next time you find a trail of feathers circling Soho, you can (possibly) rest-assured that a kindred spirit or at least likeminded Repeller can’t be far.

The items you will need:

– A t-shirt (I chose a white v-neck but a button up could also work nicely.)

– Feather boas (We opted for three but a fourth layer wouldn’t have hurt.)

– Safety pins (In case you need to crop the shirt)

– A glue gun (Duh)

– Scissors and a broom (Where Ship Your Enemies Glitter may fail, a feather’s proclivity to shed never will.)

Step 1: If you’re using multiple color boas, conceptualize the color order. We opted for a light to dark gradient.

Step 2: Pin the boas on to the shirt once you’ve decided where you want the layers to sit (height-wise). Before you get messy with glue, make sure to hold up the shirt with the boas pinned securely to see how they’re falling.

Step 3: Flatten shirt again. Un-pin (or leave pinned if this makes it easier for you), and then, starting with your bottom boa layer, begin to glue. Be sure you are gluing from the rope in the center of the boa and not just arbitrarily tacking down feathers — a secure hold arbitrary feathers do not make.

Step 4: Don’t be afraid of glue. The more the merrier. Glue all the way around the shirt and check for any open pockets that didn’t stick down. Add more glue — heck, make like Miss Lippy and glue your eyes shut should you so please.

Step 5: Repeat steps 3 and 4 with additional layers. Leave the tails of the boas a bit longer in case there is a gap you want to fill post-application.

Step 6: Cut the remainder of the feathers. Try to get a clean cut right on the rope and then glue down the tips.

Step 7: Try on the shirt. Ours started a little long, so we cheated the length by hemming the extra fabric under the boas to adjust the height of the peplum.

 Step 8: Tell the world you’re here to party.

New York Closets: Erin Flaherty

Complaining about winter weather gets about as old as the cold itself. That’s where Erin Flaherty, Marie Claire’s beauty and health director, has the system beat. She laughs in the face of a faux snow day by embracing her best sweats. She’s mastered the upstate art of “effortless not-so-chic,” and knows that baggy leather pants (with tights underneath) and rubber sole creepers may be the secret formula that saves us all. Too bad (or too good?) it’s finally starting to get warm out…

Monday:

This skirt contrasts plastic, chiffon and a lilac croc print. How insane is that? It also kind of works with a chunky sweater and boots with tights underneath, making for a break from the winter doldrums. This Céline cuff goes with absolutely nothing and therefore, everything.

3.1 Philip Lim sweater, Dion Lee skirt, Chloé boots, Céline bracelet

Tuesday: 

NYC’s purported #Juno blizzard horror show didn’t really happen, but the subways are screwed and it will probably take me 2.5 hours to get to the Hearst Tower in Columbus Circle from the LES, so my time is better served working remotely, no?

This outfit is the ultimate in work-from-home comfort, and not too embarrassing to answer the door in and accept a package. I found these somewhat droopy, high-waisted cashmere pants at the LA opening of Cos and was like, SCORE! Basically, my philosophy is if it’s unflattering, I am totally down.

Carven sweatshirt, Cos cashmere leggings, Isabel Marant clogs, Chloé bag

Wednesday:

During the summer, you will find me in bright, colorful caftans and harem pants galore. My remedy for freezing-dirty-slushy-snow-everywhere dressing, however, is baggy leather pants. You can wear tights underneath, and the rubber-soled creepers are slip-proof. The turtleneck adds another layer of warmth, but is sleeveless to prove that I do still have a body somewhere under all that.

3.1 Philip Lim sweater, Topshop leather sweatpants, Céline cuff, Purified snakeskin creepers.

Thursday:

I am obsessed with this neoprene sweatshirt (and neoprene in general, really). I picked it up at this cool little boutique in Paris, probably after dropping many too many euros at & Other Stories and Cos, which are here in NYC now so what’s the point.

Neil Barrett sweatshirt, Nicholas skirt, Dior earrings, Clare Vivier bag, Wolford tights, Alexander Wang heels

Friday:

Casual Friday means going for an urban warrior type of look — I will fight this work week to the finish! It’s still pretty crappy out on the streets, but these chunky platform boots are insanely comfortable, warm and surprisingly sturdy.

Isabel Marant vest, Cos button down, Ann Demeulemeester wool pants, Alice & Olivia booties, Tom Ford sunglasses, Céline bag, Hermès bracelet.

Saturday:

It’s the weekend! Every Friday night, me, my husband and our dog Violet pile in the car and head to our cabin upstate in Woodstock. Even though there are a lot of fashion people and city folk around, everyone has basically agreed to take Manhattan dressing down about 10 notches, so it’s all about effortless not-so-chic. My usual go-to is a layered situation over thermal leggings. So what.

Rodarte sweatshirt, GAP flannel shirt, Nike leggings, Warby Parker sunglasses

Sunday:

I brought some silk Chinese pajamas and pearls (really!) to wear to my best friend’s Super Bowl party upstate, but as you can see it is a bit chilly for eleganza. Instead, I chose this grown-up onesie, which is super warm and cozy and has the added bonus of an insanely unflattering drop crotch. Poor Violet dashed out of the house before putting on her sweater, but she seems relatively unfazed.

Oak jumpsuit, Uniqlo down vest, Oak jacket, vintage fur hat, Barney’s gloves, Fendi moto boots, Warby Parker sunglasses

Erin Flaherty is the Beauty and Health Director at Marie Claire. Follow her on Twitter and Instagram, and check out Marie Claire on Instagram too.

For more New York Closets, click here. 

Paris Dispatch: Céline, Maison Rabih Kayrouz, Chloé

International Women’s Day was punctuated by a Céline show in Paris on Sunday, where the kind of clothes that challenged your comfort zone served as an interesting theory in the evolution of taste. Could it be that my palette is not refined enough yet to understand the subtle shifts, quietly slouching — or is it marching? — towards blown-up, larger-than-life animal prints?

Were the white sneakers, which seem largely dead outside of Paris (trend inception, anyone?), supposed to serve as a reminder that through the new season’s trial and error, there remains a distinct level of familiarity?

Raf Simons for Christian Dior played with a similar motif on Friday (and, coincidentally, showed the same latex boots from couture) and Phoebe Philo’s most recent conception had it shimmying in Zebra and large fur balls which, granted, aren’t exactly animal, but then again: if a leopard can’t change his spots, maybe a Philo can’t change hers either.

The 70s approached Céline’s new world, too, boasting wide fur trims, more turtlenecks, pointed collars and the kind of high waist, wide leg pants that the designer has mastered. But it was the sleeping bag cape, fur-balls-as-arm-accessories and fitted double breast wide-hip coats which were broken apart at the shoulder that spoke for the following season, and maybe all of us as women.

They all looked deliberately imperfect.

A few hours later, Maison Rabih Kayrouz by the Lebanese, hypothetical and completely unofficial successor to the energy of Céline showed his streamlined, decidedly wearable but also incredibly thoughtful collection on a leopard print rug in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. There were details like mismatched buttons on his poplin blouses and some dresses and cut-outs as if executed by a massive cheese grater on his hem-less skirts that lent a dose of character to his clothes, which, by the way, were not at all revolutionary (do they have to be?) but still triggered that overwhelming feeling (see: traditional plaid print set on unconventional suit) that you get when you meet someone new, who you kind of just know is going to stay in your life forever.

Is there a time period that expands beyond forever? I’d hope so — and that’s how long I anticipate Clare Waight Keller’s Chloé sticking around in my personal narrative.

The collection that she showed yesterday at the Grand Palais stood as a frequent reminder that it was International Women’s Day. The feminine long dresses, shown in tones you might call earthy, made her models look like they were floating. The dresses were often cloaked by floor-length military coats accented with double breast gold buttons or heavier pants and boots. These conveyed a duality about the way a strong woman operates — displaying gentility and temperament with chiffon-that-floats on the one hand, but an equal dexterity to act with grim authority on the other. This was highlighted in the coats and capes.

There was an invariable underlying sense of French-ness through the collection in part due to the black neck tie-cum-chokers mirroring the divinely 70s-centric continuation from last spring. (Some of those summer dresses are due to become the “it-pieces” of the imminent season.) For fall, those pieces might very well be a pink velvet vest and pants and a light blue corduroy postmodern suit. Both looks supported a theory about a unique frequency that members of the industry seem tuned into: You see a beautiful dress traipse by and maybe you take a photo, maybe you don’t. But when you see the piece — and in the case of Chloé that piece is always one that shouts “This is my life! This is what I will wear to live it!” — the room is commanded, as if by blatant request, to indulge in a collective gasp.

And as it does, phones come out, notes are jotted more rigorously and within minutes, those same looks have been shared in spades on social media. You just feel so well understood.

For more fashion week coverage, click here. 

Designing is Like Writing a Book

I heard last night that when David Koma was still studying at Central Saint Martins, his dream was to ultimately take over the house of Mugler. He’d spent his youth tearing out inspiration images from the wide historical archive of Mugler. He was appointed creative director in 2013. Yesterday, he showed his conception of Mugler for Fall 2015 and with its gradation from black to navy to green to white then back to black again, and the silhouettes, which never strayed far from a profoundly body conscious mini dress or skirt (there were just six pairs of pants on the runway), you knew what you were seeing — a proof of concept.

Sometimes I wonder how fashion design can be any different from writing. It is so personal that the notion that one designer could start something and then another could pick up where the previous left off seems ludicrous. You’d never expect, say, Zadie Smith to complete the unfinished anthologies of David Foster Wallace — so how could it be that when one designer takes over for another, he’s not only attempting to fill the shoes, he’s expected to fill the shoes while maintaining a sense of his own identity?

When Galliano puts a pinstripe on a model, is that him putting the stripe on her, or is that his fear-of-disappointing Margiela? When Alexander Wang eschews high heels for pointed, flat shoes and pearls, which, by the way are impressively Balenciaga-centric, what exactly are we meant to conclude?

But here’s the thing about David Koma — even while he was still just David Koma, man behind eponymous line, he was so fundamentally inspired by the house that built sex appeal that when you consider a show like yesterday’s, bonded in rose gold and silver hardware, featuring the kind of leg slits that will forever put Angelina Jolie’s on a back burner, it’s hard to divorce the place of naissance from the contemporary moment of growth. You barely realize the writer, so to speak, has changed. This, of course, presents the question of precisely what he has set out to say and whether that opinion is an original one, but when you’re considering a black double breast blazer with white lapels, pocket flaps and slits, does it really matter?

Guillaume Henry, the successor to the house of Nina Ricci probably thinks so. Last night, from the 5th floor of the Centre Pompidou, where you can see the most majestic view of Paris-from-the-sky, the beginning of a new chapter opened.

It was at best an emotional experience and at worst, some really good clothes to consider next fall. But where were all the gowns? Nina Ricci, a house that has been under the control of couture-extraordinaire Olivier Theyskens and most recently, Peter Copping — the new boss at Oscar de la Renta, has consistently spoken to the woman in pursuit of a quiet, refined and highly feminine counter to the black tie. But last night indicated that she might be in the process of growing down, taking far more cues from the menswear style wool, double breasted peacoats of her contemporaries to wear over the her familiar lace. Also on tap were some really nice fitting pants — three of the same pairs, in fact, possibly shown to underscore a point about Nina Ricci: that it has the salt to become a uniform.

Six very similar, entirely sequined looks, set on short sleeve t-shirt style blouses and mid-length skirts rolled out in intervals, rendered in navy or black or silver or one pop of the only color present — red, supported this notion, too. There were jean-jacket style silhouettes completed in fur and long sleeve, tea-length dresses in the delicate lace/chiffon combination that has heretofore defined Nina Ricci. Nothing looks quite as precious anymore, though, a conceivable coup in the era of give-me-clothes-that-make-me-feel-as-comfortable-as-I-want-to-look and the subtle shift not away from femininity, but not any deeper into it.

Just an hour earlier, across the same museum, Acne unveiled their perception of what Fall 2015 will look like. It was a peculiarly delightful experience to watch as high waist pants with slits at the ankle that would cover the entirety of your foot and shearling-lined vests and jackets (some skirts, too, actually) and think to yourself, without even really quite thinking, Ahhh, that’s good. The genius of a brand like Acne is that you’re so immersed in planning a shopping list, or figuring out why you haven’t considered extra long belts, or white, calf-length boots that you forget altogether that a book is being written.

Click here for more Fashion Week coverage. 

PitStop: Because When You Gotta Go, It’s Gotta be Somewhere Nice

My life in New York City is most accurately portrayed by a montage of me running into every restaurant and shop in the West Village, frantically begging managers and cashiers to let me use their restroom. But I am not alone. Countless other women share my pain, so let’s spare ourselves a bladder infection and consider my new app, PitStop.

Next time your big city bladder finds itself in a bind, imagine being able to pull up a magical app on your phone that lists all free restrooms in your area. (Customer-only restrooms will be included with a “$” next to them.)

PitStop can most accurately be compared to Yelp for public restrooms. Read people’s reviews, peruse through photos, find directions, store hours and the odd discount.

Restrooms will be rated based on six different categories:

Cleanliness

Personally, I like to smell bleach before I even enter the restroom (but we’ll get to that in the scent department). Restrooms will be docked points in the cleanliness department for everything from dust bunnies to clogged toilets to excretory stains.

Safety

Using the restroom is an extremely vulnerable and private act. It is absolutely vital that you feel safe while doing so. Haven’t we all experienced a moment of panic in some shady bodega bathroom where we assumed this pee would be our last? For the more cautious PitStopper, this feature lets you know how comfortable you’ll feel relieving yourself at any given location.

Scent

My ideal restroom smells like a deliciously-clean mix of bleach and those yellow Jonathan Adler for Soul Cycle candles. In an ideal world, that’s what I would always smell upon relieving myself. Unfortunately, I find myself settling for public stench all too often. The “Scent” rating helps to keep picky girls like me from having to settle.

Eco-Friendliness

Are the sinks automatic? Do they use paper towels, or do they have an automatic hand dryer? For the eco-friendly Pit-Stopper, all these questions are answered.

Ambiance

How chic is this bathroom? A one-star bathroom, in terms of ambiance, is that of a single-stall dive bar bathroom half the size of a Manhattan closet with no decorations (not even entertaining writing on the walls), while a five-star looks like that gorgeous ladies lounge with the plush white couches and soft mood lighting in your favorite department store.

Bangability: Looking for a bathroom to bang in? PitStop even has its more sexually daring customers covered with the “Bangability” rating. Customers report from first-hand experience whether or not they would recommend any sort of sexual rendezvous in there.

PitStop your way into the future, because when you gotta go, you gotta go. But that doesn’t mean you can’t do it in style.

Images via Sex and the City and Marc by Marc Jacobs. See all of our past Writers Club entries — including this week’s prompt which still needs to be answered — here.

A New Kind of Camouflage in Paris

When Raf Simons set out to explain what he hoped to achieve with his Fall 2015 collection for Christian Dior, he said “I wanted that feeling of a sensory overload,” anticipating, “a new kind of camouflage.”

This was highlighted by a selection of body suits and skin-tight, long sleeve, mid-length dresses set in pale colors reflected by brighter versions of the same color. The models wore thick black streaks of shadow over their eyes, which looked a little like leopard spots, and there were skirts punctuated by plackets that revealed their thighs when they walked. They looked like a little like the kind of “elevating” ready-to-wear Pebbles of Flinstones fame could have worn, which I think is precisely where Raf Simons excels in his ability to take a concept so resolutely un-high fashion and turn it on its head.

And anyway, Pebbles makes sense, right? This collection was supposed to portray the primal, animalistic instinct of a woman, presumably covered by the layers that society builds over this instinct, boasting a newfangled sense of political correctness and elegance set in ankle-length wool double-breast menswear style coats. The latex boots of couture made their foray into ready-to-wear and there was a series of new-age suits, set elaborately, laboriously, downright beautifully in patent leather but made to look a bit like the kind of net you might find holding together a bunch of lemons at Whole Foods.

These reminded that one of the most salient themes among the high fashion, high style, high technique runways of the last two seasons is this idea in the rapid world of turning-over fashion that is even faster than its assigned title suggests, it might be true that a $50 knock off can steal an idea, but it can’t quite swipe the bones that got it there.

And the bones, by the way, that got John Galliano at the front of Maison Margiela (Martin no longer withstanding), began to make a lot more sense last night. The designer, who was pushed out of the house of Dior in 2011 showed his first ready-to-wear collection yesterday and if he came in like a lamb (camel, ankle-length coat, acid-green neck scarf and orange de facto dish-washing gloves), he went out like a fantastically crazy, hunched over bag lady, an expert at liberal makeup application and entirely disinterested in coloring — or playing — between the lines.

The show certainly gave Paris something to talk about. Is this what we had in mind for Galliano’s comeback? Is this was Margiela had in mind for its own future?

Something certainly worked: without paying attention to the ambiance or the spectacle of the show, there were a handful of pieces that were wearable. Disciples of Margiela have exercised the spectacle vs. sellable balance in the collections that post-date him but no one has quite mastered it like the teacher. But in spite of the jewel-encrusted or feathered swim caps and leopard hair, and creepy, side-eyeing models-as-performers, it’s hard to argue against the use for a sleeveless black, ankle length dress or pinstriped skirt or embroidered duster. I won’t get on board with the closing series of capri pants and to be frank, I have never much cared for the clothing of John Galliano but in the new age of wearable, sellable high fashion divorced from the frills that once defined the elitist world, this collection may have proven that if you thought the designer emerged from a bygone era with no place in the present, you were wrong. But then again, only sales will tell.

And if that is the metric with which we are appraising the success of a collection, Alexander Wang’s Balenciaga was a home-run. But that’s just it, right? This is, no doubt, Alexander Wang’s Balenciaga. Sometimes I wonder if the designer is able to have as much fun, or get as weird, with his own label (corporate-core followed by gothcore, in case you’ve forgotten) because of his involvement with the house of Balenciaga, which demands a kind of polish. Ironically, though, it was New York that first came to mind when his opening dresses — sweetheart and feminine and down to the knee — first traipsed down his runway, evincing the same spirit of that grown-up, no bullshit woman we’re trying so hard to implant over there. Of course, this happens with incredible ease in Paris.

The cocoon-shoulders on his large jackets have become a mainstay of the new Balenciaga and the use of spray paint over his high-level textures actually reminded me of old Margiela. The closing gun-mental embellishments, though, which looked heavy and forceful — demanding a level of strength from its wearer — and the juxtaposition of some of the fabrics: wool tweed or brocade married to bonded leather straps that alluded to a sort of sexual repression emerging from underground, those were nothing sort of Wang. Talk about a new kind of camouflage.

Images via Style.com and The Cut

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