Leandra Medine's Blog, page 739

Is It Just Us or Does Zara Look a Lot Like…

I know, I know, no — I know, that this comes up almost every time a new Zara lookbook leaks and that the last time I waxed poetic on the topic of Zara, its clothing and us, its consumers, an argument about my closing question erupted. I asked readers: if choice is a luxury and Zara purports a sense of choice, is the real luxury in shopping fast fashion? But the reason this keeps coming up is, quite frankly, because it keeps being mentionable.

So maybe you’re wondering what is mentionable, right? But like I tweeted, if you’d told me this lookbook was actually Céline, I’d probably just nod in agreement with your remark and say something like, “So good,” in that mindless way fashion girls mean to say something to the effect of, “The crochet work evident on that masterful bolero seems derivative of Byzantine culture.”

Because I know it is Zara, I am more like, “So cool!” (which means “Woo! I can buy you!” plain and simple), and because five out of the 17 looks are currently languishing in my digital shopping cart, I do believe it’s time I start tugging at what twists the proverbial knickers of Internet comments and ask this: should I feel morally conflicted about indulging in a blatant adventure in copyright? Do you?

The Much Anticipated Vuitton

When you anticipate something so greatly, it is almost inevitable that the product of your expectations will let you down. When it doesn’t, you’re probably in the hands of Nicolas Ghesquière.

This morning, he showed his debut collection for Louis Vuitton and the response was one universal — real time and digital — gasp of exquisite disbelief.

Disbelief because no one had to manage their expectations. The collection delivered more than it needed to, even in spite of it being completely devoid of spectacle from a house that has pioneered the performative aspect of fashion week. There were no train tracks, or carrousels, or escalators, just white floors and clothes. And here’s the thing about the clothes: they didn’t do tricks or play games or try to revolutionize the way women dress. They just whispered Ghesquière’s name in the kind of jovial way that sings: I’m ba-aaaa-ack!

With their broken apart shoulder lines and their high waisted A-line mini skirts and burnt orange and black contrast, the clothes could have told you they belonged to the prodigious designer from any vantage point — even through the manipulated lens of an Instagram photo, which is where, from my bed in New York, I watched the show.

Actual garments aside, here’s thing I’m trying to understand. Is it appropriate that I could see the entire collection and reap the intrinsic benefits of having been there from 4,000 miles away? I saw Cindy Sherman sitting front now not far from Azzedine Alaïa or Christian Louboutin. I saw the show notes — his love letter to his new partner and an admirable and respectful hat-off to the house’s old love, Mr. Jacobs. I saw that Chloe Sevigny stood backstage with Mr. Ghesquière. I heard the music. I saw the way the clothes moved. The way they cloaked Freja Beha’s body and the adrenaline they put in her step.

When it was over, I thought about what a shame it is that they’ll be so difficult to obtain (just looking at Vuitton’s clothes feels expensive) but then I stopped to think that maybe 100 shows deep into the last leg of fashion week, there’s something really impressive to be said about leaving a venue (or locking an iPhone screen) and still feeling excited and impulsive over the prospect of new clothes.

Does this mean the spirit of fashion week still lives and as such functions as a template to push consumerism, or am I still high from experiencing the clothes through a portal that bastardizes the true intentions of the season? Does it even matter? Like in the case of one Raf Simons, good clothes are good clothes — it’s that simple.

Hedi Slimane’s Saint Laurent

Last night after Hedi Slimane showed what can arguably be described as part four in an ongoing series titled “Saint Laurent,” the casual reviews that provided post-show chatter as we exited the venue revealed an interesting variety of reactions.

I heard several editors speak in its favor while others continued to lament about missing the late Yves. One woman said, “I don’t know, I’m a 70′s Saint Laurent girl” and all I could think was this: when Yves Saint Laurent was producing his safari jacket and putting women — for the first time ever — in male tuxedos, were spectators thrilled? When the clothes were devastatingly 70s even though Mr. Saint Laurent was designing in the throes of the 70s, did wearers not think, Why can’t he be more forward thinking? Who’s to say that 40 years from now, the next generation of junior critics won’t be watching the storied house and say, “Man, remember when it was all about the aughts?”

I think we’re ready to let him in. The show was unapologetic and artful about its riff on decidedly feminine yet male-derivative floppy bow ties and large hats and the essence of grunge that comes replete with a dose of glamour, manifesting itself in the form of glittering coats and Courrèges-esque go-go boots that run deep through the neo-blood of Saint Laurent.

Frankly, I look forward to seeing what happens. There’s an indispensable swagger that embodies the Saint Laurent wearer’s step. You can’t make it up, or pretend it’s not there, and you don’t have to like it, but there is some value in trying to understand that Mr. Slimane is not all that different from Mr. Saint Laurent.

Different decades, yes. Different themes, absolutely. But the personality still evinces one spirit and that is of the iconoclast persuasion.

Of course, during the time of Saint Laurent, to be an iconoclast meant to be different — to wear a tuxedo in lieu of a dress, to revolt. In 2014, the concept of abandoning what is societally normal is much more imbued with actually looking “normal.” (Cue conversation of the most recent annoying millenial hashtag to plague social media: #normcore.)

Currently, we occupy an era of personal style and as a result of the over-yet-underwhelming assortment of diverse fashion, trends in the traditional sense barely exist any longer. So far more interesting and frankly iconoclastic than disparity (if we’re trying to look offbeat, aren’t we decidedly on beat?) is to slip into a uniform that is equal parts reliable, comfortable and cool. And no one provides that uniform better than Hedi Slimane.

Images via The Cut & Vogue

Peanut Butter Syndrome Strikes (er, Skirts) Again

The last time I mentioned peanut butter syndrome, I eschewed its power to boast about the gumption, conviction and rigor with which I wear double-breasted blazers. This skirt over pants trip I’m on, though, which I can’t seem to shake off (blame fashion? Blame fashion week? Blame jeans-as-jeans becoming increasingly boring?), I don’t know. Am I going to look back at photos of myself a month, a year, two years, decades from now and think: what the hell was I thinking?

Frankly, I hope so.

That would have meant that I tried something out of my comfort zone, that I experimented with the accoutrements that cloak my body and most importantly, that I found a freshly alternative use for my pants through at least the former half of 2014. At least! But getting it right can be tricky (if not completely impossible — the jury is still out on this point) so here you’ll find two different skirts (dresses, actually) that evince different personalities worn over pants and delivered to you, by me.

In the first look, I’m wearing a striped Vince sweater over an incredibly 90s-inspired dress that is actually floor length with spaghetti straps on top. I pulled the dress’s waistline up and pulled the sweater down to create this dropped-waist effect and then put on pink Aperlai mule/pump hybrids, coupled them with an Olympia Le Tan book clutch and posed for you. The skirt is slightly fuller and certainly quite formal so a striped sweater and ripped jeans seemed equal parts an opportune and dichotomous compliment.

In the second look, for which I used an old, decidedly more casual neon Proenza Schouler dress (this is slowly but surely becoming another round of Make an Old Dress New Again, eh?), I paired said neon with a blouse-cum-pinstriped blazer by 3.1 Phillip Lim and black pants by Mina and Olya.

Then I slipped me’baby-sized feet into white mules by Tibi and have been trying to convince myself that I look like someone who might wear head-to-toe The Row through the lens of someone on Acid.

I, of course, can’t determine that, so…

…?

…?

…?

The Headband is Back

I’ve never once looked in the mirror and thought, You know what would make this outfit better? A headband.

It’s the accessory equivalent of that friend we all have who’s super nice and fun and sweet, but for whatever reason is never part of the group. She’s invited to birthday parties — “Hey! You know who we haven’t seen in a while? Becky. Invite Becky!” — and though you wouldn’t text her to hang out one on one, you’re happy to see her if she randomly shows up. “She’s so nice,” you think to yourself. “I wonder why we don’t hang out more often.”

I consistently find myself lingering by the tortoise-shell accessories section of J. Crew near the cash registers, rubbing my thumb over the black and brown mottled plastic hair-things while considering how I’d look with my hair pushed back. But then just as I remember Becky’s voice grows shrill and annoying with each glass of wine she consumes, I’m reminded that headbands offer a specific kind of headache, one that’s exclusive to having both sides of your scalp pressed in by a plastic torture device.

Right. So this is why we don’t hang out with Becky more often.

Save for Blair Waldorf in 2007, a strong case hasn’t really been made for the headband for quite some time. But then just last night Lupita Nyong’o dropped jaws at the Oscars with a simple gold band. The woman is a goddess so she wore hers less like an accessory and more like a crown, but it called to mind the fact that just a few weeks ago headbands popped up on the runways at Helmut Lang, MBMJ, Dolce & Gabbana and Marc Jacobs.

Huh.

So even if they were never “around” enough to be noticeably gone, they’re clearly coming back. The question is, can your average headed-human make them look cool?

Leandra, Charlotte and I tried it out. Our model was a rose gold headband by headwear extraordinaire Eugenia Kim, embellished with pearls and flourished with a spiky garland, just funky enough that we’d be remiss if we didn’t at least try.

Leandra went first with her pea-head and denim dress — legs covered in leather to add false warmth and extra edge. Charlotte was next, punking up the sweetness of it all with a plaid suit, a vintage tee, and what else but…more plaid. I went last, figuring that if I just really went for it (it meaning a Blair Waldorf headband salad in my ODLR jacket, J. Crew shirt plus boyfriend jeans) I’d look unlike myself but at least like I belonged to the thing upon my head.

I did not. At no fault whatsoever of the headband itself, I looked like I’d been stuck at the bar — alone and for too long — with Becky.

Since this is an experiment in style more than it is a declaration of trend, what do you think: can a headband off the runways or divorced from Lupita Nyong’o's perfect face ever look cool? And as for Charlotte and Leandra’s attempts, you guys tell me.

The Women of Paris

Anthony Vaccarello, Dries Van Noten and Alessandro Dell’Acqua (most recently of Rochas) are always the first to inform — from their male yet decidedly female-savvy point of views — the way women will want to dress.

It is not until the Sunday of March’s Paris Fashion week, when Phoebe Philo at the helm of Céline and Clare Waight Keller for Chloé unveil their collections, that the wheels of women-for-women intellect fall into motion.

Now couple that with Stella McCartney’s Monday morning spot and you find yourself face to unexpected fabric with an unstoppable trio of wit, power and the indispensable hankering to jovially shout in favor of our lady parts (all of them) sans words. After all, when you’re considering the blanket coats and shearling mules of Keller, the frayed trim and boxy silhouettes of Philo and the loops of fringe coupled with zippers that don’t zip but create the illusion of vague floral prints of McCartney, what else can you think?

Céline does this thing every season where even in spite of the clothes — which are often a thick discussion point, the details that inform how to “get the Céline look” manifest in the minutiae. The way a bag is held (for dear life), how many earrings a model is wearing (one very big one) and whether hands are free to meander or left in pockets (both, but they’re never actually free) seem to function as exclamation points that speak accurately to the spirit of the woman while the clothes (The fringe! The gingham! The leopard!), like in a sentence, simply provide the words.

Keller’s collection for Chloé looked like the grown-up sequel to spring with its pared-down, minimalist washed white skirts and blouses — the ruffles endemic to the clothes, of course, notwithstanding. Knit was the magic word in New York and we saw a lot of that here, too. There was fringe on some of the styles that provided the splash of character, but it was one particularly large leopard print coat, replete with red, white and yellow sparse stripes that confirmed it: you need a good coat for the season. Everything else is, quite frankly, superfluous.

Where flatforms continue to reign and exposed, feckless and highly artful zippers function as knee patches, Stella McCartney played with tones of red, green and blue, introducing turtlenecks under wide collar jackets, more of the knits (and fringe), and in a series of finale dresses, five reasons to forgo early mornings, get on your favorite shoes and dance. And really now, what better message can a collection send?

Images via Vogue & Style.com

Horoscope Season

“How is it March?”

I always find myself asking that same, stupid question every month (although I don’t ask about March every month…sometimes I’m inquiring about the sneaky arrival of February, or fascinated by January, or bewildered by December). Strangely enough most people concur: “I KNOW! WTF?!,” as if none of us have ever heard of a calendar and this whole business of a new month is straight up sorcery.

Susan Miller wasn’t surprised by March. She was prepared as always — occupational benefit of she who studies the planets — and filled me in on what’s in store so that I can give you the spark notes version. She wants us all to have babies and warns ominously about April, but since Mercury’s out of its dumb ass retrograde (which means you don’t have an excuse if you lose your iPhone this weekend) I say we all just get a giant bowl of Lucky Charms and scoop the marshmallows out of her horoscopes.

You get the almond milk and I’ll do the talking.

Pisces Happy Birthday fishy fishy! You have a fresh new moon this month that’s gonna light shit up in a good way. Direct its energy in any direction you want, but focus on the first two weeks because it fades a bit each day. Suz, always with the accidental sexual innuendos, writes that “Jupiter, the giver of gifts and luck, will send his glittering beams to the new moon,” so it’s all about creativity and love and blessings for you this March. Know who else is a Pisces? Lupita Nyong’o.

Aries This is sort of a slow month for you, Aries. In fact, I wonder if an Aries annoyed Susan recently because she wasn’t her usual Cinderella self, although she did say the beginning of March is sprinkled with pixie dust for you, yada yada. Focus your energy on existing relationships and past projects and honestly, milk that for all it’s worth. “Yeaa…sorry…Professor Davis? Susan Miller said I shouldn’t start anything new so, I can’t do homework this month.”

Taurus Guys, we have been given a license to party by the very woman who once suggested we stay at home during New Years Eve. Let’s take this info and go for a damn jog. See old friends, meet new people, brag about the fact that 2014 Oscar winner Cate Blanchett has the same sign as us, etc. Romance and love should be “quite delicious” (eye roll because sometimes Suzie’s such an embarrassing aunt), work looks good, and maybe, just maybe, we’ll go to the dentist.

Gemini March is about your career, and your career is looking Gemin-fly. Mo money’s going to come in with no problems, but you’ll have to put in the effort to get it. Also of note: you might have a fight with a friend (actually — money may be involved so I lied earlier), but if navigated well it could turn out with positive results. And, because your horoscope this month wasn’t exactly a laugh riot, here’s a joke to share with an Aries: Two muffins were sitting in the oven. One muffin turned to the other and said, “Man, it’s getting hot in here!” And the other one goes, “Holy shit! A talking muffin!”

Cancer Guess what crabby patty? You are in your watery element this month thanks to the sun in Pisces (don’t forget to wish them HBD on the ‘book) and the new moon. Suz predicts nothing but sunshine and tarter sauce when it comes to foreign travel, higher learning, philosophy, religion, legal matters, publishing, and broadcasting. Aka, you’re having an Oprah.

Leo Roar, girl, because this month is bringing the cash. If you’re looking to raise money for a creative endeavor, now’s the time. (Embroidered portraits of Bob Ross on pillows? Hello, Kickstarter!) That said, don’t go turning Happy Place Pillows into a full-blown Etsy shop until May 1st because some other annoying planet is going into retrograde, but I half stopped reading and can’t be bothered to find whether it was Jupiter or what again. Just trust me. In other news, your love life will be vibing.

Virgo Your sign is hanging out with Neptune this month, which means your love is going to be strengthened like a P90X heart. However, Suz says the same planet can apparently make things a bit foggy, so be aware of any red flags you’d perhaps otherwise consider when it comes to DRTing. Sounds like money is a bit of an issue for you this month, and napping Mars won’t make it any easier. Set up a lemonade stand and wait until the 26th — apparently that’s a baller ass day in your eleventh house of hopes and wishes, and you’re going to want to circle it in gold.

Libra A secret may either come to light that clears things up, or, one of your secrets may come out; if you’re taken your partner may act like a bit of a lunatic this month too, all of which is to say that I think Susan Miller is watching reruns of Gossip Girl again. Good news: if you’re looking for a new job, now’s the time. You’ll feel waves of success this month and may get a promotion. If you’re self employed, more work will come your way. No matter what happens Venus is on your side so at least your Instagram pics will be on point.

Scorpio Matthew McConaughey’s a Scorpio and he just won an Oscar, so yea, safe to say you’re going to have a solid March. If you’re in a creative field, you’re about to turn out some of your best work, and when it comes to relationships, ooo baby: “This new moon will light your fifth house of true love,” writes our girl. “It will come like a magnificent bride, hold the arm of dignified Neptune, and together as they walk together in the heavens they will sprinkle golden dust over you.” Just remember to thank your new love in your future acceptance speech in addition to yourself.

Sagittarius If you are into home renovation and interior design, this is your month. If you are not, maybe you should just pretend you are for the sake of a good March. I’m like, 9 paragraphs deep into your horoscope on Astrology Zone and Susan is literally still going on about hardwood floors. “Do you want to take a little trip?” she asks, finally changing the subject. Apparently March 18th is a good time to do so. Don’t make any big decisions about love, and just enjoy all your new sconces and ottomans until March comes out of retrograde.

Capricorn It’s a good time to travel for those of you who share a sign with Jared Leto. Should you take a trip it will be luxurious and romantic, like the 2014 Oscar winner’s ombre’d waves and dreamy eyes. The month may end on a rocky note, so make the most of your good vibes in early March — visit the Swiss Alps! Take the bar exam! Write a novel! Sky’s the limit and Jupiter is cheering in your corner. Don’t sign any contracts to be safe, though. And why not — eat a waffle.

Aquarius You are last this month but certainly not least.  You’re going to make money, especially if you’re an artist in any way thanks to Neptune. If you’re not in a creative field, that may change rather soon, and may the force be with you Young Skywalker. But passivity is never the name of the game. “Go out and beat the bushes until you find that golden opportunity,” writes Madam Miller. She also suggests that you buy some new clothes that make you feel like a million bucks. “Why shouldn’t you look great?” she asks.

To which I say, go forth and Prada.

 Image via Vogue Paris

What Makes Dior Good

Something that seems consistently true of Raf Simons, who has now been at the helm of Dior three fall seasons strong, is that the man loves color. He likes to dress his woman vibrantly. This was true at Jil Sander, a house built on minimalism, too. Why? Because any woman bold enough to wear Dior by Raf plays a leading role in her own life and when she walks into a room, you know she’s there.

The clothes are loud and yet you get the sense that even in spite of that, they whisper.

I am particularly drawn to his use of color as filtered through his more traditional but rich use of grey and black and beige because during this Philo-elicited era, which we can conceivably called The Dark Ages, it’s refreshing to see such opulence.

I suppose that’s mostly because the other thing that seems consistently true of Raf Simons is that he makes good clothes. They don’t have to be “on trend,” they don’t have to be thematic. They certainly don’t play tricks and if you look hard enough, you can find the several decade-old references to Dior-and-beyond. But if you don’t want to look, that’s fine too. You don’t have to. What you’re staring at, after all, is plainly a collection of solid garments.

The show opened softly with black, grey, camel and salmon colored jackets replete with white stitching at rib length. Slowly, color emerged. First as a cerulean throw held over the arm, a bright long red blanket scarf wrapped around one neck, yellow and green mink arm dusters and then what could have been the bravura: an uneven hemmed canary yellow dropped shoulder dress (which appeared like an overlay to a plain white sleeveless crew neck dress) and similar versions (in electric blue and blood orange, watermelon pink and green, respectively).

But the color palette went back before it steered bright again, and by the time the finale looks emerged — three embellished gowns uncannily akin to the ones Simons showed for couture, the question on my mind (which was initially: does a collection need to be inspired by one, divisive thing, became another?) became: was the line that demarcates couture from ready-to-wear being blurred deliberately? Does it matter?

Like I said, good clothes are good clothes. It’s that simple.

Explaining Social Media to Your Parents

My dad once live-tweeted the entire VMAs, only he doesn’t have a Twitter account, so when I say that my dad once live-tweeted the entire VMAs what I mean is I received 25 texts in the span of two hours.

“Has Miley Cyrus gone insane?” he asked me.

“Is that guy on crack?!!?” he also asked, punctuation verbatim, and my favorite of the night (text number 15):

“Haha Rihanna and girl next to her look so bored.”

Had my dad been more social media savvy, he could have saved me that particular breed of fury which only occurs when you’re waiting for a specific text from a specific person and SOMEONE WHO IS NOT THAT PERSON WILL NOT STOP BLOWING YOU UP. Dad.

If only he’d had a Facebook wall or a Twitter, I might not have had to throw my phone across the room.

With the Oscars coming up I have decided to take a more proactive approach this time — not by limiting my dad’s voice but rather, by hoping to present him with the very tools that could help him share it. I e-mailed both my dad and my mom  (the e-mail, they excel in) and asked them to let me help them by answering their questions about social media.

Their questions are in bold, my answers are below, and I can only pray that we all get through the red carpet in peace.

From my mom:

“What exactly is a hash tag? I mean I know what it looks like but, what is it? 

Moms are right on the curve. They tend to know what’s up, but they don’t always know the full story. (Just like in high school! I am just kidding mom!) To that, our mothers are aware that The Hash Tag exists in the form of modern communication but don’t really get why.

Moms, think of hash-tagging as an organizational tool, just like when you used to make us clean up our rooms. One is a bin for #selfies. One is a bin for #swag. One is a bin for #TBT, and many are akin to the drawer or space under the bed that we used to hide all of our miscellaneous crap in so that the room appeared clean, but wasn’t.

“Vines – I actually like Vines! Mini movies are great. But I can’t remember how long they run and if they evaporate or something after the time is over. You know, just in case I ever have to make a reference.”

They are 6 seconds long, and nope, you can make all the references you want. What you’re thinking of is Snapchat, which does evaporate after a set amount of time.

“Oh right, that sexting app.”

Not everyone sexts with Snapchat, though be advised that it should be used with caution. Usually we’re just sending pictures of ourselves with double chins to friends. Sometimes we get creative. For example, I like to draw stick figures next to me accompanied by the caption, “Just hanging with all my boyfriends!” 

“Is MySpace still around and does anyone use it?”

No…I think bands do? Actually have no clue. Comment section, help me out on this one.

Now, from my dad:

“Can you remember not having Facebook? What did you do instead? Did you have more time in the day to do other stuff? If I get an account, do you think I’ll be on it all the time?”

(Note: My dad is REALLY concerned that Facebook is the devil and or crack/cocaine. He wants to try it so badly but hasn’t given in.)

Hi dad, me here. To answer your questions: Yes. Myspace and AIM. No. Yes.

“Do you know anyone who doesn’t have Facebook? Do you think they’re weird? Would you date a guy who doesn’t have Facebook?”

I literally only know one person without a Facebook, and he does it because, “It’s cooler to tell chicks that you don’t have one. ” So, there you have it folks.

“Is Instagram only photos or can you include text?”

DAD WE ALWAYS HAVE THIS CONVERSATION. Picture, accompanied by text below, it’s called a caption. People can comment underneath. Yes people who are not my friends can see my pictures, yes you can set your profile to private if you want to.

“If you follow a lot of different people on Twitter do you get non-stop ‘tweets’ all day long? Doesn’t that get annoying? Does anyone actually use the word ‘tweet’? “

Funny you should ask that, dad. Remember how this story opened?….

Illustration by Charlotte Fassler

Day in The Life, Paris Edition

It is 11:43PM on Thursday, February 27th and I am eating a bag of mixed nuts from my hotel room’s mini bar which is actually a mini refrigerator (why don’t more people discern the difference between a bar and a fridge, I ask?) while sipping on what I imagine will manifest itself as a bottle of Pellegrino that costs seven euros upon checkout.

My computer is currently at an impressive 70% battery while it rests on my lap, knees up, and I type to it jovially, thinking about how many times I will have to brush my teeth between now and the time I actually fall asleep so to avoid coming upon a similar debacle I faced yesterday wherein my lower left wisdom tooth acted like a particular mother fucker and forced me to remain with my hands over my left cheek, asking humanity why — just, why? — for about three hours. But that is neither here nor there, so, let’s talk Thursday, yeah?

8:15AM: My iPhone sings the song of death or, in other words, the alarm goes off. I snooze until 8:45 at which point I am impressed with how well Advil works. I can barely remember that the night before I was one wrench away from yanking my own tooth out but, again, that is neither here nor there. My first show of the day — Carven — is at 11AM and if I’d like to file reviews for the previous day and eat breakfast prior to the show, I better hop to it.

I write the review.

I get dressed (black jeans, white turtleneck, grey sweater, navy coat, navy shoes).

I drink coffee.

I spill coffee everywhere save for the white turtleneck and giggle. Joke’s on the jeans, sucka.

11AM: I arrive at Carven on a street called Avenue des Gobelins. I take it to mean goblins live there and am very excited to see if Buffy the Vampire Slayer occupies the parallel space. Evidently she does not, but there is a hat on my head and said hat falls into a big puddle of water. I pick it up, walk ten more steps, and enter the show venue.

The show starts at 11:40AM and it is cool. There is red, there is mustard (the color, not the condiment) and in the final looks there are erratic arrows that to me, seem to have been pointing at both the past and the future — a nod to the derivation of this collection. In my show notes I wrote “remember the Romy and Michelle High School Reunion and Hand over Boob dress.” At 11:47PM the same day, of course I do not.

12:15PM: I come back to my hotel and change because my feet are very wet, though I am clearly not particularly practical because I put on pumps instead of boots, coupled with a floral Nina Ricci dress and black jeans + a black leather jacket because YOLO. I eat more food, talk more shit, see people I love (sister-in-law + Dannijos aka DanniHOs) and time flies.

3PM: I arrive at the Balmain show which takes 45 minutes to start because we are waiting for Rihanna to arrive, who does not. I am wearing near 75 layers and holding an umbrella even though the sun has shown itself and explained its commitment to stay around.

There are several military-style cloaks at this show. Lots of cargo pants. Rosie Huntington-Whiteley twice, and the second such reference to an untimely, perhaps embryonic resurgence of leopard print. Are we ready? I mean really really? Really?

4PM: I get on the Metro and head toward the Tuileries where I am to meet Peter Copping, the designer of Nina Ricci, backstage. I like nobody more than I do him and appreciate his understanding of a woman’s body. He tells me the collection was meant to harken back to Ricci’s own previous domestic circumstances with its fur and velvet and throws and so forth. He asks me what I have liked so far to which I respond Anthony Vaccarello and Rochas. He agrees, we double kiss and I head to my seat where after waiting 30 minutes, the show starts.

5PM: I go back-backstage to congratulate the man after having seen the throws that come with shoulder backs (they’re like backpacks for campers but they don’t hold anything so they’re actually for GLAMPERS!) and then head to Rick Owens. Well aware there will be no step dancers, I am still ready for something. And something do I get.

If this show could be likened to any experience, I would call it the least literal version of models on a conveyor belt. They are practically walking as though traipsing across a merry-go-round, giving their genetically blessed physiques a run for their caffeine intake in burgundy and grey and black variations of capes and cape dresses and boots so thigh high they are practically leather leggings.

Also of note: this is the fifth instance in the last year that I have recalled a collection utilizing “real women,” aka women a cause de marketing. (That’s French.) The show ends around 7PM and I head back to my hotel.

At 7:45, I leave in a Nina Ricci blouse, $3 vintage jeans and platform lace-up booties for dinner with the DanniHOs. They feel like home and other warm stuff. We drink lots of wine and eat lots of burrata. Then we stop by the opening of Dries van Notens’ exhibit at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs, at which point I take lots of photos and clap with the flapping annies that inherit my brain. This is cool. Really, really cool.

I walk outside, pop open my umbrella and walk back to my hotel — across town at Crazy Horse, Balmain is celebrating its collection while Balenciaga (the show was stellar! Truly stellar!) does the same in the Palais de Tokyo. I should go, really, but I’ve got stories to write and a nut craving to feed.