Fashion Week 2009 Wrap Up, Dahlings!


I am simply wrung out, exhausted, barely able to move. I am dictating this blog-thing to my assistant while getting a foot message and pedicure (there is another masseuse giving Bucky a full-body message…the poor little dog had been banged around in so many different bags by frantic crowds! I do hope she remembers to put a muzzle on my darling before she paints his nails).

Because of my extreme weariness I shall simply give some thumbnail descriptions of various shows I visited during the past week. First of all, Diane von Furstenberg’s show was delightful, the dresses flowing, airy and comfortable. And many of the models were SMILING! Mon dieu! How refreshing! (Methinks Diane has found a man to have sex with, unlike her husband?) DVF even created a way to conceal Coco Rocha:

Brava, Diva!

As regular readers know, Marc Jacobs is not one of my favorite designers. However, one must reluctantly admit that his collection was…yes, I can say it…marvelous. Over the top, colorful, but so well-edited and with a sense of humor. It was at the Armory, and actually started on time! Last time spectators had to wait hours, and then MJ went ballistic, as they say, in the newspapers no less. One must do some reconsidering.

I am not usually a woman who is wrong, but in this case, I won’t say I have been wrong, but I will say that I have reconsidered. It was one of the best collections of the week. Cathy Horyn of the New York Times mentioned, that in this year of women in elections, perhaps some of Jacobs’s outfits were referencing turn-of-the-century suffragettes. Of that, I can only approve. And Cathy is simply one of the best, if not the best, fashion interpreters out there today.

Out of sheer curiosity, I would have gone to Michael Kors’s show, but participating in the New York Reality Television School the night before (how ironic!) left me reluctant to leave my bed until the Oscar de le Renta show.

And of course, your faithful correspondent was in the front row, across from the luminous Jennifer Lopez, who for some reason was wearing a black strapless ball gown for early afternoon (I mean, there are photo ops and there are photo ops, but really.) and Rachel Zoe. About the latter, my lips are sealed, friend-snatcher. Of course I wore Oscar from head to foot (well, not foot, because I have to have my shoes custom made, but I had managed to color coordinate my stilettos). So that I wouldn’t look too—I despise the phrase—“matchy matchy”, I carried a Louis Vuitton carrier for Bucky and a bright yellow Toblerone, extra large. One of those bars can get one through an entire day, provided one also brings a Red Bull or two. Yes, I do get a bit snappish at times—


Ahem. Je ne souffrent pas des imbéciles heureux.

Absolutely beautiful, dahlings. One can always count on Oscar to deliver the goods.
And while we are at it, compare Oscar’s swimsuit to Yigal’s

Francisco Costa’s collection for Calvin Klein seemed a wee bit bizarre to your faithful correspondent, but he was going for an “architectural” look. For those of you who criticize moi for suggesting many of the models might have Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome, Serena Williams and Tyra Banks were in the audience… what a relief to see “real” women!

Christian Siriano executed a marvelous collection. He is truly growing as a designer, even though he’s almost as small in person as Bucky. (Seeing him stand next to my ex-friend Andre Leon Talley is seeing Mutt and Jeff personified, pardon the antique reference.)

As for the Project Runway show, my lips are sealed. You’ll simply have to wait, dahlings.


Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Very Slim Pickings At Fashion Week 2009

This is Mademoiselle’s assistant, transcribing her notes from her Iphone. Yeah, there’s nothing I’d rather be doing right now after midnight on Sunday than be stuck in the office while she’s out seeing all the big celebrities and those beautiful models—what is her problem with them?? Anyway, here’s what she has sent me so far. It broke off kind of abruptly, but she says there’s more.


It’s only day two of Fashion Week, and already a disturbing trend has shown itself. No, not the extreme gauntness of the models, that is a given in these times. The fleshless arms, the huge spaces between their nonexistent thighs, the gurgling of their stomachs from hunger; all commonplace. Not even the occasional fainting spell makes the jaded spectators turn their heads.

But for reasons known only to themselves, many designers are playing up the models’ resemblance to survivors of the Holocaust. For instance:

Need I say more?

It did not help that the first show I attended, all the way down on 21st Street, was the dependably depressing Yigal Azrouel, who showed this:

Marching off to the labor camp, one assumes. And really, did one need to start one’s day seeing THIS?

Give the poor thing some pencils and a tin cup, I say.

I dashed out of Nicole Miller’s show early to cunningly sneak in to the Erin Fetherston show (one is loathe to admit that one is officially banned for pelting a model with bonbons a season or two ago). As it happened, I was dressed in a stunning ensemble by Ms. Miller, and as always, had my loyal companion Bucky with me, today in an exceptionally large Gucci tote. (On the practical side, the tote has been specially lined with plastic; Bucky has been known to be unable to wait until the end of a show for his walkies.) It was a bit annoying having to watch from the back, as I usually sit in the front row. But I did not want to give away my presence before I could get a look at the collection.

Fetherston’s designs are meant to be ethereal, but look as though they had been put together from a combination of what the catalogs like to call “tissue weight” fabric (another word for faible qualité) and the kind of bizarre shiny wrapping paper one buys (not moi!) at the local dollar store.

On Saturday, I started my day with—wait a moment, that can’t be! Andre Leon Talley, my bosom friend, talking to…RACHEL ZOE? A dagger in my heart!

Later for Saturday! The traitorous rogue!

Added by me:

Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

When Vintage Sellers Think They Are Rachel Zoe…


Being the fashion and style arbiter that I am, I am constantly asked to “blog” about events, people, books, and websites. For some it is a pleasure to oblige. For others, one wonders if they have read this blog in any depth. Have I ever been anything but plus-size positive? No. Have I ever pretended to be a naive young jeune femme? No.

So imagine my extreme displeasure when I was asked to “blog” about a new vintage clothes selling website, which shall remain nameless. I went to the “About Us” page. And I found out far too much. An excerpt:

Expect to see vintage fashion that is wearable and yet truly amazing. No freak vintage here. We love the 70’s –although we are not old enough to really remember them.

It is always a pleasure to see beautiful things sold by people with no sense of history whatsoever. Your faithful correspondent sells clothes from the 1950s, but I do not make it a selling point that I was not born yet. At least as far as I know (cf one of my earlier entries…do a search for “Mama”).

We live by some simple image rules:
If you are larger than a size 2, black is your friend. Black can be your enemy if it is your entire wardrobe.

The first part of that statement alone should get them banned from selling clothing to any woman, ever, anywhere.

Do they think those Hollywood actresses with wasting diseases look good?

Unique vintage does not mean freak vintage. Some things are just better off left in the past. The secret with wearing vintage is that no one should be able to tell it is vintage. If it screams vintage then it is freak vintage.

Oh, but if it screams “Better quality than the current cheap H & M knockoff!” it is socially acceptable?

Mon dieu! I never thought I would see the day when vintage clothing was used to suppress originality and one’s personal sense of style, rather than enhance it.

Stay true to yourself, but try something new once a season. I think I look best as a blonde, but I change the shade every season. This spring I really branched out and added bangs. XXX and I think you do either bangs or botox once you are in your mid-thirties.

Of course, one might actually look like a human being if one let those terrible wrinkles and folds get a hold of you. Your faithful correspondent is fortunate enough to have a beautifully creamy complexion, but even so I have no desire to have needles stuck in my face, neck and other places to hide the fact that I have lived.

This, mon cher readers, is the website equivalent to one of those shallow little boutiques where the rail-thin saleswomen fold their arms when a potential customer enters and look in the other direction. It is a dark day when a website can make women fell bad about themselves without the need for face-to-face contact.


Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog