Wednesday, September 29, 2010

androgyne, ph. david sims

This editorial for Vogue Paris' October 2010 anniversary issue falls swiftly in tandem with my love letter to Richard Nicoll and the Thin White Duke.

Iselin Steiro bears a pretty fabulous, uncanny resemblance to David Bowie, Cracked Actor times.

Seems the fashion industry is finally tapping into the Bowie inspiration as it always should have been, because I actually don't want to roll my eyes at this. Instead, I'm playing a guessing game trying to match these outfits to their original 70's counterparts. Obviously Bowie never bared his tits in the back of a limo, but he did find a fly in his milk there. Can you match 'em up?

nicolas andreas taralis

photos courtesy of dazeddigital

Inspired by youth/street cults, Old European and Far Eastern tribes, and bleak, black explorations, Nicolas Andreas Taralis (back in action for a second season after a quick stint at Cerruti in 2007) presented an industrial, moody collection that has me psyched for the rest of Paris.

The larger part of me hopes Taralis will hone his aesthetic and make his own, unique statement; I love black as much as the next girl, but fashion's gothic leftfield is overcrowded as is: Rick Owens, Ann Demeulemeester (whose name practically SCREAMED at me through this entire presentation), 90's Yohji Yamamoto...he's absurdly talented, and he has a knack for hand tailoring (as he should, considering he studied under Helmut Lang), and he deserves to have his own name in (stark, washed-out white) lights.

Traditional garments came undone with low, V-shaped open backs, square mesh jigsaw panels, rips at the hips, and unraveling suspender straps; I fell in love with a pair of carrot pants in a patchwork of mesh and black silks, and his vaporous sheers and cut-out tops led to more literal forms of exposure. I'm also really into the distressed black fabrics dyed and bleached into a sort of industrial floral. I predict really, really good things from Taralis in the future.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

what i wore: undead FNO

photo courtesy of obscurealternatives; the satanic mortuaire on the left

My first what I wore today? Or perhaps, what I wore two weeks ago on Fashion's Night Out.
jacket: Helmut Lang
top: Pudel by way of obscurealternatives
pants: Kaylee Tankus
triangle necklace: that damned obscurealternatives again (the three of us matched like a gothy girl band)
balloon: Marni (I'm not kidding.)

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

acne spring/summer 2011

The Atacoma. The Admire. Those Swedes at Acne sure know their way around a statement-making shoe.

warning: by clicking this photo you acknowledge that feet are ugly

So is this the shoe we'll all be sporting come Spring 2011? This bizarre hybrid between Japanese Okobo sandals and an orthopedic wedge? As if the market wasn't already crowded with impossible footwear (the sickle-shaped Nina Ricci boots, Alexander McQueen's now infamous armadillo heels) and the cultural theory that comes with them--masochism? A strange relationship between economic crisis and heel height? (I wish I were kidding, although no one can seem to provide a reason why beyond a need for "escapism." Perhaps market analysts never took a high school psychology class, because correlation doesn't equal causation. That said, QI just told me that skirts get shorter during times of economic at least both aren't happening at the same time.)

Crisis or not, I'll pass. Interesting, though, that the Burberry stilettos were a model's undoing (1. I feel like a sadistic bitch posting this video, 2. Annie Lennox's voice grates here, and 3. I still covet that spiked leather jacket, which is awesome considering the collection was pretty garish and mediocre) while Acne's, with seemingly no ankle support, glided with relative ease.

But on to the clothes. They've hit the nail on the head with this collection--loooooooooong, languid silhouettes, seemingly effortless layering, the perfect amount of slouch. I've had my eyes on a super-slim maxi skirt for a long time, and I'm in love with the leather jackets and vests studded with black freshwater pearls. How can something be so serene and nonchalant, yet so tough at the same time? Fashion journalism: the only field that allows such pretentious oxymorons.

I'm digging the teensy, alien-esque sunglasses too.

bad motherfucker

Questionable views on women and a bizarrely shaped head...I love you, Nick Cave, and happy good god damn birthday.

(a quiet nod to the dearly departed Rowland S. Howard, who provided this blog with a great name.)

May you continue to antagonize and, quite frankly, turn me on well beyond 53. Roll on Grinderman, November 14!

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

the european canon is here

richard nicoll spring '11 moodboard

I kind of love it when something fashion-y comes along and renews my love for something I've all too shamefully ignored for a while. Richard Nicoll's ode to the Thin White Duke, with hints of vintage erotica and Mariano Fortuny, did just that.

Those trousers are impeccably draped and I need a pair in my life, stat. I'll never give up the, like, two pairs of skinny jeans I own (second skin), but I just love the elegance of a well-tailored, voluminous wide leg. The way Nicoll layers sheers and pleats, pairing them with leather bustiers and Lurex and PVC pants for an ever-so-slightly naughty manages to be androgynous and alluringly feminine in equal measure. I also like to think that the orange cheeks were another clever homage to Bowie as the Thin White Duke.

To be honest, most womenswear designers who reference Bowie just elicit an eyeroll from me. It usually means a hackneyed, glittery collection of glammed-out Ziggy castoffs, and I'm pretty tired of that. Of course the Ziggy Stardust albums have their allure, and there's always something to be mined out of the otherworldly, all-out performance element of true glam rock; we could go into an overdone treatise on sexuality and how one defines CAMP, but that's another discussion for another time. But I was always a Duke girl...the first Bowie song I'd ever heard, if I recall correctly, was "Golden Years." I'd already developed a major interest, both academically and sartorially, I guess, in the Weimar era of German (more specifically Berliner) history, and TWD's stark, Teutonic glamour really appealed to me. A crisp white button-down, black vest, those black wide-legged trousers again: that's it. An equally monochromatic stage show illuminated only by blinding white lights. The mechanical, but somehow still achingly romantic (oh, Bowie, you plastic Soul Man), driving chug of "Station to Station." I mean, I'm glossing over the cocaine abuse, paranoia, dubious allusions to fascism, and witchcraft for convenience. I do love that shit. Here's a photo of Bowie drawing the Tree of Life for kicks.

The Thin White Duke, not to mention Thomas Jerome Newton from The Man Who Fell to Earth, has long influenced menswear, but it's just nice to see it done with such power and sex appeal for women. Thank you, Richard Nicoll. You've indirectly renewed my infinite, but dormant, love for David Bowie, and thank goodness for fashion sometimes. He's been surprisingly absent from my charts, and hey! It's just in time for the EPIC re-release of Station to Station.

One of you must love me enough to drop $150 on this as a Christmas present to me. Actually, I'm torn between the boxset and Chanel's Cuir de Russie exclusive. So make up your mind. In the meantime, I'll pop on The Man Who Fell to Earth; it's a terrible movie, really, but as far as Bowie eye candy is concerned, it sure as hell beats The Hunger. Never before has a movie so overpromised in its first ten minutes, only to crash and burn in a vapid, hyper-stylized 80's FAIL.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

fashion week roundup


my chosen lazy hairstyle + sunglasses indoors to skip makeup FW routine

I'm more objective and colorful in my reviews elsewhere, but come Spring 2011, here's what I'll be sporting.


Inevitably, I adore this. Sleek, futuristic, and let's make a horrible pun here: uniSEXY! This was perhaps the iciest goth-fashionista crowd I'd seen all of Fashion Week (even Katie Gallagher's was warmer), but they actually melted over the amazing, Bauhaus-architecture-meets-Nintendo-8-bit MYKITA sunglasses. I do hope to see some growth from Hourani soon; he's young, he's adorable, and what he's doing in terms of "androgynous" fashion is intriguing (see my post on the male ideal downpage). However, this could be any season...I didn't know I'd be loading up on PVC trousers and giant jackets for spring. There is little, save price point, that distinguishes this diffusion line from his namesake--and for that matter, from Rick Owens or anyone else doing the monochrome, architectural androgyne thing. I still want him to be my personal dresser.


A slicker, more aerodynamic interpretation of her witchy aesthetic, complete with bright punches of red and blue; if it were remotely possible to run in the astronomically high, geometric Raphael Young heels, it's what would happen if punks started to take up exercise. (Fun fact: Katie Gallagher, with her amazing head of silver hair and a wardrobe to out-greyscale mine, runs across the Williamsburg Bridge every day. Phew!) Plus, any girl who uses Einstürzende Neubauten and Front 242 as her soundtrack (not to mention Coil underscoring her last) is a friend of mine. Impeccably detailed...what I wouldn't give for a pair of her cut-out leggings, and the girl has such a way with juxtaposing textures. It took all of my fashion decorum not to touch some of her knits or leathers--but perhaps that would have jolted the models out of their open-eye slumber.

(NB: seriously, I went to a lot more presentations than ever before, and I can't help but wonder what the hell goes through these models' heads. The boys at Buckler were really relaxed, chit-chatting with the audience, and a few of Alice + Olivia's girls seemed equally engaged, but otherwise? Damn near comatose. I know I'd be up on that platform, no matter how incredible my look was, and I'd immediately get an itch or start wiggling my nose.)


Sometimes I really wish I were not so predictable. It's almost unsettling to me that I indeed dove headfirst into the 90's this season; my proudest purchase was a sheer-sleeved Helmut Lang jacket, and here I am extolling the greatness of Yohji Yamamoto. I mean, it's an eternal thing, but when Natasha, Chelsey, and I threw a zesty sleepover to kick off Fashion Week, we watched The Craft almost entirely without irony. I wish I could figure out why loving the 90's gives me such an existential crisis. Maybe because kids who were born in 1993 are entering college and, in some cases, have more computer savvy than I do.
This collection, ultimately, is entirely out of touch with and irrelevant to my daily life. I am not the type to be up in the gym just working on my fitness (see, this IS an outpost for the embarrassing pop culture nuggets I know), and such dalliances in midriff-baring, no matter how amazingly draped and "goff-on-the-go" they may be, are just really impractical and unflattering. Y-3 has been better; Yohji Yamamoto, avant-garde and wonderful with black he may be, is far more suited to romantic flights of fancy than EDGE. I love the 90's now, unabashedly, but I wish his PUNK ROCK reference points went a little deeper than Edward Scissorhands electric-shock hair, getting the Duke Spirit to perform, and putting chains on EVERYTHING. I do still want a pair of those gigantic pants in my life...whether I end up pairing them with an ab-tastic bustier remains to be seen.


I'll leave Alexander Wang to the bitchy Cathy Horyn. Ouch. How interesting that he wants to move away from the black motorcycle jacket + skinny jean obsession he claims as his own doing when Horyn is quick to remind us..."the collection downloaded the ideas of designers like Ann Demeulemeester and Issey Miyake—naturally, without their sense of energy and intuition—and for that reason, despite some cute looks, the show was a little boring." Apparently this all is symptomatic of fashion's Internet disease, the easy accessibility of it all. No longer is this the exclusive domain of the rich, well-heeled, and double-barrel surnamed; Wang has most of his clothing manufactured in China, and Horyn sniffs at those who find such things new. Globalization and Twitter-ization be damned, you silly kids who think Wang's industrial street-chic and $90 T line are innovative. Are we all getting bored of it? Perhaps, although many of his mint and ivory looks were lovely (particularly the finale outfit on Freja) and perfectly in line with Spring 2011's light, airy minimalism--contrary to what I've posted above, most of the shows I went to were a sea of cream. But damn if this wasn't the fastest rise and eye-rolling fall I've seen. Poor guy.

Friday, September 10, 2010


Firstly, some technicals! Exit Everything is now its own domain...still accessible through Blogger, but so fresh and so clean clean on a business card. I also, finally, succumbed and re-upped my Twitter account. @exit_everything right here.
Alas, my phone was dead by the time I could express my joy and shame from introducing myself to Kate Lanphear while sporting what is ESSENTIALLY the exact same haircut.

Fashion Week has just kicked off, and I'm already pooped. Yesterday I went to Nicholas K--saw some GORGEOUS hoods, slouchy trousers, and combat boots (essentially proving my point in the post below: I DO fucking love the 90's)--the Project Runway finale, and Ruffian. Pleasing model facts: Hanne Gaby Odiele is pretty much my height. Lindsey Wixson is adorable in person, and very much a 16 year old girl. The Project Runway finale was a veritable clusterfuck--ten designers (personal favorites: April's "dusty dolls that washed away" collection featuring stunning ombré and a faded, ghostly neutral palette, and Andy's "statues come to life" in futuristic silver, grey, and green. For the record, Gretchen took about ten minutes to get out on the runway), Jessica Simpson's once again terrible sartorial decisions (her breasts entered the room long before she did), and cameras everywhere.

Today is Buckler, possibly Nautica, Editions Georges Chakra, and Lorick...oh, and Fashion's Night Out. I will most definitely be hitting up the Helmut Lang block party, OAK's black carnival, Opening Ceremony's flea market at the Ace Hotel, and, if it isn't too much of a loony bin, Barneys. I really just want to meet Daphne Guinness and have her spray me with Comme des Garçons fragrance. I wish this entry didn't have to be such an awful block of text, but here it is. Mobile devices allllllll Fashion Week, alas.