one-week flashback! katie gallagher f/w 2011 BTS

renegade designer + intrepid girl reporter in a quite unflattering candid, photos throughout by corinne schiavone
Last Sunday, Milk Studios did not have their shit together. Capacity issues the night before, leading to crowded elevators and the fire marshall being called, made those in charge extraordinarily paranoid, and all designers showing on the 13th had to un-invite half of their guestlists and inform the rest that, due to tight capacity, their attendance might not be granted.

Katie Gallagher's people very begrudgingly (trust, none of her PR wanted to do it) sent out the email at around 5 PM, so a lot people, feeling fucked over, didn't want to bother with a fight. On the other hand, I was already (im)patiently waiting at Y-3--which was AMAZING and SO MUCH FUN and EVERYONE WORE BLACK and SANDPAPER FLOORS but COULDN'T SEE SHIT--and had planned to meet up with the lovely Corinne for dinner before the show. I wasn't about to shut both of us out.



(As an aside, could someone help me set up a decent cut/jump feature? I have loads of images I want to share, but it's getting to be really cluttered.) So the two of us, armed with excellent makeup, a giant camera, connections, and a touch of moxie, got to Milk at 6:45 for an eight-o'-clock show.


And so went "Gris-Gris," Katie Gallagher's presentation for F/W 2011. She said she was influenced by African voodoo; the titular gris-gris is in fact a magic amulet, “little leather sacs for spells. People would put little bones in there, nails, hair, different things.” That sort of witchy, pastoral influence was felt throughout the entire space, anchored by imposing monolith of wooden grids and crumpled black sculpture, almost like The Wicker Man in scope. The shock of sumptuous mustard yellow leather (can I HAVE the jacket posted above? Please?) went straight back to voodoo: “It’s kind of reminiscent of cornmeal,” Gallagher said. “These tribes would draw little sigils in cornmeal, and I found this really cool leather to match, it’s a really nice mustard. Plus, I wanted a little bit of color to go with the grey."


the opening runway pass, video by me
And let's talk tunes. Katie and her boyfriend, Nikolay, score the presentations to industrial perfection. Last season, it was Einstürzende Neubauten and Front 242 to set an intense, high-energy EBM mood for "Arena;" this season, it was all Death in June (you can hear the very opening strands of "The Only Good Neighbor" in the video posted above--remember when Prada used it too? Sorry, Douglas P.) and Coil (can anyone identify the song in the video? It's really bugging me, I KNOW I know what it is). Even better than sitting at a runway show and recognizing something in utter shock--like the Prodigy seemingly fucking everywhere this NYFW--this almost neurotically perfect blend of sight and sound is just what I like.

complexgeometries f/w 2011

My Fashion Week started off quite slowly, thankfully. Unlike last season, when I was running around Lincoln Center and elsewhere like a chicken with my head cut off from 9 AM the first day, I got to take it easy the first two days. Mostly because I was getting over a pretty miserable case of laryngitis (still hacking up a lung now, but I can actually speak), and I very much valued the time I had in bed.


So what was my first order of business once I didn't feel like death reincarnate? Head on down to the West Side Highway for a jaunt at the strip club.

Clever setting on the part of complexgeometries, that is. The Westway was taken over recently by the folks from Smile and the Jane, but they've kept the "Gentleman's Club" awnings, stripper poles, and $20 lap dance signs intact. A bit of cognitive dissonance seeing bloggers hanging in front of the neon, cheesy mirrored walls, but CG's presentation made for a really titillating show.


As much as I love CG's gothy, complicated "it's-a-t-shirt-but-now-it's-a-cowl-and-now-it's-a-skirt" mutant way of looking at clothing, it's even better to see them branch out into these unbelievably cozy, slouchy red sweaters, musky grays and taupes, and something altogether softer.


I loved the sci-fi vibes of shimmering, inky black transparent capes, raw quartz jewelry...and lest we forget the glam-rock moon boots of my dreams, courtesy of a collaboration with LD Tuttle:


Out of this fucking world.

Later that night I ventured over to the always clusterfucky Seven party at the Tribeca Grand: see pictured Natasha, yours truly, and Meg sporting all black everything. The sort of fashion-goth, egotistical craziness on display at this party is something that must be seen to be believed, and I'm glad I finally had the full-fledged shitshow experience. Once and never again for me, so sayeth my headache the morning after.

Today is the real winner for me: Y-3 and Katie Gallagher! Will be sure to update immediately.

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.

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 prosperity...so 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.

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 wink...it 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 last.fm 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.

fashion week roundup

FASHION WEEK IS OVER THANK GOD ALMIGHTY.


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.


RAD BY RAD HOURANI

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.


KATIE GALLAGHER

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.)


Y-3

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.

QUICK NOTE TO JEREMY SCOTT: YOU'RE ACTUALLY OODLES OF FUN AND PLEASE PUT ME ON SOME MYSTERIOUS WAITING LIST FOR YOUR CRUCIFIX-SHAPED SUNGLASSES

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.

shopkeeping

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.

my haircut 100, givenchy, and the greatest shoes i've ever seen (today)

First, big, gratuitous photo-op thumbs up to Jamie Lynn at Birds and Fellas, who beat the heat and my own delirium yesterday to give me a kick-ass haircut. Say goodbye to my thick ol' Liza mess. Seriously, if she can interpret my vague hair desires (such as "I want to dye it black...but...y'know, not black.") this well, she's a godsend. Taking the 'do out for a spin tonight.

Secondly, couture week is here. Really, there are only two designers I look out for every year, and that's Jean Paul Gaultier and Givenchy. John Galliano at Dior is always going to do the same damn makeup (though his floral gowns were exquisite) and Karl Lagerfeld's gonna bring in some opulent behemoth, like an iceberg or some golden lions or shit. JPG this year--although his casting is some of the best in the business, an amazing variety--was so classic JPG that it turned out a bit predictable and tame. Where's the crazy Mexican inspiration from the last show?! So let's move on to the always amazing Riccardo Tisci at Givenchy.




Exquisite. My heart was broken late last month when Tisci announced he would no longer be doing couture runway shows. Then I very quickly realized that this doesn't matter one bit, since 1. I'm not going to couture season any time soon, and 2. he would still be doing presentations, and I would still be able to swoon over photos. I'm so captivated by his work at Givenchy, he's always the man to beat--the unbelievable psychedelia of Spring 2010 RTW (THOSE SHOES THAT BLAZER), the bizarre, almost erotic Renato Zero-inspired jumpsuits of his last couture show...he's man of incredible detail and concept.




A bit of Frida Kahlo and a whole lot of skeleton, Tisci created ten impossibly dreamy looks--impeccable detail in heavy beading, stone work, giant gold belts, feathers, lace made up a collection that was ethereally feminine with a little toughness (Givenchy's signature). It's romantic, and I'm ooh-ing over every detail shot.

Speaking of incomprehensible gasping:


These unbelievable, gravity-defying stalactite shoes are concept wedges from Helen Furber's Icica line. As usual, I want what I can't have--they're part of a project, sponsored by Y-3, Studio Van der Graaf and Natureally Organic Leather, challenging the traditional footwear product life-cycle. See how they're made here.

final menswear bits and bobs

PRADA
I go back and forth between tepid love and hate for Miuccia Prada. I don't think I could stand her as a person; she's notoriously sizist and Prada's casting is some of the most white-washed in the business. THAT SAID, as far as a show is concerned, she can create one hell of an atmosphere, and her Spring 2011 menswear show was no different. The staging was imposing and futuristic: a giant, elevated runway of metallic grids and concrete columns under hot white fluorescents, an industrial setting that looked like the bunker of a spaceship. And the soundtrack by DJ Frederic Sanchez was extraordinary--as the lights snapped on, the models marched out to a pulsing, mutated remix of Bauhaus' "Bela Lugosi's Dead" layered with two versions (Jeanne Moreau and Ingrid Caven) of "Each Man Kills the Thing He Loves." Hence the video instead of photos.
Oh, fashion shows are about clothes. Well, it was nice to see some vibrant colors in a season whose palette has been overwhelmingly dark and moody, and I liked the idea of a super-slim, aerodynamically athletic business suit, but...she made scrubs out of denim. Moving on.



ALEXANDER MCQUEEN
Sarah Burton was, ultimately, the right person for the job. Anyone else (I know rumors about Gareth Pugh were flying around for ages) would have been too easily identifiable in their own style, and as Lee's right-hand woman for years, she knew the aesthetic and she was instrumental in putting together his unfinished Fall 2010 collection. Her first runway presentation was a no-fuss, shock-free collection that showed hints of McQueen's most memorable shows--vampire robes and Victoriana--the ever-present photo-prints, and his history on Savile Row. The degradé work was amazing, and I loved the new shapes and silhouettes, particularly in swinging coats. There's still a spark missing... but I have faith.



NEIL BARRETT
I've said before that I want every piece of Neil Barrett's Fall 2010 womenswear in my closet immediately. Minimalist, monochrome, a little sexy in skintight leather, and featuring NICK CAVE GRAPHIC TEES, it is the collection I would enthusiastically point to when asked about my day-to-day aesthetic. Menswear is no exception; a little more wrinkled and relaxed than Barrett's previous outings, it was nonetheless punky, sharp, with a great don't-give-a-fuck attitude. The layered sheer tops are a must.



ANN DEMEULEMEESTER
Jarring to start with and clever in the end, Ann Demeulemeester sent out a collection of clinical, pristine white clothes stripped of layers, volume, and any accoutrements that would draw attention away from the body. And the show was over just like that.
Except when it totally wasn't, and the models walked out again sporting detail-for-detail duplicates in black, the cotton of the white half replaced by leather in the black. It was an interesting experiment that toyed with the audience's emotions; one would think that black leather would be far (metaphorically) darker and more imposing, but white is fucking sinister. Demeulemeester's white comes from fencing gear, straitjackets, and Patrick Bateman's raincoat. Intriguingly threatening, but definitely cool.



JOHN GALLIANO
John Galliano is always fun. He knows how to give the audience a spectacle, and more often than not, it's genuinely enjoyable and thrilling. This collection was genius: part Charlie Chaplin (the super-tight jacket and baggy trousers seem to be a major trend for spring, and the Tramp's costumes brought the shape to its logical extreme), part Death in Venice (lit nerd time: both von Aschenbach and Tadzio are represented: overly made-up models in mosquito-netted boater hats and white suits for the former, Lido-ready bathing suits for the latter), part futuristic Hollywood in the finale's lace and leather...the man knows how to make movie magic.


...oh yeah, there's one glaringly obvious designer missing. It's a given that I loved Rick Owens, because there was tons of black, monster boots, sheer tops, and shrouded leather so hard it looked like body armor. So let's take a deep breath and bid adieu to what's been a fantastic menswear season. Hopefully womenswear will follow suit.