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.

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!

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.

generation x

i'm just a killer for your love 1997

A lot of my college friends used to joke that I'm so deeply entrenched in 80's nostalgia and fashion that, eventually, time would have to go by and I'd start obsessing over the 90's. Problems with this: my music taste remains strongly rooted in 1982, I hate grunge, and, most of all, I REMEMBER the 90's. There is a novelty to wearing winklepickers and jackets with huge, peaked shoulders; to teasing and spraying my hair into backcombed oblivion; to contouring my non-existent cheekbones into goth/disco (take your pick) perfection...because there are no terrifying photos of me way back when to remind me how shit it could look. 1982 is a fantasy land of New Romantics and Batcavers; if I can dig through the archives and find photos of myself in a gray panne velvet dress circa 1996, I don't want to see it on Alexander Wang's runway, and I sure as hell don't want it ending up on my body again.



mtwtfss weekday f/w 2010 | peter som f/w 2010 detail

But the great thing about fashion is that it's snobby when it counts. No one's looking to bring back crazy-colored JNCOs, thank the lord. But crop tops have been back for the longest time, a good pair of Doc Martens goes a long way, and everyone this side of Blogger knows I love any maxi dress that crosses my path. Chunky knits are great, so is purple lipstick (I WISH I could show you the extraordinary Make Up For Ever Rouge Artist Intense #14. A super-deep violet, paired with neutral eyes and a clean face, it's absolutely glorious and may convince me to swear off black eyeliner for a month or so). Not to mention the early 90's in particular gave us some iconic fashion movements--Helmut Lang minimalism, the heyday of the Japanese avant-garde, and, for better or for worse, that quintessential grunge Marc Jacobs/Perry Ellis collection.


i still immensely dislike grunge music


kool thing 1990

I've been inching towards the dreaded decade for a while, actually; I've developed an appreciation for round, Lennon-style sunglasses, wearing stomping boots with baggy cropped trousers (has to be a looooooose fit), and the Beavis and Butthead video commentary clips. And OF COURSE! 120 Minutes, college rock be damned.


johanna nurm: a fundamental silhouette

Give me neo-psychedelia, scuzzy lo-fi, a bit of velvet, and some crazy layers, but I'll be damned before I touch a fucking kitten heel. Some things are best left to history.

oh, canada

Well, gosh darn it, I'm terrible at updating. For good reasons, though: this past month, I got a day job (thank you oodles, Bloomingdale's!), met Stacey Bendet of Alice + Olivia (who called me a "goth pixie," and all things considered, it was fairly accurate)--her MAC nail varnish makes for a splendid manicure--celebrated my birthday in whiskey-drenched, synthpop style, saw Spiritualized put on an AMAZING, TRIPPY, EPIC performance of Ladies and Gentlemen, We Are Floating In Space at Radio City...



...then saw the Dead Weather at Prospect Park (Alison Mosshart is my new wife, just so you know--right after Freja Beha), and finally found myself in Toronto with my buddy obscurealternatives. We've known each other for about five years now, through--GASP! SHOCK! TO CATCH A PREDATOR!--mutual friends on the Internet. A little over two years ago, she came down to NYC for my birthday and we saw Jarvis Cocker at Terminal 5, which was splendid, life-changing, and a fun time had by all (including Jarvis, who pulled up to the venue in a bike taxi with his kids). We've been meeting up for shows and fashion nonsense ever since. CORRECTION: She's been schlepping it on a ten-hour Megabus to New York, and I've met up with her on the decidedly less intimidating MTA. It's not really fair. So I'm paying her back slowly but surely.

Toronto is a lovely city, and somehow more expensive than New York. ONE trip on its laughably small public transport? Three dollars. That shit ain't right, I'm sorry. But everyone is friendly as you'd expect (particularly the random gentleman who, when I yelled "I'M SO TIRED" and tried to slap myself awake, very cheerfully told me to "WAKE UP!" It helped) and I've got to give a whole lot of worship to Carte Blanche, quickly becoming one of my favorite little boutiques ever.



Ignore how wet I look (seriously, nice random torrential downpour WHEN I AM WEARING A SHEER SHIRT, TORONTO) and how short my legs seem to be--the most recent addition to my wardrobe is a lovely, kaleidoscopic Gareth Pugh top purchased at a third of the original price. Not to mention the coat I'm wearing that OA bought, complete with exquisitely large hood, from Carte Blanche's in-house label. In love.

The two of us very cleverly plan vacations around concerts and/or fashion weeks; this time was no different, and on Tuesday we went to see Peter Murphy at Lee's Palace.


Now, I know earlier this year everyone had a great big existential crisis about Peter Murphy appearing in Twilight. Looking back on it, most of the whining came from 15-year-old girls on Tumblr who considered it a great personal affront and/or a betrayal to the goth community at large (which 1. doesn't really exist anymore, 2. these girls would be very unfamiliar with due to being born in the mid-nineties; presumably they've read about the mystical ~*goth community*~ in fairy tales, and 3. doesn't really give a fuck about what the ex-members of Bauhaus did past 1990). As far as I can tell, personally, he doesn't really know who the hell I am (unless he's got Google Alerts...in which case, 'sup) and has not set out to ruin my day. Mr. Murphy owes me nothing but a tune and some good memories, and I'm very happy with what I've got.


A great setlist which include some new songs, old favorites, and a few Bauhaus numbers; charming audience banter about his underwear, questionable but fun dance moves, and a voice which, unlike many of his peers, has held up 30 years despite all the chain-smoking...I'm a happy camper. He announced that the short, rather scattered summer tour was a precursor to a larger one later on, either beginning in New York or the new year--I couldn't hear very well, but I hope it's the former. OA and I tried to talk with him after the show, but decided against fighting through the latex-clad masses (we take significantly more serious style inspiration from the man). Hopefully if the tour does indeed begin in NY, we'll get a better shot.


My one complaint? The girl behind me who thought it was totally okay to inappropriately fondle me through the whole damn show--stroking my back and grabbing me at the hips--only to call me a "bitch" and a "musical elitist" at the end (presumably because I muttered that the actual title of the Bowie song Peter covered was "Space Oddity," not "Ground Control To Major Tom"). The musical elitist bit doesn't bother me, considering I'm listening to Beyoncé right now and really enjoying it, but the touching? Pardon the pun, but if I ever see you again, I will cut you up.