Tuesday, October 13, 2015


Around 2012 when the fashion world started going nuts for the Russians, I wasn’t particularly interested. Sure, they were gorgeous - a coterie of creatively garbed street-style stars, who tended to be married to, or sprung from the loins of, erstwhile KGB operatives who had since found themselves on the right side of Russia’s new oligarchies. For whatever reason, I never felt any particular connection to the clothes worn by Elena Perminova, Miroslava Duma and Dasha Zhukova. The latter two I developed an outright aversion to after various transgressions (Duma's here, Zhukova's here). In terms of style, I only ever really had time for the fashion designer Ulyana Sergeenko, whose theatricality, poise (or is it posture?) and New Look skirts I couldn’t help but fall for.

And often it was her own designs that Sergeenko sported while posing coquettishly for a throng of photographers, ostensibly waiting for the next Paris Fashion Week show to begin. The clothes were highly romantic and dramatic, and it was only Sergeenko’s bearing that prevented her from looking absurd. I continue to be awed by this bustle moment of hers:

Still, my admiration for her was not unalloyed. In July 2012, Sergeenko independently presented a collection in Paris for the first time, not during the ready-to-wear shows, as most any new designer would do, but during Couture week. Quelle horreur. Unsurprisingly, the word “presumptuous” appeared in many write-ups of Sergeenko’s French debut. 

Personally, I found the collection appealing without being particularly interesting - certainly not so captivating as Ulyana herself, who, aside from the gorgeous duds, looks a bit like Leslie Caron with a dash of Nicole Kidman waxiness. 

Now, it is unusual for mainstream fashion critics to publish anything really, well, critical when covering a contemporary designer’s output. This makes Nicole Phelps’ style.com reviews of Sergeenko’s couture outings all the more interesting. Here are some of her choice cuts (my annotations in square brackets):

“Sergeenko is a storyteller, but if she wants to break through to a wider audience, she'll eventually need to curb the fairy tale.”

“To some [LOL], the Russian is better suited to Hollywood back lots than to Paris haute couture. Certainly, outfits like a corseted velvet onesie and taffeta balloon cape, or a ball skirt worn with nothing but a pointy bra, seemed self-indulgent. The mistakes of a neophyte.”

“But to others [Seriously, I wonder who Phelps is referring to???] her clothes look likes [sic] costumes.”

“It's the kind of trip that John Galliano would've once taken us on at Dior. He was a virtuoso, and Sergeenko is a couture arriviste, but damned if she isn't determined.”

“Does the collection at times lack finesse? Sure. And is it presumptuous for Sergeenko, who is untrained, to present on the same schedule as masters like Lagerfeld and Lacroix? Well, yes.” [This burn is interesting if you recall Azzedine Alaïa’s assertion that, “Karl Lagerfeld never touched a pair of scissors in his life.” A moot point where Sergeenko is concerned, I guess, because, scissors or no, Karl Lagerfeld she ain’t.]

You kinda get the feeling that Phelps wants off this beat. And I too bristled at the notion of this wealthy noob being able to parachute into the couture shows, largely thanks to her husband’s formidable bank balance. I continued to like her collections however, and increasingly so as the seasons went on. To me her exquisite fabrications (more so than her trademark dramatic silhouettes) are Sergeenko’s greatest achievement.

Then in January 2015 came Sergeenko's Spring 2015 couture collection, which was presented in the aftermath of the collapse of the rouble and amid a generally turbulent period from which Russia is yet to emerge.  These external upheavals were reflected in the unusually modest presentation of Sergeenko’s collection. Do I detect a little snideness in Nicole Phelps' language when she notes, “The optics of the situation weren't so hot: Untrained Russian ingenue makes a big, expensive splash complete with an endorsement from model Natalia Vodianova, only to be forced to downsize a couple of years later.”?

Phelps and other reviewers from significant publications were invited to one-on-one appointments to view the collection in person. Women's Wear Daily published some photos which give an idea of the setup:

The rest of us - which is to say the filthy pleb, non couture-week invitees - could view the collection in the form of lookbook-esque, studio photos. And perhaps this is why none of the official reviews I have found made note of what is to me a truly noteworthy moment in the history of Couture fashion presentations; this shit was airbrushed to the point of looking like a damn Pixar movie. The most egregious example:

For comparison, here are some (presumably unretouched) photos of the same jumpsuit.

In July 2015 the official Ulyana Sergeenko Facebook page did post a somewhat cleaner (though still highly photoshopped) version of the image, but the shitty original remains earlier on the feed and also on the many online fashion magazines that cover the Couture shows.

As someone who doesn't particularly take issue with photoshopping in magazine spreads, I've had to unravel for myself what so upset me about Sergeenko's not-so-sneaky tweaking here. After all, the use of photoshop really is ubiquitous in fashion photography. Furthermore, the people who matter in fashion would have seen the clothes in real life. Still, in the context of a Couture collection, I find the use of photoshop here as something akin to a professional athlete using performance-enhancing drugs. Never mind the fact that they did such a laughably poor job of it.

The strange economics of ultra-high fashion aside, I like to think of Haute Couture collections as representing a celebration of mastery and virtuosic skill in the craft and artistry of fashion: I find Sergeenko’s inclusion (made official by the Chambre Syndicale de la Haute Couture in April 2015) in the line up unseemly. The greatest couturiers have used the vast array of materials and skilled hands at their disposal to create garments of extraordinary wonder and beauty. It is unedifying to say the least, to see this tradition reduced to a poorly applied stamp-tool. 

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

On Opals

It is my firmly held belief that no Opal has ever been tastefully set. Not one. It just hasn't happened. And I have spent a great deal of time searching for evidence to the contrary. A friend claims to have once come across a beautiful Opal ring in a vintage store, but by the law of Photos Or It Didn't Happen, her evidence is sadly inadmissible.

Anyway, this tweet from The Cut recently sent my Opal fiending into overdrive - and it's no coincidence that the Lightning Ridge Opal pictured is a loose stone.

Before I continue, apologies to anyone who knows anything about gems or jewellery - what follow are but the musings of an ignoramus... but I wonder if my general aversion to Opal jewellery (as opposed to just the stones themselves, which I adore) is in part due to the fact that Opals seem always to be cut either in a cabochon shape or otherwise are left looking a little rough. The former style has certainly not been in fashion for some time but I think we're due for a comeback - indeed, for me cabochon-cut gems invariably evoke memories of trips to Terrific Scientific (Sydney kids come geddit) and the subsequent purchasing of mood rings. If that ain't primo 90s revival juice, I don't know what is.

But then there are also the unfortunate associations with Australian souvenir tackery. The horror of the gem-bellied silver koala pendant and its cousin, the dolphin charm bracelet has done much to tarnish the Opal's reputation. And yet I must admit that there are some forms of Australiana, specifically the type that depicts native flora and fauna, that I find tremendously appealing. Take for example the botanical illustrations of Ferdinand Bauer:

I once attempted to create a fabric print using his illustrations, and would love to see the idea executed by a more skilled hand.

Then of course there's the often brilliant work of Romance Was Born. Though I found their earlier use of May Gibbs' heavenly Snuggle Pot and Cuddle Pie illustrations a little too literal, their latest collection, "Cooee Couture" is exhilarating and beautiful.

Long live the label's collaboration with Linda Jackson: 

Tuesday, March 24, 2015


I recently re-re-re-watched Robert Altman's much (and very unfairly) maligned Prêt-à-Porter (1994), and, let me tell you, if you require a little boost of enthusiasm for the never-ending 1990s revival, it's all here. Using a combination of staged catwalk shows and real footage from 1994 Autumn/Winter Paris Fashion Week, the film evokes an amazing sense of nostalgia for the era.

Let's start with Gianfranco Ferré for Christian Dior:
Why, hello sports luxe, I thought I hated you, but you're look mighty fine right here. What an incredibly cool collection for a fashion house so wrapped up in its own traditions. P.S. Could these designs have been the inspiration for Mona May's iconic tennis court costumes in Clueless (1995)?
I'd like to think so.

And here's Christian Lacroix
Any declension narrative of the 21st century should include a lament for the folding of the Christian Lacroix label in 2009. The heady, rich glamour of mid-1990s fashion is so evident in this collection. The Balkan-ish surface decoration and headdresses in Lacroix's collection hints at a trend that is fully fledged in Jean Paul Gaultier's:
I find Gaultier's collection so beautiful but at the same time have to work hard not to think of the objectionable adjectives that would doubtless be used to describe it - ethnic, tribal, gypsy, exotic... ew.

On a happier note, did you spot Bjork?
I adore the short scene featuring Sonia Rykiel's Autumn/Winter 1994 collection:
When did models stop walking like that? I know everyone goes on about Linda Evangelista's "$10,000 to get out of bed" line, but boy do these women earn every cent. See also the fictional Cort Romney's (played by the heavenly Richard E. Grant) collection, which actually featured Vivienne Westwood's designs:

Westwood's real-life show was similarly theatrical - and it was Carla Bruni who modelled that fur g-string:
And Kate Moss got her boobs out.
What else is new?

In a very different vein is Xuly Bet's collection for the fictional designer Cy Bianco (played exquisitely by Forest Whitaker. SPOILER AHEAD...: Cy Bianco and Cort Romney make out. Heaven):
There aren't enough dust-ups on catwalks these days.

Finally, on non-fashion note, Prêt-à-Porter contains Julia Roberts' finest performance in any film ever:


Tuesday, October 29, 2013

hands away

There is a scene in All About Eve in which Anne Baxter, playing the title role, demands that Addison DeWitt (played by George Sanders) leave her presence.

She sharply pulls open the door to the room and snaps, "Get out!" In that voice, Sanders' DeWitt replies, "You're too short for that gesture." OMG. Best movie burn ever.

On a semi-related note, I have recently become aware that my brain contains a (unintentionally compiled) list of Favourite Gestures in Film. Here they are.

Elaine Miller (played by Frances McDormand) in Almost Famous, pointing to Simon & Garfunkel's pupils as they appear on the cover of their album Bookends - "Honey, they're on pot."

Another one from Almost Famous; Penny Lane's elegant bird flipping

In Marie Antoinette Kirsten Dunst glides her hand outside the window of the carriage taking her home after a night of masked partying:

The gesture feels slightly anachronistic, perhaps because I've seen Dunst pull a similar move in Sofia Coppola's earlier film, The Virgin Suicides:

Donnie Darko is a film I used to love but now seldom think of. One of the few things that has stayed with me is the strangely poignant and funny exchange of waves with which the film ends:

With the exceptions of Shadow of a Doubt and Rebecca, I don't tend to like Alfred Hitchock's heavier psychodramas. And perhaps those two don't fit into the category - I certainly don't find them as draining as Vertigo and, say,  Marnie. There is, however, one little bit in Vertigo that I can't get enough of. 

Scottie and Madeleine visit a Californian Redwood forest and look at a displayed cross-section of one of those ancient trees, the rings of which have been labeled with various corresponding events in human history (anthropo-dendrochronology?):

Madeleine points first to one ring and then to a slightly larger one:

Here I was born... and there I died.

Images stolen from Screen Musings

To be very clear, I totally don't get this movie. In fact until re-watching the clip for this post, I wrongheadedly thought that Madeleine pointed first to a larger ring, and then a smaller one, to indicate some mysterious birth/death reversal.

All I know is that there's something excellent about the way Kim Novak's gloved hand gently points... 

Just for kicks  I'll sometimes reenact the gesture and accompanying lines when faced with a particularly difficult crossword - Here I was born... and there I died.

Monday, September 9, 2013

Bruce Woods Designs

Bruce Woods is a Chicago-based knitwear designer. These are some of his beautiful creations:

Bruce hand-makes all these one-off pieces himself and you can buy them on his new website.

My mother introduced me to Bruce when I was about 15. She, my friend Katherine and I were on holiday in the US and visited him in his Chicago apartment. I remember marvelling at both his (extreme) height and (excellent) style. He also cooked us all an amazing breakfast.

In fact my mother and Bruce have been friends since the mid-1970s, during which time they were flatmates in New York's East Village. Here is a photo of them both at my mother's wedding to her first husband (hint: it was a Green Card marriage. Quel Scandale!):

She is the one in the middle wearing the red shawl and a look of consternation (pangs of guilt, mother dearest?) and he is on the right, wearing a red beanie.

Undoubtedly the greatest thing about this photo is that the man standing behind Bruce is not a priest.

Originally posted June 7 2012