Madame Predicts the Next Big Trend

Franz Kline not all black and white

I'm going out on a limb here— or make that going out on a paintbrush— but I predict the next big trend in print and pattern will be: Abstract art. Okay, it's been done before— Yves St. Laurent with his 1965 Mondrian dress and the wonderful Sonia Delauney in the 1920s, who mixed art with fashion and has never been fully recognized for the fashion part of her art.

Yes St. Laurent's Mondrian

Sonia Delauney in the studio...

...and on canvas

I love the digital prints of recent seasons. Mary Katrantzou pioneered them and has taken hers to more and more abstract levels. Such prints are now everywhere—in many price points and infinite variety. As often happens in art (as in life) advanced technology begets the past. Cameras with real film! Calligraphy pens! The advanced printing techniques used to create photo prints are now capturing the beauty in abstract art to full effect. The Italians have a way with them:

Jill Sander 

Gabriele Colangelo 

Missoni

What this leads to, of course, is my own recent purchase from Zara at the very reasonable $59.90:

And when I'm not wearing it
 I can hang it on the wall

I Knew I was Getting Old When...

Harper's Bazaar March 2014

I first knew I was getting old when I didn't "get" Lady Gaga. Yes, it was some time ago. That only proves how long I've been getting old. Well, here she is on the cover of Harper's Bazaar, the March 2014 issue, which adds up to 530 pages and weighs in at 2 pounds, 11.4 ounces. You know Vogue will top/tip that!

Back to Gaga, the Cindy Sherman of entertainers. What initially irked me was she imitated Madonna, back in the day. I wish Madonna would return to Madonna back in the day. Since then Lady Gaga has worn and shed a million skins. I have no idea who she really is (am sure I've never seen her perform). Versatility is fine for Meryl Streep or Judi Dench— crackerjack actresses yet real women with their own personalities— but what is a Lady Gaga?

I looked this up. Lady Gaga was born Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta and is an "American recording artist, activist, record producer, businesswoman, fashion designer, philanthropist and actress". In other words she is playing the Fame Game for all it's worth.

Lady Gaga playing Miss Haversham..

...and playing herself?

I love originals. There are not many of them. I do give credit to those who've been influenced by originals before them (the Bee Gees by the Beatles). You can still create an identity. Influence is not the same as a Beatles tribute show. I know nothing is new under the sun, and we're all influenced by something. I just can't figure out who she is. And worse, I don't really care. Gaga never holds onto a creation long enough to make it register. Perhaps that's a statement about today's (disposable) culture.  I can avoid her most times. I just wish she weren't taking up so much valuable real estate in the magazines I love.

One characteristic of Older is we tend to rant a lot. We're less impressed by superficial achievements and tend to think we've seen it before/and or did it better ourselves. I try not to be that person. But I've yet to figure out what makes Lady Gaga such a draw.

Oh and here's a Gaga I don't want to see on the cover of anything:

When a Picture Was Worth 1000 Photos

Once upon a time illustration ruled the fashion world. Though far from reality, fashion illustration conjures Possibilities. And isn't that part of fashion's allure?

Once upon a time I wanted to be a fashion illustrator. That was after I wanted to be a professional gift wrapper. Some little girls wanted to be nurses or airline stewardesses. What can I tell you?

Illustrating fashion relied on the capabilities of printing. Well into the 1900s, by necessity fashion news was driven by drawings. Even as photography and film were forging ahead as the records of choice, illustration continued to be the messenger of fashion news into the thirties and remained viable as late as the 1980s. Who can forget Antonio and his glamazons?

Antonio Lopez 1984

Nowhere is fantasy-meets-reality better illustrated than the fashions of the twenties. Long, lean and impossibly flat, the whippet-thin figures gave us a woman on-the-go not seen in  most contemporary photographs. It would never be possible to fully emulate those illustrations, but they inspire us still.

Illustration style changed too. As early as 1903 Paul Poiret showed his avant garde styles with illustrations influenced by Art Deco. The real thing could be a little jarring in real life. At the least, it took nerve.

The illustration...

The mannequin...

Mrs. Paul Poiret pulling it off

As they move into the mid-twenties, the ladies of Downtown Abbey have adopted the familiar no-waisted silhouettes of the day. Not to say they all look fabulous. The regal Lady Mary seems to be swimming in her chemises, while the silhouette is quite flattering to her mother Clara. Middle daughter Edith is revealing her personality in jewel tones and interesting fabrics. The least riveting character heretofore, her clothes (and story line) are driving this season. Rose, the youngest titled lady, is dressing typically for her age— trendy and a little gaudy.

Downton Abbey dressing the part

This thoughtful approach to dressing the cast is thanks to the enormous work of Caroline McCall, Downton Abbey's costume designer, who has used actual vintage clothing as well as recreated pieces. For some reason, twenties "frocks" have not survived in abundance in vintage stores. Bead-incrusted evening looks— you can find some— but everyday clothing? The best way to own something would seem to be sew it.

My Life with the Beatles

I was not nor have I ever been the Fifth Beatle. Never was Paul's secret girlfriend in Cleveland. Never even met a Beatle first hand. Although I dated and then married one. Or two, depending on how he wore his facial hair. You see my husband was often mistaken for a Beatle, and I was pleased as punch. Not Ringo either. He could be Paul or John, depending:

Let's backtrack. My husband was born the same year as John Lennon. That made him almost 24 the year the Beatles landed in New York for that Ed Sullivan broadcast. Fifty years ago! Imagine being 24 and— thanks to the Beatles' success— feeling certain your generation was the one that was kicking up all the fuss and would be the one that heretofore mattered.

My husband swears Marlon Brando in "The Wild One" was the style he emulated in high school. I can't imagine him suited up in a black motorcycle jacket sitting on his Brooklyn stoop (motorcycle itself strictly forbidden). Even the Beatles had a leather jacket/scruffy skiffle look back before their Hamburg friends or manager Brian Epstein gave them their mod-overs.

Before

After

Much after

Even more after

It was fine to have "Beatle style" (even my brother-in-law managed to do that), but once my doppelganger husband found himself seriously taken for Paul McCartney. Beatlemania was still very much at its height in 1967. We were having breakfast in a fancy hotel dining room on the New Jersey shore when a young man came up to Alan, hand outstretched. His first words were "Paul McCartney, it's a pleasure to meet you." Alan demurred and said he was sorry but he wasn't Paul McCartney (I'll bet he was sorry). There was something about the way the young man grudgingly acknowledged it and backed away that had me thinking he was not convinced. I'm sure he told a few people he met Paul McCartney in Cape May, but keep it quiet.

Why, you may ask, is this Fashion? How is it not? Aside from the effect of their clothing and hairstyles on fans and the rest of the world (often analyzed), the Beatles proved over and over how we change ourselves by how we look. Can't tell a book by its cover? Maybe. Want to sell a lot of books? Give it a cover that attracts attention.

Beatles forever after

I Failed at Nails

Phooey to fake nails

I had beautiful nails for five years. Not mine exactly, but I denied they were fake. They were enhanced. The manicurist applied a kind of putty that hardened quickly and made my nails strong enough to open pop tops. They were, of course, artificial nails. I took them off cold turkey a few weeks ago, not because I feared artificial nails might ruin my real nails. They had ruined my real nails.

Every two weeks I cringed in fear when the manicurist pulled out that electric file to maintain them. My nail beds had become so thin, just the sight of that thing had me gritting my teeth. She tried to be gentle and apologized profusely whenever she hit a sensitive spot. I think I understand what the torture of pulling-your-nails-out-one-by-one must feel like.

Despite their appearance in the photo below my artificial nails were not ripped off. That's just the way nails look after five years of abuse. Note the craters, white spots and peeling bits. Hope you weren't eating lunch.

My life in nails is a relatively short one.  I worked as a graphic designer, so getting a manicure would have been an exercise in futility. I might paint my nails for a special occasion but could never master using my left hand. Chipping nail polish drove me crazy, and I didn't have the patience to let them dry. The only artificial nails I knew about were glued on to make yours look like Fu Manchu's.

Come retirement or career change or whatever, having nice nails seemed attainable and a long delayed treat. In the meantime someone, possibly the devil, invented "solar nails", polymethyl methacrylate, a liquid and a powder that is mixed together and hardens on the nail. Your own nail keeps growing, so the "nail" needs to be "filled" every two weeks. That requires sanding, puttying and sanding again, two hours' time and $25.

My new nails looked natural, not too long. I had the most fun choosing nail polish (which doesn't chip on solar nails). Manufacturers give them wonderful names. My favorite was called "Bling Dynasty" and was a nice soft gold. Fu Manchu would have loved it. I forged a nice friendship with my manicurist and learned a lot about Vietnam.

Not my hand
but could have been

All that is over now. This is going to be a long haul. Your nails grow about 1/10 of an inch a month— slower in cold weather, quicker in warm. At this rate it will be a year before my nails are even the ordinary specimens they were before. Maybe. It's possible they will always be weak. I'm thinking gloves should make a comeback.

Never...

Happy Feet?

Trainers (so British) sounds better than athletic shoes (no ring to that) or running shoes (too much work) or tennis shoes (too specific) or sneakers (too sneaky) or gym shoes (those things moldering in your school locker). I still like to call them sneakers but hate the thought of them with street wear. Karl Lagerfeld disagrees. His models wore sneakers with dresses and gowns on the Paris runway. Marc Jacobs thinks they look fetching with a tinfoil coat. You know once capital D designers lace up their seal of approval, we think we should follow. Anna Wintour— you first.

And who doesn't love comfortable shoes? I was wise to explore Pompeii in sneakers rather than patent leather ballet slippers. There was no one to judge but other similarly shod tourists. However I don't see the reason for this look with real clothes in real life.

The history of canvas top/rubber sole shoes is quite interesting. The Liverpool Rubber Company first produced them to be worn on the sand in the 1830s. Who knew? They earned the nickname "plimsolls" as the colored horizontal band of rubber that joined canvas to sole resembled the Plimsoll line on a ship's hull. If you walked into water that reached above that line, your foot would get wet. The more leisure time, as time went on, the more this comfortable, affordable shoe adapted to various sports: tennis, croquet, basketball, running, etc.

One of these is the Plimsoll line

Sneakers crept onto the public streets in the mid 1980's Working Girl era. I would very much like to forget the sight of young women in suits energetically maneuvering New York City streets. They would stop to switch shoes outside their office buildings, balancing on one foot like so many uniformed storks.

Melanie Griffith in "Working Girl"

Granted there are some very cute sneakers— reptile or leopard patterned, with touches of gold or interesting hardware, in bright colors or covered in fun graphics. But is this footwear meant to be worn seriously with real clothes?

Here's my biggest concern. The Number One Don't Do This on the list for WOACAs (Women Of A Certain Age) is No Sneakers. Unless you are wearing exercise gear (and I love to see us chickadees in fitness mode) or are a tourist who would be crazy not to, sneakers will stamp you o-l-d before you can lace them up. That's actually a shame. Who else but WOACAs deserve a comfy shoe?  After decades of use— let alone years of abuse (tottering in heels) and non-support (flopping in sandals)— our tootsies would be thankful.

The only woman, in my opinion, who has earned the right to wear sneakers with her dress-up street clothes is this one:

And even she doesn't

Now is Not the Winter of Our Discontent

It happens every year about this time. The holidays are done. Spring is around no corner that I can see— weeds greening in my grass don't count. The cardigans need pilling. The legs haven't seen daylight since the end of daylight savings time. A trip to the shops for a little boost? No luck. They are all begging and pleading with us to take away their tired sequins and neglected brocades. "Fifty percent off sale!" But who needs black velvet when my fashion soul is black as night already?

Perhaps I exaggerate about the latter, but this really is a strange time of year. What you bought with such enthusiasm in fall is either worn out or didn't work out. It's too early to think about Summer, and Spring is less about buying clothes than shedding layers.

What to do? What to do?

Your left brain will suggest winter is a great time to take a hard look at "intimates"— your socks and bras and panties and tights and slips and such. Or your basic white and black t-shirts or button-downs. White turns yellow; black fades to grey over time and through the wash. I'm settling down for a long winter's nap, how about you?

Your right brain will have you planning vacations to exotic locales or at the very least making note of spring's hot fashion trends: pleats, embroidered flowers, boxy silhouettes, forties' style dresses, schoolgirl looks, transparent fabrics, longer skirt lengths, wearable art.... dream, dream, dream.

Wake up, Little Susie. Such activities are no substitute for the first hint of a real, lasting Spring, the kind that has you throwing off your coat at lunch.

Wake up, fashion moguls of the world and INVENT a reason for us to get excited. Instead of going in one swoop from offering long sleeved turtlenecks to short sleeve t-shirts, give us jerseys in pretty colors with necklines, not scoops. Bring back the vest (it gets so little fashion respect). Is there nothing between hunter green corduroy and neon pink stretch in the pants department?

Can we have another season? Not "resort"; that only incurs envy in those of us who don't partake. Why not call it "Sprinter" or "Wing"? Those certainly call to mind flights of fashion fancy.

Don't forget about us as you count your losses at the end of the fiscal year or cheer a great one. This is a new year, and we want something new!

This is a Joke, Right?

I nearly laughed myself silly last night. The January fashion magazines are so thin I figured I could gobble them up in one sitting. What makes a magazine thin (for the most part) is a lack of ads. January is notorious for no ads to be had. What ads there were, were hysterical.

First off came Marc Jacobs. This was worth pointing out to the husband, although it was preaching to the choir. He thinks fashion is pretty silly anyways, although he is nothing but sweet when it comes to my obsession. Does Marc really think we are going to tie our hair to our necks, don clunky trainers and throw on a glitter trash bag? I told the husband to tie me down if he ever sees me heading out the door in that get-up.

Who the heck is Marc kidding? Am I in on the joke, or is the joke on me? Granted there has been some fashion that I said I would never wear. I've learned to never say never. Pleated pants come back as the world turns. Shoulder pads are waiting in the dresser drawers. What the heck?

If it isn't the fashion it is the ads themselves. Alexander Wang's shoe ad is a mystery that I care not to solve. Chanel's mustachioed model is an homage to... whom? Galliano? The whole thing has me flummoxed and not in a good way.

Okay, okay. I do have a certain fondness for Dolce & Gabbana's ad campaign with the donnas and their lovely boys, although one of them does appear to be a priest. This may not be as far afield as you think. Last summer in Italy I discovered that priests can be models as well.

Priests of Italy 2014 calender; Father September is my fave

Happy Birthday, Francoise Hardy

Francoise Hardy turns 70 today, January 17. Before we go further, here is a recent picture:

The woman is still gorgeous. And ambiguous. And oh so, well, French.

Has there ever been a time when Francoise Hardy was not a fashion icon? In fact was she ever anything else? The answer is yes and no. Americans who have heard of her have mostly never heard her, myself included. Yet she is one reason I chose to take French in 10th grade— so I could read about Francoise Hardy in French "Elle", purchased whenever I had the five bucks* from Schroeder's Bookstore and Foreign Newsstand in Cleveland, Ohio.

Perhaps my French wasn't up to it, but I didn't learn a lot. I loved looking at pictures though. She was impossibly tall and slim, with thick straight hair and strong features devoid of (much) makeup. The camera adored her. She reciprocated.

Never looked that good in a trenchcoat,
though I tried

Ditto the motorcycle jacket

Francoise Hardy began recording in 1962, the heyday of French New Wave cinema and the French influence on pop culture (aka pre British invasion). While her music was a hit in France, she never caught fire in America. She has a clear, soulful voice. If you go to:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gXWqz5qWYEw

you will recognize "Les Temps de L'Amour". You've probably heard it a thousand times and can't remember where.

Even reading in English I can't seem to find out much. She didn't have a movie career— a few cameo appearances, that's all. Some fashion shoots. She is evidently a shy person who doesn't relish the spotlight. Nevertheless she still performs and records.

Longtime companion/husband/fellow performer
Jacques Dutronc

The Lovely Boutique Where I Work has anointed Francoise Hardy their inspiration for Spring 2014. Yes that means more nautical stripes, moto jackets and '60s silhouettes. And Francoise Hardy envy.

* $5 in 1962 money = $38 today

Men We Love: Toni Servillo

I saw "The Great Beauty", but I watched Toni Servillo. The film has received a slew of awards nods; the buzz is practically a din. As expected the movie itself is reminiscent of "La Dolce Vita" and "8 1/2" with a little "Last Year at Marienbad" for good measure. But in color.

I won't pretend I understood it. Perhaps I was distracted by... Toni Servillo. His character, Jep, is an erudite 65-year-old with the most impeccable fashion sense since Robert Redford got all pastel for his turn in "The Great Gatsby".

Jep doesn't just wear clothes well, he inhabits them. You know the expression about being comfortable in one's skin? He is that comfortable in his skin plus its layer of clothing. The man looks elegant in a rumpled dress shirt and boxers (don't ask). His principal accessories are a well-worn face and slicked-back, little-too-long, many shades of gray hair. Spoiler alert since this could be discussed as to its deeper meaning: towards the end of the movie you see a glimpse of his corset.

I may just be personally susceptible, but Italian men of a certain age do have a certain something. Mary Martin thought so about Ezio Pinza in "South Pacific. Gianni di Gregorio shuffled into my heart after "Mid August Lunch". Tony Bennett got better with age (and can sing too).

Ezio

Gianni

Tony

Take note, Anthony Bourdain. You may not be Italian, but you could look this good in a few years.