F-F-Fashion
A red to line the papal robes. Or to indulge in Madam X shenanigans.
There is a fashion trope that is trotted out ad nauseam: fashionistas droning on about their favorite couture piece with the eye popping fervor of a religious convert. There's a sameness to the stories but I devour them nonetheless. Invariably their first couture item was bought in either the following two ways: when they were a Vogue intern in Paris/New York/Moscow/London and they scraped their meagre wages (not to mention the boatloads of cash from the Mom & Dad ATM) while living off the wafts from the burger joint on the corner OR how Chanel has always been in the family—not mademoiselle you understand but the clothes—and their purchases from collections past are now in climate controlled vaults, wrapped in paper-thin tissue in readiness for an exhibition at the Met.
In the spirit of this nonsense, I fling open my wardrobe doors a la Charlton Heston as Moses parting the Red Sea (or is it Dead Sea? Whatever) for a quick inventory on how my wardrobe would stack up should the Costume Institute come calling.
There's one dress that may catch Andrew Bolton's eye. A quick note: without getting too bogged down in fashion semantics, the item is actually pret-a-porter and not haute couture. Quelle horreur. Nitpicking aside, it's a thing of beauty. It's beyond fire engine red with intricate shoulder stitching that practically reaches to the top of my head - a high class leg-of-mutton look; with side pockets that are cleverly concealed in the strict lines of the fabric. The material is washed-duchesse satin and it's a dress that if you wore inside out no one would be any the wiser because the French seams are a thing of beauty. Certainly it would cause a stir if I were to be rummaging round the produce section at Wholefoods. It's a high class Auntie Mame number to flummox the masses.
I found it at a Barney's warehouse sale and it was approximately one-one hundredth of its original price. And in my size. The joy. A New York friend with the instincts of a seasoned truffle hunter in such things was grudgingly impressed with my efforts. It's a dress that doesn't put baby in a corner. That color alone is going to get pretty much everyone's attention. Its papal redness, its look-out-I'm-a-comin' gall transcends pretty much any occasion so the dress has a weirdly every-and-any-occasion quality. And it takes a certain insouciance to head out the door with it on. I wear it with a yellow leather belt which I'm sure was not the intention of Monsieur Elbaz but I don't come in a super model size and length and the thought of a seamstress taking scissors to the material is nothing short of a crime so I resort to hoiking it up with a belt. Ya do what ya gotta do.
if nothing else, it elevates my schtick from hiker with frizzy hair (hello Boulder, you're bringing me down) to mad-aunt sophisticate (but still with frizzy hair).