This list is interchangeable, really! And could easily have been a Top 25. Selections from these shows can be seen in the 'Spring 09 Wish List' category in the right sidebar
Francoise Hardy's Voila:
Francoise Hardy's Mon amie la rose, 1965: Carla Bruni's Tout le monde, from Quelqu'un m'a dit: Love 1920s Paris? For you, Vanessa Paradis' 'L'Incendie: Julie Delphy's Waltz for a Night from Before Sunset:
Earlier I posted some ideas for men's gifts, as they are typically a nightmare to shop for and the holidays are barrelling toward us (I just realised it's mid-November already, and I'm not sure how that happened).
So, uh, how about this Scottish bar stool for guys who wear kilts? Or like to sit around naked?
I said I'd provide suggestions. I didn't say they'd be good ones.
Via Like Cool
The new World Economic Forum's Gender Gap Index was just released and the findings are quite shocking. Norway, Finland and Sweden round out the top 3, respectively, for the least discrepancy in equality between women and men. However, even these 'progressive' countries are still nowhere near full equality as measured by WEF's set of key indicators. Unfortunately, women still remain systematically disadvantaged in areas like economic earnings, access to education, political representation, and health care. With the top countries still only providing women with 82% of what they grant to men, there is still much work to be done.
As a Canadian woman living in the UK, it seems I'm better off here. The UK ranked 13th out of the 130 indexed countries while Canada tanked at 31. The United States didn't do much better (likely ousting Canada in political representation, because it's certainly not health care or access to education), coming in at 27. The shame!
Hmm...modelling seems to be the only industry that is exceptionally more lucrative for women than it is men. And people think models are dumb.
Speaking of gifts for men (see previous post), model, heiress to the Hearst newspaper fortune and daughter of kidnap victim-turned-collaborator Patricia Hearst Shaw, Lydia Hearst is the latest to bare all in the French version of Playboy. Last month it was Lily Cole, whose shoot was inspired by a pervy Serge Gainsbourg album cover that crossed all sorts of boundaries. At least I can show this one.
I looked into her modelling credentials, knowing she was trying to make it as a model but having not really seen her anywhere, and found that she's actually included in Style.com's model directory. But while she's done some high profile shows (Fendi, Anna Sui, Betsey Johnson, though nothing since 2007), most of her photos were as party guest. Tough life.
However, I think the reason I posted about this in the first place, is to share what I read in the NY Daily News article about Lydia's cover, and that is the fact that before posing for French Playboy, she did a racy spread for another French 'gents' magazine called Self Service. Eeeeeuuuwwww......
The 24 year-old Hearst explains her decision to the Daily News: "I'm not a teenager anymore and this is the transition of going into adulthood." And there I thought the rite of passage was being approved for my first credit card.
Here's an unlikely couple - Lydia with SNL's Rachel Dratch (love her) at an Imitation of Christ Party:
And Lydia in 2004, who makes a good Charles Anastase model for his spring 2005 RTW show:
I prefer treats over tricks, so here's a cat rocking some serious costume clobber at a Halloween pet fashion show in Japan last year, with attitude to match.
But tricks can be fun, too. There's a show here in the UK called Trick or Treat where people (who must be nuts) sign up and at some random point down the road they are chosen to begin their 'trick' or their 'treat.' The show is all about Derren Brown who is "a psychological illusionist with an audacious confidence and rare intuition that enable him to predict, suggest and control human behaviour." He is awesome.
There is one episode I may never forget - he had a young woman believing she had died. It'll give you chills. Here it is:
The difference between London and Newcastle can be summed up like this: You would never see a Geordie bloke wearing a full-length, faux fur coat. In fact, you rarely see a Geordie bloke wearing a coat at all. A London lad, however, just might have a big fuzzy stashed in his wardrobe, ready to fetch on a whim and model along with a fedora, old-school video camera and maybe even a petrified piranha watching from atop a shelf in front of a lighted map-of-the-world mural. The point is, you never know what you might encounter in the city with the whitest mayor the world has ever seen.
Pimm's and Sympathy
As you may have guessed, I just returned from London, a whirlwind trip that lasted only 29 hours and was all about the girls enjoying what one of the world's greatest cities has to offer. I met up with the lovely Bridget of Trends Inc who was in town for the week, on her way to Rome (lucky her), and we tried in vain to find our favourite Danish fashion shop, Noa Noa, at Sloane Square. (It's gone, and it was just a section at Peter Jones anyway, little did we know. My bad). So we consoled ourselves with some tasty tapas at Las Iguanas. And oh yes, there were a few Pimm's cocktails involved in our easement as well. Bridget unfortunately had to take off just as my old childhood friend Julie, who moved to London from Canada this summer, came to meet us. It was time to do it all over. Another tapas platter and Pimm's, please. I regret nothing.
Comtemplating The Later Years
Next was Tate Modern for the Rothko Exhibition. Rothko's pictures are a very personal thing for me, as they are for anyone who fully appreciates and understands his work, but this particular show was especially intimate - the revealing 'pictures' were from the last years of Rothko's life, before he killed himself. The massive canvasses and mounted papers spread over several rooms created a palpable feeling of despair or malicious fury, depending what room you were in (the latter was felt in the room with the Seagream's murals, there are a two particular murals I cannot look at for this reason). His Black on Grey series was his final series, and a telling one. Despite the black, heavy cloud looming, there's a certain comfort, a calm, that resonates from those soft-edged rectangles. For me, I think it's the purity of his expression, those pictures reveal how utterly consumed he was with what must have been unbearable despair and sometimes, it seems, explosive anger. I find great comfort in that sharing of our humanness, pure and raw. What is more exhilarating than that? ...Oh, and I loved how they made us exit through a particular door which dumped us out into the makeshift Rothko giftshop. You know how I feel about that!
Thug Wife
On the walk back from Tate Modern we passed some beautifully lit trees along the Thames, and a graffitied skateboard area where there was a group of very young and very loud teen girls, I'm guessing from Croydon as the accent is quite distinct, taking pictures of themselves. Speaking of graffiti and Croydon, I thought of Goldie Locks and tried to do an attitude shot, and wound up looking like a one-legged Silent Bob:
Tea and Liberty
Back
at Julie's flat in Putney, a light and spacious place with a nice,
homey feel that is due to her sweet personal touches, we crossed paths
with her advertising copywriter neighbour, the one with the fantastic
coat collection (first, above). I think he was a bit shy about being
identified so we'll just call him 'Vance'. Or Niles Crane. We (or
rather, I) pretty much badgered him into showing us a jacket he bought
from Liberty, and that's how the fashion show began. He acted shy but
he wanted to share. It's not possible to keep a treasure from Liberty
to yourself and he certainly succumbed. Hell, he mentioned it in the
first place. Speaking of Liberty, we found our way there yesterday after Julie's excellent orientation skills
lead us to Noa Noa, hidden to the unacquainted, at St. Christopher's
Place, where I picked up two mesh underskirts in slate blue and palepink, brilliant for wearing under dresses that might do with a little enhancement or a big of extra length.
As for Liberty, time was limited as I had to get on the road back to
Newcastle soon, but we had time for a quick browse of a tiny fraction
of the jawdropping goods on display in the massive Tudor Revival
building, before stopping in the tea shop for a proper girls afternoon
tea - with scones, of course. The champagne high tea would have been a
fantastic treat, but that's for another day when time is of no
consequence. And neither is money. I look forward to that day. When it's coming?
The Sick Train (Read this only if you find toilet humour funny, and aren't eating)
Once arriving back in Newcastle, I got on the metro to go home. A Saturday night on the train is always interesting,
and this was no different. Having only eaten a banana since our tea, I
grabbed a cheeseburger and fries from a burger chain I dare not
mention, and one that I had to be desperate to patronise (nothing else
was open and I wasn't lugging my bags anywhere at that point). I
stuffed the "food" into my bag and my train arrived within minutes. I
noticed people were bypassing one of the entrances and stupid me
thinks, "oh, I'll go through there, it's not crowded", only to step on and see
a MASSIVE pile of puke to my right (ALL piles of puke around here are
massive. It's true. I've seen far too many). I sit as far away as
possible with my back to the revolting spectacle and exchange grimaces
with the two already sitting in the area. The woman said "This is what I get for going through South Shields."
Ouch. I haven't been to South Shields and this doesn't encourage me to
visit. After the two get off the train, I'm alone, reading my Grazia.
There's no one around me, and I forget what's behind me (it didn't
smell, at least where I was sitting). So I take out the cheeseburger and dig in. A few stops later a guy gets on, sees "it", does the "AUGH!", stops short, and sits near me.
I'm suddenly aware that I'm eating a greasy cheeseburger on public
transportation in the vicinity of a giant puddle of sick. I slowly
lower my hand beside my bag to hide it and chew the remaining bits in
my mouth discreetly. I was thoroughly ashamed, and still am.
But that's not it. Three kids get on, two girls and a boy who
could not have been older than 14 years old, and one of the girls was
green. She's looking at the floor as if in a hazy, agonised state. She
moves forward awkwardly and walks to where a boy is sitting several feet away,
passing the offending sight which must have seemed a late foreshadowing
of what was to come, sat down and let fly all over that poor kid (who
I'm assuming she knew. Either way, this was not his night.) Despite my
maternal instincts niggling at me to lecture the three of them about
under-age drinking (I still would never), I felt sorry for the other girl who seemed sober
and instead of laughing, or leaving, was truly sympathetic to her
friend. So I gave her the only tissues I had in my bag - a package of
bright, fairy-printed tissues that my mother-in-law gave my daughter.
She went over to help the girl clean up (good luck), and when I got up to exit the
train at my stop, I saw the new addition: Another massive pile of puke,
this one decorated with fairies and daisies.
How I would have loved see the reactions to that. If I wasn't already about to launch myself.
The last time I took the metro home after arriving back from London,
there was a drunk kid of about 18, walking up and down the carriage
singing Show Me the Way to Amarillo at the top of his lungs, and quite well, actually, while carrying around a very long broomstick.
Aw, it's good to be home.
The farewell catchprase to see-off failed designers on the UK's Project Catwalk is "Fashion has no mercy." Alessandra Facchinetti would be inclined to agree. The creative director of Valentino, who took over for the man himself when he retired last year, found out she'd been sacked from stories in the media announcing her replacements. At the helm now is Maria Grazia Chiuri and Pier Paolo Piccioli, the team behind the successful accessories branch of the brand.
Vogue.co.uk reports that Facchinetti wrote in a public email after the show "It was with deep regret that I learnt from the press that I would no longer be working with Valentino.
"This news came as a great surprise since the company's top management has not yet seen fit to inform me. I would like to thank Valentino s.p.a. for showing their appreciation of my 'creative contribution and my sophisticated talent' although I deeply regret the fact that this talent and contribution do not seem to have been adequately acknowledged."
Valentino himself publicly welcomed the duo with whom he has worked closely with for years, and even got in a dig at Fracchinetti, saying "There is an existing archive with thousands of dresses where they (Chiuri and Piccioli) can draw and take inspiration from to create a Valentino product that is relevant today. It is a shame that their predecessor didn't feel this need."
As if things didn't sting enough. Yet, her third and last collection, just shown at Paris fashion week, garnered fairly positive reviews from the fashion editors who acknowledged the strengths along with the relatively minor weaknesses, weighing the output against the huge task of maintaining the essence of the Valentino brand while taking it forward. There seems to be consensus that she was headed in the right direction, and that in time she'd get it right.
Here's a look at a few dresses from the show:
The sporty side-slit in the dresses was considered to be an odd feature:
And, her take on the signature Valentino red evening dress was well-received:
Photos: Style.com
British model Lily Cole has posed for Playboy. Sound like an odd move for the doll-faced, flame-haired twenty year-old? Well, according to Marie Claire UK it's the French edition, which is supposed to be more artistic and sophisticated than the U.S. version. How that is possible, I don't know.
The 60s-inspired cover photo - in which Cole is wearing nothing but white socks, hair in pig tails and ribbons and clutching a large white teddy bear - is said to be influenced by French musician Serge Gainsbourg's Melody Nelson album. That cover depicts what looks like a young teenage girl, standing there in jeans and nothing else holding a doll against her chest. Kind of crossing a line, there was a lot of that in music in France in the 60s. And it's a theme that will likely be repeated until men cease to exist or they all become gay. (FYI, in case you didn't know - Gainsbourg was married to English singer/actress Jane Birkin, who Hermès named their famed bag after. And, Birkin's daughter Lou Doillon - father is director Jacques Doillon - also did the cover of French Playboy).
Anyway, a 14-page editorial entitled Sweet Lily follows (is this grossing you out, too?), including interviews with Jean Paul Gaultier and film director Terry Gilliam, among other industry colleagues and friends - who I trust are not clutching teddies.
As for other ventures, Lily Cole gets more exposure yet as a new face of Rimmel, along with singer Sophie Ellis-Bextor. Kate Moss stays on to feature in the Rimmel London campaign. For now. And...Mossy also did a famous knickers-only, stuffed animal-hugging shot back in the early 90s when she was barely out of her teens. I would have included photos of each of these undressed teddy-clutchers, but I'm trying to keep the eeeuuw factor low on my site. Urinary tracts are okay. However, you can see Lily here
Above, an out-of-place Pamela Anderson sits the front row for the Vivienne Westwood Red Label show, and yes, that's a real person beside her. Rumour has it it's her new pal Michael Jackson. If so, I'm guessing his whole head finally fell off and this was the best he could do at short notice.
Next is Kate Moss, who had a good time as always at the parties and had to be held up as she made her way to a waiting taxi, accompanied by a relatively more conscious Allegra Versace (I'm sorry, for some reason I just had to include this):
So, of the major London fashion scene players we've got Kate, Aggy, Daisy, ...which leaves Alice Delal and a Geldof or two, also at the House of Holland party. Here's Pixie (second), whose massive (Linda Farrow? NHS?) glasses give her a very Anastase look. Loving the smile, I didn't know she could do it:
Well, at least it's not Britney Spears scent #5. Now available in the U.S. and Canada, French niche perfumerie État Libre d'Orange offers the more adventurous purveyor of olfactory delights (or more accurately, an alternative to them) Antoine Lie's Sécrétions Magnifiques, which translates to 'Magnificent Secretions'.
There's no 'lost in translation' thing going on here - they mean exactly what the name suggests. With notes that resemble blood, sweat, saliva, and uh, uh, sperm, the scent is meant to invoke associations that are aligned to the wearer's experiences. So, upon taking a whiff, a nun may say 'How metallic and salty' and a 'non'-nun may ask 'Where's the mouthwash?'
The actual logo for Sécrétions Magnifiques is one I can't even show here (well, I could. But if offends my tender sensibilities). Take a look at the État Libre d'Orange website Parfum page if you want to see it and other, uh, interesting artwork for the rest of the line, which includes Putain des Palaces. Panty sniffers rejoice.
If you aren't yet aware, you will be soon - eyelash enhancing is the obsession du jour. Extensions offer a solution for the short and skimpy, and a rapidly increasing range of conditioners and serums are promising to promote dramatic growth.
The extensions are about as appealing to me as Botox - the procedure requires regular and costly maintenance, about $60 to $100 every two to four weeks after the initial professional application at $350 to $500. Add that to an already budget-busting beauty routine and things are likely to get a bit hairy. (No lame pun intended, it just fit.)
So what about these 'miracle' lash conditioners? Well, Zinc magazine relays a cautionary message about them in their summer issue. Popular products like RevitaLash and Jan Marini Age Intervention Eyelash recently fell under scrutiny by the FDA, which seized thousands of tubes of the latter late last year because it contained the drug bimatoprost - also found in Allergan's glaucoma medication Lumigan.
"You run a lot of risk using these products", warns Dr. Debra Jaliman, spokeswoman for the American Academy of Dermatology and a Manhattan dermotologist. She explains that there are very serious possible side effects of the drug bimatoprost that include changing eye colour, irritation, blurry vision or even blindness. "I've seen a couple patients who reported blurry vision. I don't recommend it to anyone." That's all I need to hear.
Though admittedly, seeing one before-and-after photo online, the growth was so dramatic that I did wonder for a fraction of a second 'How much do I really use my eyes?'. Turns out I do use my eyes quite a bit, every day even. Anyway, how could I appreciate my gloriously hairy eyelids if I can't see them?
Which brings me right back to my recent 'miracle' find - and one that won't compromise your eyesight unless you poke yourself with it - the must-have Shu Uemera eyelash curler. I posted about this a few weeks ago, and since then I've become even more impressed with just how well it works. I have been able to abandon my eyelash primer altogether, and I now use about 1/3 of the mascara I needed when I didn't have the curler. So, this simple yet well designed tool not only curls in 30 seconds or less, but it saves me time and money. No need to spend upwards of $30 on the premium mascaras anymore (are they really any better anyway?). I'll stick with my £6 Rimmel. And you can also play around with falsies, go natural or wild with the loads of fashion styles available (those are Shu Uemera's here).
So, fellow fabulous lash seekers - I implore you, don't risk your vision until enough time has passed that we know for a fact that these products are safe. Does anyone remember that European hair serum in the 90s that doubled normal monthly hair growth? Exactly.
Here to save the day is Katie Price 'aka' Jordan. John from Zimbio reports that our horses no longer have to be boring and go naked (although doing so did just fine for her career). Thanks to her new equine clothing line, they can look just as ridiculous as the former glamour model and exploiter of everything close to her (now including barnyard animals).
I do love the leg wrappings, meant to look like knee socks. And the pink painted hooves? Darling. If only you could add a few inches without risking a broken leg. But why not try, Katie? You know she thought about it. If you lift up the coat, no doubt there is a frilly pink thong underneath.
Is it just me or does that horse look genuinely frightened? I'm with you, friend. I really am.
Photo by Flynet Pictures
Bold smash-and-grab thefts of handbags in London's upscale designer shops are increasing, reports British Vogue in the September issue.
Louis Vuitton, Luella Bartley, Marc Jacobs, Anya Hindmarch and Sonia Rykiel are just a few of the shops targeted by "scooter gangs" - criminals on mopeds who drive through the windows and take what they want. Oddly, they don't clear out the shop; rather, they pick and choose very specific handbags. This suggests they are taking orders, possibly for collectors who don't want to wait. It's all speculative at this point, as tracking of the stolen goods has proved unsuccessful.
Metropolitan Police say the gangs work in groups of six or more young men, and there are currently about six gangs operating in London. They work for a middleman who shifts the goods which are thought to be transported overseas, "likely Russia and the United Arab Emirates where you can still get a high price for a designer bag."
Designers aren't only hit at the retail level. In August 2007, a shipment of shoes that Alice Temperley had co-designed with Christian Louboutin for her S/S 2008 collection in New York was stolen during transport in Italy during what appears to be a planned hijacking. Oddly, they've never turned up anywhere.
More devastating is that some thefts could potentially ruin careers. Christopher Kane, one of London's brightest new talents, was burglarised eight days before the start of last September's London fashion week. Ignoring the neighbouring photography studios filled with expensive equipment, the thieves entered Kane's and carefully hand-picked items, says Kane "as if they were in a shop". Fortunately, he was able to remake the missing pieces in time to show his third collection, which was a hit. Had the entire collection been stolen, Kane acknowledges that in "such an unforgiving industry" he would have been "ruined".
We're so glad you weren't, Christopher Kane.
Despite all the bags I have (several, but not a freakish amount, and they still all get used), there was one key style I was missing. I needed a practical bag that looked good, something that fit my bulky camera, wallet, make-up bag (must always have concealer and lip gloss), notebook (yes, the paper kind) and possibly my little ASUS Eee PC. Without looking ridiculous or weighing me down. And it had to go with everything.
While in Toronto I kept my eye out but didn't think I could justify buying yet another bag. And seeing as I'm doing clutches for fall that wasn't going to cut it. As luck would have it, a very generous family member suggested I buy a bag as a birthday gift and my heart nearly exploded with glee. Out of curiosity, I strolled into Holt Renfew, past the odd, cheerful fellow at the doors, looking to browse the end-of-season sale. I go off on a rant now about what I saw on the sale table so if you want to read it click here.
I just happened to find one the one bag, from MARC by MARC JACOBS, (I'm so loving this line this year) that ticked all the boxes and was a (relatively) good price. At least it wasn't $2500 on sale and damaged in horrific ways (see rant). Anyway, turns out my Groovee doctor's bag (did my mother name this one?) is awesome, it fits everything with lots of space to spare and is constructed to look good while hauling a load (comes with a detachable thick strap if you're really weighed down). Mine is black (they only had black but it works) and it comes in purple as seen above, plus a putty shade. My one 'must' for spending large amounts of cash on fashion is that I use or wear the item for years to justify the cost, and usually I do. I think we'll be friends for a long time.
You can find the bag and other pieces from the new Fall 2008 collection at Net-a-Porter.com by clicking Marc by Marc Jacobs. And while I'm on about the brand, isn't this a wonderfully fresh take on the ruffle front top with its zip and asymmetry (loooove it):
Now that I'm in Canada I came across The Bachelorette the other night, it was the 'meet the bachelors' parents' episode so I decided to watch, there are usually a few nutters along the way. I haven't seen The Bachelor in ages, we don't get it in the UK unless you count the first few series which air from time to time at 4 am on LivingTV. Don't ask me how I know that.
The guy that bachelorette DeAnna was really insane for was Graham, who was the token aloof jerk who went on a show to win a girl who wants to get married yet he won't 'open up'. Maybe his mother made him go on, I don't know. Anyway, the four bachelors get ready to line up for the rose ceremony, the first three walking in wearing suits. Last, enter a dopey-grinned Graham in jeans with a jacket over a red sweater and a white shirt HANGING OUT from under the sweater, sauntering in with hands in pockets and all the charm of a guy who just dropped off a urine sample.
Guess what, he didn't get a rose. Jesse, the Sonny Crockett for 2008, got it instead. That's right, the short, greasy haired Gonzo-esque guy in a white cotton suit was a more dignified choice. Aloof Dude, you blew it with the shirt. I will bet Don Johnson's gay porn collection that as soon as DeAnna saw that stupid shirt, and those stupid jeans, and those stupid hands in those pockets her blood was set to boil.
She walked him out and she cited his inability to open up as the reason for letting him go, and through angry tears told him that his 'swaying and smirking' as roses were being given out was difficult to watch. But I just know she walked in unsure and it was those rogue shirt tails that put the nail in the coffin.
Guys, when it counts, you can never go wrong with a good suit, proper posture and hands you can see. Or you can be Aloof Guy and be alone with your hands in your pants.
A Swelle Public Service Announcment: You know those emails you get every so often (if you're a woman) from a concerned friend (usually female) that warn of frightening and unpredictable tactics used by would-be rapists and murderers? Like the one where the guy plays a recording of a crying baby on the doorstep in the night to lure out unsuspecting women? Or the guy who sneaks into the back of a woman's car while she's paying for gas, then gives it all up to the police that he was going to abduct and kill a woman for his gang initiation?
There's an interesting article in today's Guardian exploring the motivation of the people who create and spread these fictitious emails in the first place. It's well worth the read, especially for those of us who mean well when we forward them to others. HINT - if any email you receive asks you to 'PLEASE PASS THIS ON! (with an overuse of capitals and exclamation points) - that's the spammers' calling card. It's not only those emails trying to sell you the latest wang enlargement elixir that are attempting to prey on us, these 'safety' emails are least a nuisance and at worst, harmful fear-mongering. (One of the aforementioned spam messages came to Other Half with this tantalising first-person testimonial: 'I know I have tough and fat man-meat, it got more juicy too.' ?????).
Read the article here
I did a little Googling and also found that the disturbing (and highly suspect) story about gang members driving with their lights off, only to kill the first person to flash their headlights is also false (you may be saying 'Well, DUH!' but there are people who are genuinely frightened and saddened upon hearing these things, the spammer wins). No reports can be found anywhere in the US (where the story originated) to substantiate these claims, according to Snopes.com. This story first appeared in the 1950s. The urban legend-exposing website reports that attacks on random strangers are extremely rare and that the usual gang intitiation, known as the 'jump in', involves the gang severely beating the new recruit. Good, then.
Oh - if you're wondering what the photo above has to do with this, it's nothing at all. I couldn't think of anything relevant I'd want to put with the words, so I used a photo of a little composition my daughter created with her chalks after drawing a picture.
UPDATE: Prompted by Swelle reader Tpap's question about whether these cases are ever resolved, I looked into the lawsuits filed in 2005 by former employees and found an impressively fair and comprehensive investigation by Knowmore.org. You can read it at here.
In the end, these four suits were 'dismissed with prejudice' which seems to vindicate Charney. However, it is claimed that the parties reached a confidential settlement where this verdict was agreed upon by both parties.
The latest suit is still in litigation.
If you read the details of the investigation it eventually becomes clear that Charney is what he appears to be, and he knows it. On the record, he shamelessly admits to - or more accurately, boasts about - creating a sexually charged workplace as a sort of personal playground (and among other shocking statements casually claims that 'women invite domestic violence into their lives'), which in my mind is enough to render the lawsuits redundant and irrevelent, in terms of forming a personal opinion. Which is all we really need to know in the end, isn't it?
By the way, the creepy guy in the ads is Charney himself (To your eyeballs: I SINCERELY apologise. As for me, I must now rinse my mouth with baking soda - UCH!):
Original post: The Guardian has featured an article detailing the perverse antics of Dov Charney, the Montreal-born founder and CEO of Los Angeles clothing retailer American Apparel. Claims of his wildly inappropriate behaviour toward both female and male employees are being heard in sexual harrassment suits (brought by females only so far). He is also known to conduct meetings while wearing a thong, something he defends by saying he designs underwear, so why not? (And there I thought boredom was the worst thing about work meetings. Imagine?!)
While his antics and repulsive behaviour toward his employees (too lewd to mention here) don't call into question the supposed ethical production of the clothes, they do certainly turn me off, especially when I consider the typical perviness of the company's ads (many shot by Charney himself).
I've never been an American Apparel customer and I certainly won't be. One might say, 'Well, how do I know that every other person behind the clothes I buy isn't the same? Do I really need to worry about the character of the people who sell me clothes?' That's entirely up to you, but the way I see it is if you're aware, and it doesn't sit right, there are plenty of other places to spend your money. Besides, do we really need to support these creeps and give them any more power than what they already have?
You can read the article here. (It's a fairly quick read.)
First photo is Will Farrell in the SNL skit 'Pride of America'
This disturbing advertisement is brought to you by the classy ladies of House of Deréon (that's Tina and Béyonce Knowles and possibly an ex-stripper as creative director).
Deréon's (better known as 'Derriére') girls' range of pre-school pimpette costumes are now available online and in abandoned suburban strip malls near you. I'm going to have a nightmare tonight about getting cornered in a dark alley by a gang of inappropriately-attired 6 year-old street toughs who all at once kick me repeatedly in the shins before strangling me with their hot pink feather boas.
Look at the little blonde girl in the top left photo - how young is she? Baby chub-cheeks really complement red lipstick. She looks two years old, I bet she's wearing Huggies Pull-Ups under her black denim thong.
And check out the shoes on 'Baby Bloods' in the main photo, what the heck is that about? Skyscraper heels will only slow you down when defending your turf against the Crips.
I first saw this on dlisted (who linked to my Carla Bruni post, thank you Michael K) and didn't want to dirty up my pretty site with the photo (although my previous post on Larry King already took care of that), but I just had to express my outrage - as a mother, as a woman, as a person who can see. How wrong is it to put these types of images of young children out there?? This is for you, too, Bratz people!!
I just had to share this sexy and adorable photo of Larry King. I saw it on Candy Kirby and found myself returning to it whenever I felt like laughing out loud, it just keeps on giving. I'm going to print it, make a dozen copies and post it all around my house during prime PMSing as a reminder of how everyone else sees me.
As my other half said, "He looks like a frog taking a crunch." Agreed.
Last night I watched Project Catwalk, Britain's version of Project Runway, as I do every Wednesday. It was the episode before the final three are chosen to show at London Fashion Week and some of the designers really put the 'Catty' in Catwalk. Fellow Canadian expat Chelsey (in the back) and self professed 'straight lad' Ross (demonstrating his straightness by seemingly attempting to board a passenger into Pam An's fuselage) were confronted by mentor Ben de Lisi about their feeling that Viv Whelan (far left), a 42 year-old self-taught mum of three is 'just a dress-maker' who 'doesn't deserve to be here'. They got a thorough reaming by a vexed Ben who did it in front of the remaining group which included an unwitting and therefore somewhat humiliated Viv. Afterward, Ross seemed to have smoothed things over with Viv who handled it gracefully but I'm sure the whole thing stuck in her craw. I don't know what a craw is but if she has one there was probably something in it.
The cliquiness of the non-Vivs made me think about how formal education in the creative arts can cultivate rigidity in its students. This certainly wouldn't apply to everyone, I'm speaking in general terms; that when approaching art academically, in an institutional setting with professors and lecturers and reading lists and scheduled times to 'create ' in a predetermined location of predetermined wall colour and decor, there's an unconscious conditioning that results in the defining of the chosen discipline in absolute terms, and any deviation is seen as ungifted-ness and unworthiness and grounds for peer disqualification from following in said discipline. That was a long sentence.
There's a powerful sense of entitlement that can come with formal training. You've become one of the Chosen, selected for admission to a competitive program and identified in a certain way for the duration of the two or three or four years it took to get the paper that tells the world that you officially know your shit. Viv is an outsider and doesn't have the docs that say she can play with the big kids. And yet somehow she won a challenge (for streetwear at that) and received high praise for her Mac dress; if she were younger and they didn't know her background or had only seen her completed work, would the others have figured out she was 'different'? I doubt it.
These students are heavily reliant on validation. Their hearts and souls are continually handed over to be judged as they anticipate the verdict on whether they're 'good', not just as artists but as individuals, it's who they are after all. It can be very threatening and destablizing to have someone who followed their own, less or differently structured path, compete with you on equal ground. How do you justify the time and effort you've spent, and more significantly, what is the value of the positive appraisals given to you by 'those who know' if anyone from the street can stroll in and show you up? What are you then?
This is in no way a suggestion that formal training is a bad thing. I have a Bachelor of Arts degree in visual arts and did two years of advertising creative in college. And for gawd's sake I'm married to a professor. My view is really a composite of my experience at university as a painter, essentially, and my journey (geez I really hate that word but I can't think of a better one at this ungodly time of night) into self-directed learning in my new chosen field (that I discovered outside of school). I can appreciate both sides.
In time, when dear Chelsey and Ross are established and successful, I'll wager a pint they'll feel silly about having made such a fuss over Viv. Or they'll blame it on creative editing.
