Hyperkult

Photo credit: Kitsune Noir

I recently resurrected my long-dormant Netflix account, only to be greeted by a queue that stretches 78 films long—88 if you count the 10 titles languishing in the purgatory otherwise known as “Saved DVDs.” The unruly list starts with Jean-Luc Godard’s A Woman is a Woman and ends with Louis Malle’s Au Revoir Les Enfants, but honestly, what I really want to (re-)rent next is The Pelican Brief.

While I contemplate inviting Julia Roberts’ timorous Darby Shaw into my living room, in the interim I’ve been occupying myself with a series of designer documentaries—a mailbox march of red enveloped arrivals inspired by the impending release of The September Issue. (From what a trusted film journalist friend tells me, it lives up to even steely-eyed Anna Wintour’s measure of excellence.)

My first excursion into the world of couture on screen was Marc Jacobs & Louis Vuitton, director Loïc Prigent’s 2007 film about, arguably, fashion’s most influential designer. Once rebuked—and fired—for his notorious “grunge” collection for Perry Ellis, Jacobs is now an industry darling, evidenced by his elite editorial and celebrity following. The sartorial vanguard’s often unconventional vision has filtered into the wardrobes of mainstream America, with suburbanites waiting with bated breath for the H&M collaboration that may never come. Look to your local designer knockoff kiosk to find rainbow-colored, Eye Love-inspired PVC handbags still selling strong, years after Jessica Simpson paraded her pet “Louis” around on Newlyweds—much to the horror of genuine Murakami aficionados.

Visually striking, but devoid of true depth, I found myself making the most tangential—and maybe inappropriate—of associations while watching the movie. Paul Thomas Anderson, speaking about a 70s porn documentary about John Holmes that informed Boogie Nights, described the Julia St. Vincent-helmed picture as more “love letter” than objective slice of life filmmaking. Then again, I’m not sure how precisely cinematic a documentary about an adult star is meant to be. Nevertheless, the same might be said of Marc Jacobs & Louis Vuitton, which engages insomuch as it invites viewers into the charmeuse-strewn workroom where Vuitton collections are born, all the while portraying its creator sympathetically. But beyond this hallowed space, where Jacobs compulsively snacks on protein bars while giving the “yay” or “nay” to fabric flower adornments, there was a marked absence of meaningful insight into Jacobs himself.

I was searching for neither a scathing exposé of Jacobs’ drug-addled years, nor lascivious confessionals from ex-lovers, but a genuine inquiry into the Mythos of Jacobs. What we are given instead is, at best, a half-realized portrait of the slim couturier, and a digitally rendered purple fairy flitting about to symbolize “inspiration.” But alas, had Marc Jacobs & Louis Vuitton been a less benign movie, you probably wouldn’t be able to purchase it at Marc by Marc Jacobs stores internationally, as is now the case. Look for it somewhere between the mushroom key chains and coffee table photography books.

That said, it still gets points for featuring one of my favorite Vuitton collections to date. It’s pretty, fun, and often inspirational, even if it sometimes comes off like a less thoughtful creative patchwork than the LV Tribute Bag at the center of the Vuitton Spring/Summer 2007 showcase.

Official website of Marc Jacobs & Louis Vuitton

It's funny 'cause it's true.

“You’re Fired! Surviving and Thriving After the Pink Slip,” read one of the headlines on the cover of Vogue’s May issue.

In the article, Lynn Yaeger, the eccentrically-accoutered former fashion editor of The Village Voice, reflects on her recent layoff from the publication and the dizzying aftermath. For a woman whose closet boasts frilly Comme des Garçons skirts nestled alongside the likes of Marni and Lanvin, the loss of a stable income abruptly ended her freewheeling shopping ways. From Stella McCartney to Suze Orman in one fell swoop, with Yaeger quickly realizing that, at least in the discernable future, the answer to “Can I Afford It?” would be a resonant “Oh, hell no.”

In other words, get your spendthrift ass away from Henri Bendel.

The crux of the article is Yaeger’s unflagging lust for luxury items, and her almost adolescent inability to realize that, when no longer on payroll, $50 T. LeClerc powder is a dead necessity—if ever it was a necessity to begin with. This disconnect is embodied in the author’s reluctant return of an antique diamond-and-sapphire snake ring, her final purchase before getting booted from the New York weekly. She mourns the glittery loss like one would a dear friend, describing the accessory in loving, anthropomorphized terms. “Boo-fucking-hoo,” I thought, “People are facing home foreclosures and you can’t troll Saks for Thakoon. Handle it.”

When I first read this three-page missive from the recently pink-slipped Yaeger, I was employed. Not gainfully, but employed nonetheless. This changed yesterday morning, and while I had been waiting for the proverbial axe to fall for months, joining the ranks of fellow workless John and Jane Qs still sends limb-numbing waves of shock over my body. This is unlikely to change anytime soon.

Suddenly, I have been forced to rethink the purpose and direction of my life, and, on a micro level, the purpose and direction of this blog. Hyperkult was conceived of prior to me being laid off, and I never intended for this to be my first entry. Rather, I imagined the site as a virtual cross-section of aesthetic musings—a place where I could share the things I love with an intimate audience of friends, family, and anonymous internet folk who happen to stumble upon it. These things would sometimes be luxe in nature, but more by virtue of their craftsmanship and visual appeal rather than their exorbitant price tags. How now to “ooh” and “aah” over Dries Van Noten when the nausea-inducing effects of an economy in peril are more manifest than ever? Does this shit even matter?

My connection to recession-era stresses is palpably personal now. And, despite differing modes of processing our respective layoffs, Yaeger and I have more in common than I’d like to admit. I know what it is like to conspicuously consume, sometimes irresponsibly (see: the once-worn pair of Dries Van Noten boots sitting in my closet, or the Louboutin wedges lying on the floor by my bed as I type this). What’s more, I know what it is like to be afflicted with consumer lust. Yager more often acts on these lusts, but mutually, at the heart of every “I want” is an appreciation of well-executed artistic vision. My very pure love of fashion will not die along with my formerly dependable paycheck. This love exists independent of my purchasing power, though I certainly wouldn’t argue if someone delivered a batch of Ann Demeulemeester clothing to my doorstep come fall. Fashion is in part fantasy, and admiring beautiful things for nothing but the sake of their beauty isn’t harmful.

Now is a time for simplification and deep personal reflection. I will do both, and I am far less concerned with the shopping I will (or rather, will not) be doing than figuring out how to proceed during a difficult time. What do I love and what am I good at? What future career can I embark upon that will intellectually and emotionally sate me? Those are the more important questions to ask, and I am.

At the end of her article, Yaeger admits to retrieving her snake ring from the antiques dealer she begrudgingly returned it to. It brings her comfort while punching out freelance articles and subsisting on a diet of Lean Cuisine. I haven’t sold any such valuable personal affects (yet), and, despite petting a pair of satin Miu Miu stilettos while out with a friend last night, I am not inclined to participate in impulsive retail therapy.

Instead, I’ll be hiking the uneven terrain of Runyon Canyon today, hoping for a momentary break in the cloud coverage. Because really, that would be more symbolic and affirming than any diamond-encrusted promise of a brighter future.