Hyperkult

Trosman A/W 2010 and S/S 2010; Photo credit: www.trosman.com

Generally I avoid shopping on Melrose for obvious reasons: Fairfax eastward is touristy, congested, and stores hawk kitschy stripper wear, while boutiques around Melrose Place are too expensive and don’t really appeal to my style anyway.

Wasteland is a Melrose exception, though my main gripes with the store—unlike its more vintage-oriented San Francisco counterpart—are that pieces tend to be overpriced and the designer selection very stereotypically L.A. (You’ll find no shortage of Corey Lynn Calter dresses or Mike & Chris cropped leather jackets, with wayward Juicy Couture items here and there.) And God forbid you try to sell pieces to Wasteland L.A., a notoriously difficult task that often results in would-be consigners being sent to Crossroads, rejected items in tow.

Bartering aside, if you dig—really dig—through the racks you’ll probably walk away with more than a few gems. Today I lucked out, mentally instructing myself to “put down the Margiela” at one point and discovering a new label during my trip.

Jessica Trosman is a Buenos Aires-based designer whose clothing is inspired by everything from National Geographic magazine to Mid-Century modern architects. After flipping through a few recent collections online, particularly the Autumn/Winter ones, I saw some Rick Owens/Haider Ackermann seeping into her work—and I approve. It’s nice to connect with a designer outside of the New York-Paris-London-Milan network; the colors and textures of her spring collections speak to a South American sensibility that I find refreshing and youthful.

My find was a simple racer-back tank that skims the body then flares out with loads of deconstructed ruching, a mere $35. Slim jeans and slouchy pirate boots and I’m good to go for my next show outing.

Trosman ad campaign; Photo credit: www.trosman.com

Va-Va-Vuitton; Photo credit: Style.com

If I could sum up Marc Jacobs’ Fall 2010 presentation for Louis Vuitton in one word, it would be “breasts.”

Fashion journalists and bloggers have been abuzz about Jacobs ushering in the “return of the curve” with dresses that Mad Men’s costumers should take note of. Waists nipped in by long belts and flared, A-line skirts dressed women of notably more shape than the usual crop of rail-thin models employed for runway shows. Though the latter had a presence at Vuitton, attention was showered on the heaving bosoms of Laetitia Casta and Adriana Lima (both new mothers), and model-turned-lingerie designer Elle Macpherson, the show’s queen bee in a voluminous pink strapless gown.

The clothes were indisputably gorgeous, hearkening back to one of my favorite ’50s-inspired Jacobs collections, that of Spring 2003, but done up with the exaggerated opulence that the House of Vuitton demands. Lately I’ve found myself trading minis for high-waisted, below-the-knee skirts and Mary Jane heels, and come fall I can see myself pairing them with cashmere (okay, faux cashmere) sweaters, new tortoise shell glasses*, and a vintage schoolgirl’s satchel that I really wish was Proenza Schouler’s PS1 bag.

Miuccia Prada’s Fall collection was also a celebration of shapeliness, a term I use with reserve. When reporters say “bigger” women graced the catwalk at Vuitton and Prada, they’re referring to models over a size 2. If these are diversity efforts, then we are eking toward variety at the slowest possible pace. My instincts tell me this is the best we can hope for at the moment, the swerve and bounce of these women’s figures labeled “radical” by an industry accustomed to denying difference—denying bodies—altogether.

But in Paris and Milan many of the collections themselves were glorious, leading me, a sun-worshipping Californian, to daydream about colder climates and donning nubby knee-high socks or Hannah MacGibbon’s rust colored turtleneck jumper for Chloé. Brilliant.

*Thanks to my friend Luisa of Free The Inspiration for introducing me to Warby Parker’s awesome glasses.

Proenza Schouler PS1 bag; Photo credit: Net-a-Porter

Prada and Chloé Fall 2010 RTW; Photo credit: Style.com

"Miles" Glasses; Photo credit: Warby Parker

Jane Birkin in all her bohemian glory

Note: I wrote half of this yesterday and the other half this morning after waking from a Bordelaise and butter coma. My actual birthday was the 9th, but posting today gave me the chance to include a couple things I wouldn’t have otherwise.

Today is my birthday, giving me permission to be unabashedly indulgent for one day, and one day only. Truth be told, I prefer that these 24-hours pass with little fanfare, which is why I’ve planned a quiet dinner with a few close girlfriends tonight.

Since I have a free pass to be self-serving, though, I’ll use it to share a few of my favorite things in—you guessed it—list form. There’s no binding thread among what follows, save for the fact that I’m really loving, wanting, listening, thinking about, and/or admiring them.

1. The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolaño

I recently read a description of this novel, about a crew of “visceral realist” poets on a madcap quest for an elusive literary heroine, that pegged it as Y tu mamá también meets Gabriel García Márquez. That’s somewhat accurate and perhaps complimentary, but also reductive. Unwieldy as its character threads may be, Bolaño’s writing is controlled and lyrically singular. The last time I felt this way about an author was when I picked up Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, which I now consider sacrosanct text. Only 200 pages in, and I can’t wait for the next 400.

2. The xx, “Intro”

The xx was on many a critic’s Top [insert number] list of 2009’s Most Notable Releases. I wasn’t convinced the first time I listened to the album, but I’ve since come to like the group’s self-titled debut and love “Intro,” its succinct opening track. It’s become one of those songs I stop midway, then jump back to the beginning because I don’t want it to end. Hypnotic and moody, just like I like ‘em.

Photo credit: LuisaViaRoma

3. Rick Owens Padded Leather Jacket

If I could make sweet, sweet love to an item of clothing, this would be it. After trying it on earlier this winter, I can attest to the fact that it fits perfectly and feels like a sumptuous second skin. Now, who has an extra $1,500 they can spare (and that’s on sale)?

Photo credit: Future Classics

4. Future Classics

When I first saw this draped dress in person, I believe my first words were, “this shit is ridiculous.” And it is—ridiculously beautiful, coupling femininity with layered and intricate figure-conscious cuts. I appreciate designer Julie Wilkins’ nod to vintage clothing and the deconstructive edge of each piece, especially. And who needs jeggings when you have sexy, buttoned, stirrup-like leggings like those above?

5. Style a la Jane Birkin

When I get dressed, I’m usually channeling Jane Birkin to some degree, or doggedly attempting to. While I may not be able to pull off the signature bangs, the high-waist jeans, square mini-dresses, and slouchy boyish/feminine look I can do. Pout not included.

Garance, left, and me, right, trying to tame my Canon Rebel XT (ignore the disgusting stained mirror)

6. Garance Doré

Photographer, illustrator, partner of Scott Schuman (a.k.a., The Sartorialist), and the French woman I secretly wish I was. She’s a woman of impeccable style, with an effervescence that comes across in photos and her playful musings about fashion. Devoid of pretense, Doré’s blog offers a refreshing and simultaneously erudite take on what’s happening on and off the runway.

Photo credit: Neiman Marcus

7. Chloé Eau de Parfum and Tom Ford Champaca Absolute

My grandmother on my mother’s side was a rigid disciplinarian who sold fish on the streets of Manila to provide for her family—far from being a fashion or beauty maven in the traditional sense. I only know her through stories my mother has told me, one of the more memorable anecdotes being that she was never without designer perfume. How the woman, who was partial to Nina Ricci and Chanel No. 5, managed to get her hands on high-end fragrances in the face of dire financial straits is equally confusing and impressive.

She passed her love of perfume down to my mom, who in turn cultivated the same appreciation in me. Growing up, I remember my mother smelling of Yves Saint Laurent’s Opium, Coco Chanel, and Jaipur, and my own taste tends toward forward florals and spicy aromas. At the moment, Chloé is getting the most play in my scent wardrobe (because I do indeed have a wardrobe, including Jo Malone’s Nectarine Blossom and Honey for bedtime), but Tom Ford’s Champaca Absolute is at the top of my wish list. Did I mention it’s my birthday today?

Photo credit: Neil Leifer

8. The Annenberg Space for Photography

Located on the same hallowed grounds as the CAA fortress building in Century City, the Annenberg Space for Photography is one of my favorite places to spend an afternoon in Los Angeles. I typically like to come here alone (more meditative), and I’ve seen every exhibit since it first opened last year. My favorite of the three rotating collections was themed around L.A. photographers/photojournalism, the work of Julius Shulman and Carolyn Cole being standouts for me. Best of all, visiting Annenberg is free; you’ll only have to pay a meager $1 parking fee post-validation. I visited the space today to see the Ioose/Leifer exhibit and left with a newfound appreciation for sports photography.

Mmm. Caramel icing.

9. Lark Cake Shop, Silverlake

As this is being written post-birthday celebration, I can include Lark on my list. My friend Frances, having heard me endlessly prattle on about wanting to sample the Caramel Cake from this adorable bake shop in Silverlake, surprised me by bringing it to dinner at Café Stella. It was as fantastic and moist as I imagined it, the sprinkle of Kosher salt in between layers of white cake and caramel icing subtly balancing out its sweetness.

Photo credit: The Louvre

10. Lists

My obsessive-compulsive love of organization was recently reinforced by a segment that aired on NPR. Famed Parisian museum the Louvre has unveiled an exhibit about “The Infinity of Lists,” curated in part by Italian writer Umberto Eco. Eco believes lists, even those as mundane as the phone book, can be “poetic” provided the correct intent is present. And that’s where this particular list ends.

Photo credit: Style Rookie

You’ve no doubt heard of Tavi, the 13-year-old wunderkind who belongs to a new garde of fashion writers: teen bloggers. She is as ubiquitous a front row staple as Anna Wintour; she counts the Mulleavy sisters as friends; she is a Pop magazine cover model. She’s a girl, not yet a woman, and let’s not forget that.

A self-professed “Style Rookie,” Tavi maintains a blog of the same name, but if we’re to believe her acutely fashion-literate entries, she’s nothing of the sort. That is, unless the Tavi phenomenon is an elaborate ruse in the same vein as J.T. Leroy. My impressions of Tavi are scattered, but I will cop to occasionally reading her blog and being curious about who this boffo, Rei Kawakubo-loving young lady is.

My issue is less with the wide-eyed aesthete herself than the world that has shepherded her transformation from anon to internet superstar. I wonder under what circumstances, for what purpose such a budding icon is constructed, and by many, revered. What is Tavi’s writing—which seesaws between hyper-mature and rambling tween-speak—teaching us? Have we accepted her as a legitimate expert (Bazaar has), or an avatar of the kind of 13-year-old us adult fashion lovers wish we were at her age—hell, even now?

I am both fascinated and unnerved by the rising Cult of Tavi. The fashion industry routinely turns out star designers, models and false gods, then carelessly discards of them when they are deemed unnecessary. How true Heidi Klum’s tagline rings. It’s admittedly youth and image obsessed (I’ll save the curious sexualization of teen models for another time), and Tavi-idolatry exaggerates these qualities. What this means for a young woman undergoing puberty alongside peers like Aggy and Hamish Bowles is concerning.

Just ask Tim Blanks, whose furrowed brow in Part One of Loic Prigent’s Habillees (several minutes in) says it all:

Wave to the future.

We call this "The Danger Zone"

As I sat huddled under a blanket next to my space heater, laptop screen aglow in the throes of early morning insomnia, it occurred to me that I have a problem. Sleeplessness is one thing, but worse yet is the dangerous form of online behavior that I’m wont to participate in. I don’t troll for anonymous sex partners on Craig’s List or play Texas Hold ‘Em at 3:00 AM, but my eBay Watch List consistently spirals out of control, virtually endless in number. Right now it’s bursting with items I want but don’t need, however I might find a way to justify that vintage Dior belly dance belt, Junya Watanabe cape sweater, mustard yellow Ungaro leather skirt, and on and on.

I vacillate between being ashamed and unabashedly proud of my eBay savvy—skills honed since my first triumphant win: a magenta Marc Jacobs Sofia bag, named after the fashionable Coppola and purchased for $410 all told. Riri zippers signaled its authenticity, it came in a pristine white duster, not a pen mark sullied its interior, and I snagged it for over 50 percent off retail. My hands were trembling in the aftermath of bidding, and I struggled to calm euphoric heart palpitations as I drove to my film class that evening.

Here I am five years later, even deeper in the dregs of my addiction. My retail taste tends toward vintage clothing, and most of my eBay finds end up being loved pieces I wear to the point of damaging them. My favorite vintage pirate boots ($30) are in the shop being resoled as I type this, along with a pair of early 2000s Costume National booties won for $41.99, including shipping. When I shared that tidbit with my local “shoe guy” he blanched, saying I had brought in “the Rolls-Royce of boots” as he caressed the smooth Italian leather, appraised for at least $500.

I am cocksure of my eBay intelligence, having near-perfected the art of last minute-bidding and winning without the aid of an auction sniper. Yet the shame of conspicuous consumption has a way of plaguing me, especially when I see how many items have been put on Watch in a single week. However, very few of these items end up in my closet—maybe one or two per month at most. I tell myself it’s more an exercise in judicious spending, and my way of preparing for the auctions that I will actually rearrange my schedule to win. It’s loathsome.

I wrote this with the hope of thinking more rationally about my behavior, to combat my need for that post-win elation. Make no mistake, eBay-ing can drive you to a hallucinatory state, hence its appeal. A concerned girlfriend recently, jokingly asked me what void I’m trying to fill with occasional impulse shopping, a question I gave serious thought yet couldn’t respond to. The easy answer would the empty spot in my closet soon-to-be occupied by a high-waisted wool Libertine skirt, if all goes well today. And so the cycle continues to turn, turn, turn.

On a final note, to novice users who pointlessly bid days in advance, I’d just like to say that you’re fucking things up for the rest of us.

The man, the myth, the legend: Tim Blanks; Photo credit: men.style.com

I credit my older sister, in part, for pointing me toward the wilds of fashion. This is the same sister who as a 13-year-old would write me letters about her occasional trips to Los Angeles, where she would eat at Georgia (Denzel Washington’s erstwhile restaurant venture) and shop at the Beverly Center—the pinnacle of consumer greatness for any teenager, be it a decade ago or today. “Georgia was popping off back then!” she said in defense when I reminded her of her ’90s romps through L.A.

On weekends, we’d forgo Saturday morning cartoons to watch back-to-back showings of Videofashion Weekly! and Fashion File, which introduced me to the schizoid backstage world of runway shows and the woman I still refer to as my “spirit model,” Christy Turlington. The two of us would lounge around in our pajamas, eating our grandmother’s thin, practically deep-fried pancakes while reviewing the latest collections and engaging in pseudo-intellectual shop talk about what the designers were putting out that season.

Fashion File trumped viewings of Pepper Ann, which made me feel infinitely cooler than my tween classmates, even though I was chubby and awkward and soon to be brace-ridden. Endearing, if a little austere, host Tim Blanks was our lifeline to Gianni Versace’s skintight bodysuits, Isaac Mizrahi at the height of his career, Tom Ford when he made Gucci synonymous with sex, and even long-lost casual wear king Todd Oldham—remember Todd Oldham?! For a sartorially-minded young thing, there was nothing like Fashion File, no one like our man Tim, no better way—save for reading Vogue—for a girl living in the black hole of suburbia to connect with a world far removed from a horribly bucolic quotidian. There were cows in my hometown, so I’m calling that bucolic.

The illustrious Mr. Blanks is no longer affiliated with Fashion File, and when I, on a whim, decided to see what had become of the show since his departure I came across one hell of a hot mess. Maybe it’s because I’m perpetually nostalgic these days (and I’m only 25, for Chrissake), but the show is a specter of what I remember it being as a teen. It delivers fashion coverage produced in the same vein as EXTRA. In a word, blah. There is an interesting segment on “A Day in the Life of Coco Rocha” on the homepage, but I think its appeal owes more to its jig-dancing subject than the way it was put together. And there’s of course no replacing Blanks, whose name I recently saw grace a few Runway Reviews during Style.com’s coverage of London Fashion Week. Good to know he’s still out there rubbing shoulders with Amazonian models and eccentric designers.*

I found a clip from Fashion File’s heyday on YouTube. Watch and be reminded of the show’s former greatness.

*Update: Most of this paragraph should have been written in the past tense. I’ve since discovered that the show was canceled in early 2009 and that Blanks’ replacement was sourced from a reality show titled Fashion File Host Hunt. ‘Nuff said.

Photo credit: Nick Night; Yohji Yamamoto A/W 1988-89 Campaign

How did I miss the news that Yohji Yamamoto recently filed for bankruptcy protection? Too much of ‘tha Book, not enough of The Cut these days, I guess. The silver lining to this sad, if not surprising, news is that Yamamoto will continue to design virtually uninterrupted while an investment firm pumps cash into his struggling business.

What an unfortunate segue into Wim Wenders’ Notebooks on Cities and Clothes, a really great movie about Yamamoto, identity, place, and other esoteric micellenany that somehow relate back to fashion. I discovered the film Designer Imposter-style, thanks to Netflix. As in, the red envelope gods spied on my rental queue and pulled a “If you liked Marc Jacobs & Louis Vuitton, you’ll love…” Only this movie is no shabby second-best a la Primo!; it came out in 1989, long before that digital purple fairy I mentioned was flitting its way around Jacobs’ Parisian workroom. What Notebooks achieves that MJ & LV doesn’t is a deeper level of creative brain-picking, one image maker framing another. Oh, yes, Wenders will go Spinoza on your ass…or something like that. Expect a side of philosophy with footage of Yamamoto’s runway shows, and an equal amount of visual fodder for ogling.

While watching, I was struck by how prescient Yamamoto’s designs were, especially since they were born during a decade of of sometimes-fabulous, sometimes-wretched excess. The man knows women, knows bodies, and sure as hell knows beauty—the lasting, relevant sort that even finnicky fashion types can’t dismiss years later. The only thing really dated about the film is its soundtrack, which is actually quite fabulous: think Terminator score meets that of an ’80s-era porn film.

Watch the trailer for a taste of what to expect. It ranks up there with Unzipped as one of my favorite fashion documentaries ever made.

My designer documentary kick of a couple months ago was preparation for The September Issue’s recent release. The chance to look behind the darkened lenses of “Nuclear Wintour,” as Vogue editrix Anna Wintour is known by some, and what continues to be the only fashion magazine I read religiously, was a voyeuristic (Vogue-ristic?) dream come true. While the movie is not earth-shatteringly revealing, it is transportive, even for audience members who don’t know Thakoon from Chris Benz.

I had the chance to prescreen the film and interview director R.J. Cutler, who previously produced the Bill Clinton campaign documentary The War Room. The politically-minded (and sartorially-challenged) filmmaker was enchanted by Wintour and her Condé Nast family, even if getting Vogue Creative Director Grace Coddington to smile for the camera was a trying task. I’ve posted my article below, which appears in the, ahem, September issue of SOMA. Click on the article for legible text.

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