So I know that the shows happened in September but I've been a little busy with my life in Paris to sit down and really take stock of the collections. But perhaps January, staring down the barrel of European Spring (and willing it to arrive with all my might!), is in fact a pertinent time to reflect on what's coming.
Printemps-ete 2010
La Petite Nicola's take on the collections shown at Paris.
Part One
Dior
Love the silk knicker-shorts, the defined and high waist, the dashes of purple, the corsetry and the lingerie-esque nature of pieces.
Chanel
Def a Lily Allen fan, well played. Like the palette, it's refined without being boring or prematurely aging the models. Again, loving the sheer. Especially like the sheer white dress/jacket that comes to mid-thigh with puff sleeves and baby ruffles to finish (Natalie Portman wears it on the latest cover of.....Elle?). Shoes are moche (ug-lee).
YSL
Leather halter neck dress? Ew. Even the models look terrible in their over-sized collars, excess fabric and strange lines. (As for those errant strawberries!) One or two outfits really work, but they're more classic in their look (long pencil skirts with high waists, refined shape and the pleating work kept to a minimum.) According to the show notes, Pilati sought "...an aesthetic paradigm of new minimalism." Riiiiiight.....
Louis Vuitton
Moche, moche, moche, moche, moche. Those afros, those hideous shoes (they look like the escaped from a Doctor Zeuss book), the apallingly liberal use of lime green. And those shorts that ended an inch above the knee- all the models needed were bicycles and they could have ridden back twenty years onto the film set of "My Girl." I often split fashion into one of two groups- aspirational and inspirational. Aspirational is a look we try and mimic, we wish we looked like that. Inspirational is for the zanier stuff that needs diffusing before seeing the harsh light of day; fashion concentrate. But Marc is making me think I need a third cateogry: tragic. As in, a tragic waste of time, energy and money.
Balenciago par Nicholas Ghesquiere
Strange. Strange in the way the original mod-con looks of the 60's must have been strange. And with a similar feel, in fact. Splashes of fluro green, orange and pink on a collection largely in gunmetal grey and shades of indigoblack. The slashed leather miniskirt look isn't for everyone. Not are the slashed tops, for that matter. But to be honest I'm just relieved not to be looking at Marc's carwreck anymore.
Lanvin
Clever lighting made for a dramatic show. It's like Elbaz succeeds at what YSL wanted to do. Swathes of fabric draped, pulled, tucked and pinned into dresses. Oversized, wavy ruffles used to accentuate the hips or shoulders and everywhere I look I see nipped in waists. Heaven. Even the sequin-encrusted jump suits have a lifespan beyond the catwalk. And definitely the most successful use of lime green yet. (Perhaps the secret lies in only using the colour ONCE!)
Valentino
The shoes! O the celestial confection that is their SHOES. The poofs of tulle, wisps of lace, whorls of silk. Despite their whimsy, the stilletos seem to ground the outfits- I think this is the solidness of their black contrasted with the beige palette. This is broken only by shades of grey, including a lilac-grey (that could, in all honesty, probably have been left at home that day) and of course black. I'm enjoying the attention to detail, like the lace used to make the inner pants pockets of a sheer organza jumpsuit. Their break from red is marked: it is an anti-crimson collection. There would certainly not have been any tacking some on at the end.
Miu Miu
I'm just not so sure about the cut outs. Or the lines. The patterns are cute, but I'd expect to see them in a Liberty collection, used in a more classic manner. The collection looks confused, and not in a cheeky, contrasts kind of way.
Givenchy
Sharp, graphic, stripes, ruffles and zigzags. I see some wearability peeking through the OTTness. But what on EARTH was Tisci THINKING with those pencil hats? The girls look like Derwents. That or the KKK stripped bare.
Balmain
Black, khaki, bronzes (both in fabrics and detailing), leather. The texture of Decarnin's collection is distictively different to the tulled-softness of most others. HIs is shiney, hard, tough. Sleek women with 'tude. And boots, lots of laced up tall ankle boots.
Alexander McQueen
What the avatars of Cameron's film would have been wearing if it weren't computer generated. Surreal, etheral in an under-the-sea way. Strong shoulders, little waists and tall, TALL platforms.
Chloe
Relaxed, slouchy, white/beige palette. Pay a fortune, look like a bag lady. Except for the thick-strapped sandals. They're channeling Jesus.
Comme des Garcons
They're wearing fairyfloss on their head. Which might not have been such a bad thing, if it were all traditional pink-flavour. But no, there is lime, violet and a particularly brassy mango shade. I'll be generous and place her collection in the "inspirational" category. Although Kawakubo's particular brand of fashion concentrate probably needs distilling a few times over before it BEGINS to make sense.
Celine
Frankly Philo should have stayed at Chloe- I'm not sure her move was worth the loss. Strange high-waisted a line mini skirts (in leather?) and bizarre leather tee-shirts. Here, the exclusive use of beige, black and white and the clunky shoes are bor-RING.
Junya Watanabe
Black and white. Graphic, mostly of the squared variety. The large square patterned blazers looks like the girls stole them from the Circus Oz costume rack, and possibly the checked brogues too. Apparently his theme was menswear for women. Sure, if by men you mean Bozo.
John Galliano
What a show! Blahnik once describe Galliano as a "funky little fashion troll" and looking at the colleciton (and at him afterwards) is seems apt. Colour, lace, feathers, clashing lines. At the same time as exhibiting a somewhat nutty collaboration of effects, Galliano never seems to forget that it is actual WOMEN (albeit of the model variety) who wear his clothes. We see their waists, or their chests, or their arms or legs shozn to their advantage. Fashion concentrate of the best kind.
Hermes
Classic with a sports twist. Cream and navy, contrast piping, tennis-style skirt pleats, bathing suits, forehead bands, socks.
Jean Paul Gaultier
It looks as though Gaultier spent too much time on the Hermes collection and had to pull together something at the last minute for his own. Which could explain why it looks like something the cat dragged in. Then ate. Then threw up. It's all about reusing his iconic lingerie in different ways but it just looks....regurgitated, rather than reinterpreted.
Stella McCartney
Electric blue, dark beige, grey, traditional denim, lace, corn yellow, turquoise blue and white. Sound mismatched? It looks mismatched. Vogue describes fashion as "the magic of simply slipping into an outfit and not having to think about it for the rest of the day." If you slipped on a piece of Stella not thinking about it for the rest of the day is exactly what you'd have to do, in order to avoid ripping it off and swapping your outfit with the homeless guy on the corner. Or at the very least having a strange "Did I trip and fall back to 1994?" moment.
Still to come: Kenzo, Karl Lagerfeld, Sonia Rykiel, Vivienne Westwood, Rick Owens, Dries Van Noten, Cacharel and more........
Monday, January 11, 2010
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Restaurant Chartier and Chez Jeanette
I had read about Restaurant Chartier on my favourite site of all things Parisienne, "Do it in Paris." It featured in their cheap weekend guide. And it was PERFECT.
I ate leeks dripping in a white viniagrette, followed by steak tartare and fresh "steak frites", followed by a baba au rhum and creme chantilly for dessert. N began with a country terrine, same for main and an ile flottant for dessert. We shared a karaf of the house red.
The building was gorgeous, somewhat like an old railway station (I think it may well be just that) with incredibly high ceilings, ornate mirrors, so many tables and brass luggage racks above the tables to place your coats and bags on (when everyone wears a "doudoune", a doona jacket, coat storage becomes a serious business...). The order is written on your table cloth and the waiters are all in black with full length white aprons. The food is cheap and arrives promptly. (Ordering a raw meal helps, I'm sure. Although the ladies next to us received their cooked meals just as fast.)
And as I ate my steak tartare, lavishly soaked in worsterchire (please, spelling someone?) and drank my second (third?) glass of wine, in the oh-so-french surrounds I felt completely a laise. I was exactly where I needed to be at that very moment. My dessert, meanwhile, was quite an introduction to the French favourite, Baba au Rhum.
It's basically a large brioche, soaked in brown rum and served with a generous swirl of whipped cream. I had confirmed with the waiter that I did indeed like rum, and boy did he take that to heart. Every mouthful postively squelshed with rhum. And I loved it. Loved. It.
This was followed by a noisette (macchiato) on the way to our next stop, C's house for farewell champagne. Then, we accompagnied C and her South American friends to Chez Jeanette for second dinner. N and I shared a house specialty, the duck pie. And boy, was that worth eating a second dinner for. Rich but not overwhelming, crispy but not dry, the salad fresh but not undressed. This time the bistro was noisy and crowded- hence why the five of us squeezed into a booth-side table meant for two. But, being French, the staff were most understanding and fully supported our intimate dinner arrangement. (Melbourne waiters would not be so kind about stacking customers one on top of the other.) The walls were tiled and the walls mirrored. And yet again, as the choruses of 50's and 60's rock and roll music caught my ears, and the duck pie disappeared one forkful at a time, and my wine glass emptied and re-filled itself I thought: I am happy. At this very moment, I am completely happy. I wouldn't be anywhere else, with anyone else.
And I'm glad, that in someway, I was able to recognise and share the moment. Because too often those moments happen without me realising. But not tonight.
Mmmm, squelchy rhum brioche.....
I ate leeks dripping in a white viniagrette, followed by steak tartare and fresh "steak frites", followed by a baba au rhum and creme chantilly for dessert. N began with a country terrine, same for main and an ile flottant for dessert. We shared a karaf of the house red.
The building was gorgeous, somewhat like an old railway station (I think it may well be just that) with incredibly high ceilings, ornate mirrors, so many tables and brass luggage racks above the tables to place your coats and bags on (when everyone wears a "doudoune", a doona jacket, coat storage becomes a serious business...). The order is written on your table cloth and the waiters are all in black with full length white aprons. The food is cheap and arrives promptly. (Ordering a raw meal helps, I'm sure. Although the ladies next to us received their cooked meals just as fast.)
And as I ate my steak tartare, lavishly soaked in worsterchire (please, spelling someone?) and drank my second (third?) glass of wine, in the oh-so-french surrounds I felt completely a laise. I was exactly where I needed to be at that very moment. My dessert, meanwhile, was quite an introduction to the French favourite, Baba au Rhum.
It's basically a large brioche, soaked in brown rum and served with a generous swirl of whipped cream. I had confirmed with the waiter that I did indeed like rum, and boy did he take that to heart. Every mouthful postively squelshed with rhum. And I loved it. Loved. It.
This was followed by a noisette (macchiato) on the way to our next stop, C's house for farewell champagne. Then, we accompagnied C and her South American friends to Chez Jeanette for second dinner. N and I shared a house specialty, the duck pie. And boy, was that worth eating a second dinner for. Rich but not overwhelming, crispy but not dry, the salad fresh but not undressed. This time the bistro was noisy and crowded- hence why the five of us squeezed into a booth-side table meant for two. But, being French, the staff were most understanding and fully supported our intimate dinner arrangement. (Melbourne waiters would not be so kind about stacking customers one on top of the other.) The walls were tiled and the walls mirrored. And yet again, as the choruses of 50's and 60's rock and roll music caught my ears, and the duck pie disappeared one forkful at a time, and my wine glass emptied and re-filled itself I thought: I am happy. At this very moment, I am completely happy. I wouldn't be anywhere else, with anyone else.
And I'm glad, that in someway, I was able to recognise and share the moment. Because too often those moments happen without me realising. But not tonight.
Mmmm, squelchy rhum brioche.....
Warm and fuzzies
Do you ever have those times where you can actively recognise, that at THAT particular moment you are completely happy? I had one of those this evening. And it's no coincidence it happened in a restaurant. Two, actually. In fact, the whole day was relatively peaceful and easy going, but it was only over dinner that I could actually name the sensation running through me: contentment.
My day involved a 15 month old who didn't want to take his morning nap, but after dressing him, feeding him warm milk and biscuits, a little play and giving his room a heating turbo-charge he was good to sleep. While giving Little J second breakfast I too had breakfast- two cups of tea and some speculos (really yummy gingerbread-style flavoured biscuits that the Frence are big fans of.) Then, with him down for a nap, I browsed my newspaper and then hunted for a suitable banana bread/cake recipe. Any mention in the review of it being "dry" and I was outta there. This family take their TIME eating cakes, so those helpful "great when microwaved and spread with butter" comments were no good to me. I needed "moist", "sensational" "disappeared the moment it hit the table." My recipe of choice ended up including brown sugar, and I substituted the buttermilk for creme fraiche. Perfect. (I may also have subsituted an apple for the third banana....)
And then, right on school pick up time, I got told Madame and Monsieur would be meeting up with us at the school and we would all be going home together and after that I was free to go home. I couldn't believe my luck- I was shooed out of my pen at 5.30pm!
I called N and suggested we disappear off to dinner at an actual restaurant. So we did....
My day involved a 15 month old who didn't want to take his morning nap, but after dressing him, feeding him warm milk and biscuits, a little play and giving his room a heating turbo-charge he was good to sleep. While giving Little J second breakfast I too had breakfast- two cups of tea and some speculos (really yummy gingerbread-style flavoured biscuits that the Frence are big fans of.) Then, with him down for a nap, I browsed my newspaper and then hunted for a suitable banana bread/cake recipe. Any mention in the review of it being "dry" and I was outta there. This family take their TIME eating cakes, so those helpful "great when microwaved and spread with butter" comments were no good to me. I needed "moist", "sensational" "disappeared the moment it hit the table." My recipe of choice ended up including brown sugar, and I substituted the buttermilk for creme fraiche. Perfect. (I may also have subsituted an apple for the third banana....)
And then, right on school pick up time, I got told Madame and Monsieur would be meeting up with us at the school and we would all be going home together and after that I was free to go home. I couldn't believe my luck- I was shooed out of my pen at 5.30pm!
I called N and suggested we disappear off to dinner at an actual restaurant. So we did....
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Home, James
Return to Paris
Oxsted, as I discovered the following morning, is a stunning, storybook example of the English countryside. Lush, rolling, verdant green hills dotted with red and goldren trees and inky green hedges. Postman Pat, Thomas the Tank Engine, and all those other English tales make sense all of a sudden.
I listened to the tealady on the train platform sharing the local gossip with another customer. It was nice to be able to understand it all, instead of just hazard a guess. I bought an English newspaper to entertain me on my return Eurostar to Paris.
I boarded the Eurostar and found someone sitting in my seat. One seat had been double booked 10 times on my way over, so I was immediately concerned. Happily, the interloper was just keeping his friend company.
My mother always asks me, whenever I take a trip, whether I sat next to anybody nice (she means anybody male-nice). This time, I did; Gino and I chatted for 314 kilometres. And I never did get to read that English newspaper...
Oxsted, as I discovered the following morning, is a stunning, storybook example of the English countryside. Lush, rolling, verdant green hills dotted with red and goldren trees and inky green hedges. Postman Pat, Thomas the Tank Engine, and all those other English tales make sense all of a sudden.
I listened to the tealady on the train platform sharing the local gossip with another customer. It was nice to be able to understand it all, instead of just hazard a guess. I bought an English newspaper to entertain me on my return Eurostar to Paris.
I boarded the Eurostar and found someone sitting in my seat. One seat had been double booked 10 times on my way over, so I was immediately concerned. Happily, the interloper was just keeping his friend company.
My mother always asks me, whenever I take a trip, whether I sat next to anybody nice (she means anybody male-nice). This time, I did; Gino and I chatted for 314 kilometres. And I never did get to read that English newspaper...
London...Sunday morning
Toute Seul
Sunday morning I was on my own to tour the V&A Museum. Knowing how enormous it was, the only part I was absolutely determined to see was the Fashion and Textile exhibit. It was suitably impressive, however the dark, preservative lighting made reading all the tiny plaques difficult. (I will blame alcohol for nothing.) The building itself was gorgeous, and the café is definitely the most glamorous museum café I've ever eaten at. (Not that I make a habit of eating at museum cafés, they're normally so sterile...)
I passed the grey afternoon touring the three levels of Anthropologie with my cousin, gossiping and idly flicking through knitwear, coats, quilts, crockery, scented candles, doorknobs....a little bit of all our favourite things.
Sunday night I caught the regional train south of London to stay with Blondie at her aunt's house in the country for the night. I walked in to a large, warm kitchen full of cooking aromas. Stewed beef, bechamel sauce, freshly hulled strawberries....I felt at home.
For the second time that weekend I showered in a carpeted bathroom. Which, to an Australian seems strange (on so many levels) but was oh so practical over there. Climbing dripping wet out of the shower and into the steamy bathroom, cool tiles are the last place I want to put my freshly warmed tootsies.
Like in Paris, my bedroom was in the eaves of the house. This house, however, is seven-bathrooms, two-painos and one enormous Argre stove big. Which meant that I actually had a proper ceiling height and no fear of bumping shoulders with my roof as a rolled over during the night.
Sunday morning I was on my own to tour the V&A Museum. Knowing how enormous it was, the only part I was absolutely determined to see was the Fashion and Textile exhibit. It was suitably impressive, however the dark, preservative lighting made reading all the tiny plaques difficult. (I will blame alcohol for nothing.) The building itself was gorgeous, and the café is definitely the most glamorous museum café I've ever eaten at. (Not that I make a habit of eating at museum cafés, they're normally so sterile...)
I passed the grey afternoon touring the three levels of Anthropologie with my cousin, gossiping and idly flicking through knitwear, coats, quilts, crockery, scented candles, doorknobs....a little bit of all our favourite things.
Sunday night I caught the regional train south of London to stay with Blondie at her aunt's house in the country for the night. I walked in to a large, warm kitchen full of cooking aromas. Stewed beef, bechamel sauce, freshly hulled strawberries....I felt at home.
For the second time that weekend I showered in a carpeted bathroom. Which, to an Australian seems strange (on so many levels) but was oh so practical over there. Climbing dripping wet out of the shower and into the steamy bathroom, cool tiles are the last place I want to put my freshly warmed tootsies.
Like in Paris, my bedroom was in the eaves of the house. This house, however, is seven-bathrooms, two-painos and one enormous Argre stove big. Which meant that I actually had a proper ceiling height and no fear of bumping shoulders with my roof as a rolled over during the night.
London....Chicago
Pop! Six! Squish! Uh-uh! Cicero! Lipshits!
My introduction to Chicago was at a school vocal concert. Heaven only knows how a group of 16 year old girls convinced our conservative staff to let them sing some of Broadway's raunchiest songs, but they did and I was hooked. Ever since, I've been a sucker for the musical (I may have been known to perform a hairbrush rendition on occasion...) But this was much, much better than me and my hairbrush. The cast were all incredibly strong, and the theatre small enough that our R-row seats were ideal. Using the little opera glasses almost made the stage shrink. Blame the alcohol, blame the caffeine, blame my addiction to broadway musicals, I'm pretty sure I bopped in my seat the entire show. I would have hated sitting next to me. Except, I was me, so I had a BALL!
Blondie and I exited to London drizzle, so we tuk-tukked our way back to the bar to finish the evening with more dancing and, shock horror, cocktails, with my cousin. Leaving a show, especially a musical, can often leave you feeling flat, or a little lost as to what to do with all the energy you've just been zinged with. I now have the solution- go dancing! Roll those stockings down, rouge those knees, drink that aspirin and Shimmy shimmy shake until your garters break...
London...Saturday evening
Let. Me. Off. The. Bus. N-O-W!
I'm not typically prone to hysteria, but inching down Oxford Street on the bus just about turned me into the crazy Australian lady who bangs her head through bus windows. No matter that I was stuck inside a London icon, the red double decker; I was looking at my watch so often I'm sure it looked like a nervous tic. I was trying to make it to Reagent Street to fly around an amazing shop that was only in New York and London (Anthropologie), then march onto Piccadilly Circus to buy discounted tickets, in time to see a matinée on West End, so that I'd bounce into happy hour in Soho with my cousin.....not having a phone so that I could change my arrangements on the fly was making me demented!
Despite my nervous watch tic, Blondie was calm, collected and very patient. I know people say that patience is a virtue, but I still think it's an underrated quality. We jiggled my arrangements around and managed to a) survive the muppets trying to sell us cut price tickets b) find another ticket box run by a non-muppet c) choose a show we both liked d) Get a late late lunch e) Make it to Jrinks in Soho the instant happy hour started. We even beat my cousin to the bar.
Once again, the universal elements collided and a favourite cocktail of mine, Espresso Martini, was indeed on special (4£!) for the three hours I would be at Jrinks. Ding ding ding! So just how many Espresso Martinis can a girl drink in 3 hours? Five, my dear friend, five. And I loved every minty, frothy, caffeinated sip. But alas, it was once again time for me and my escort (Blondie) to move on. The Cambridge Theatre, most conveniently located a few blocks away from Jrinks, was about to raise its curtain. Chicago here we come!
I'm not typically prone to hysteria, but inching down Oxford Street on the bus just about turned me into the crazy Australian lady who bangs her head through bus windows. No matter that I was stuck inside a London icon, the red double decker; I was looking at my watch so often I'm sure it looked like a nervous tic. I was trying to make it to Reagent Street to fly around an amazing shop that was only in New York and London (Anthropologie), then march onto Piccadilly Circus to buy discounted tickets, in time to see a matinée on West End, so that I'd bounce into happy hour in Soho with my cousin.....not having a phone so that I could change my arrangements on the fly was making me demented!
Despite my nervous watch tic, Blondie was calm, collected and very patient. I know people say that patience is a virtue, but I still think it's an underrated quality. We jiggled my arrangements around and managed to a) survive the muppets trying to sell us cut price tickets b) find another ticket box run by a non-muppet c) choose a show we both liked d) Get a late late lunch e) Make it to Jrinks in Soho the instant happy hour started. We even beat my cousin to the bar.
Once again, the universal elements collided and a favourite cocktail of mine, Espresso Martini, was indeed on special (4£!) for the three hours I would be at Jrinks. Ding ding ding! So just how many Espresso Martinis can a girl drink in 3 hours? Five, my dear friend, five. And I loved every minty, frothy, caffeinated sip. But alas, it was once again time for me and my escort (Blondie) to move on. The Cambridge Theatre, most conveniently located a few blocks away from Jrinks, was about to raise its curtain. Chicago here we come!
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