garance doré

When I really want to get myself a special gift, I get myself old magazines. I love everything about them. The style, photos, the smell of old paper, the crazy creativity, the absence of cynicism. My favorite period… the 70s. This decade saw the woman redefine herself. Oftentimes with clumsiness, always with seriousness and tons of joy.

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On inauguration day of the first New York TopShop, a funny little coincidence had me working just down the street at eight in the morning.

So I had a prime position to see the family-reunion of the hysterical yet poised fashion kids forming, wearing t-shirts that said Black Sabbath, or rebel, Never look back, or motherf***er, all quietly arranged one behind the other waiting for their turn to pick over this world of mass shopping.

Oh oui. This story is making me into quite the snob.

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Above all else, what I love is change.  And what’s happening right now in fashion is rather fascinating from that perspective.

Saturday, first day of London’s fashion week, a friend of mine decides to have a little fun for herself and puts on her brand new Vuittons that she has yet to ever wear.  These shoes are sublime.  Their beauty just brings out emotion, and the entire fashion crowd has its eyes fixed on her feet.

I told you about how in New York, it felt like it-bags, it-shoes were out, that the new trend was a cooler look, greys, blacks, that sort of thing, fashion stopped trying to trick me.  I watched it all with curiosity.  A little sadness too, as I love the theatricalness of fashion, I love it all the way to its extremes.  But also I felt at ease, as the last few years have pushed the exaggeration thing a bit too far.

So then Sunday morning, I leave for London and I open The Daily, a little newspaper that comes out every day during fashion week and sums up all the weeks events, all the ebb and flow of the fashion world.

Inside, a report on famous shoes.  I’ll give you a quick rundown.  It was saying that after some point, it’s an error, “utterly wrong,” almost implying that it’s criminal, to wear shoes from the period you live in, that right now, the best is no-heels, jeans, Converse and a parka.  The were calling this, “the new humility.”

I was outta my head.  What is this hypocrisy?  This sudden turn around?  Over exaggerate?  Any of this make sense to you?

For me, I love when fashion changes, when you try to balance everything out a bit, when someone says stop the shopping frenzy, when you resort to your antiques from six months ago.  Why not, if it gives you a certain feeling?  …if it breaks the rhythm of in-today out-tomorrow trends, the same cheap imitations, and the same looks copied from here into infinity.

Otherwise, if you are wondering why I’m giving you a special flash of Erin O’Connor today, of course it’s because this girl, on top of being sublime and incredibly funny, she brings together everything I’ve been wanting to see more of in the months to come.  A style outside of given fashion, without identifiable trends, no recognizable brands, lots of energy, mixing it up, colors…. Simple and all her own.

But if tomorrow, she gets the urge to wear unaffordable shoes, breathtaking heals, and an outrageous outfit, just to be on top of the crest when it comes to trendy and to send Victoria Beckham into a vicious rage (while we are here, Becks is trying to redeem her fashion credibility by wearing TWICE the same bag.  Oh yes… But seriously, times are changing, the “new humility” is coming down hard)… Well then, I’ll be her first admirer, the first to to applaud her for it.  I’m all about the simplicity, but I’m also totally into excess.  There’s a certain beauty in both.

But to cultivate humility is tantamount to cultivating hypocrisy.  A humble person is not himself conscious of his humility.  Wasn’t me who said that, ’twas Gandhi.

Aha!  I warned you that today we were going to philosophize and anti-trend about like a group of crazies.  Ha!  Bonne journée!

Translation : Tim Padraic Sullivan

When I talked to you about pitting two different cultures against each other last Friday, I swear I didn’t really think I’d go this far…

It all began at the airport. Leaving the gray skies and bitter cold of Stockholm sleeping… waking up to mid summer in Rome.

Rome is dazzling. As sublime as it is intimidating. Everything is beautiful, everything is good, everything is timeless. When in Rome, you experience a slightly dizzying sensation; it’s almost overwhelming. You want to taste anything and everything, you feel intoxicated, you lose your head.

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Ta daaaaaa! Stockholm is fresh. Fresh as a granite-chilled drink brimming with creativity, enthusiasm and a youthful vibe.  There must be something in the Swedish waters…  That being said, where are the grown-ups? Everywhere I go, I find myself amidst a throng of young people, each one as inventive and curious as the other. I love it.

Fashion as well, is young in Stockholm.  I already had a soft spot for Acne, whose edgy and wearable style every girl in this city is crazy about, more here than anywhere else. And yesterday, I was smitten with Fifth Avenue Shoe Repair, a small clothing line that’s chic, cool and full of promise. I liked it so much that when I went to congratulate the designer, we got to talking about the her vision – bursts of colors, energy and joy bubbling up against a somber backdrop.

I came to Stockholm because I knew something was stirring here that the fashion world was bound to take note of . It’s very young, it’s on the rise. It’s light years away from Paris, Milan and New York. And that’s exactly what I like about it—open up an unknown universe, discover little by little, a new world of fashion that is Scandinavia.

…enjoy cold stone cocktail with kids who teach me a whole lot of things, stumble on ice because we daringly trot around in heels, dream at new student work, stare wide-eyed at a big runway show, eat frozen desserts while trying to create a new magazine, feel calm, alive and inspired.

Ah, I can’t wait to for it to be tomorrow already. Bisou!

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P.S. I borrowed today’s title from the Kid of Tomorrow modelling agency. All the young-er guys and girls I met on the street were part of it, like Agnes and Clara. But I think everyone here must be a model or something. Ah ouais.  But listen, in the end, it doesn’t surprise me.

P.P.S. Yesterday, I got a few comments about some grammar mistakes. I know errors come up every now and then. I write quickly and conjugating isn’t really my strong suit (that and not much else), bah voilà, it happens. Feel free to call me out on my bloopers (gently now). I’d be happy to make the corrections.  Really though.  Tak !

Translation : Magali Eva Suárez & Tim Padraic Sullivan.

I was running late so I hurriedly dressed up and grabbed a hat. I gobbled up my food on the way to the métro.The wind was huffing and puffing on my hat that it flew away. I wondered why I even wore it in the first place. I was late and in heels. I was in no mood to run after it.

Never mind. I let it go.

But someone gave it back to me. The thing was now back on top of my head. In the métro, people were looking at me. Surely, I was standing up straight, but the most obvious thing was that, I was wearing a hat. I didn’t need to think about it, that would be exhausting. Normally, I put on something and then just forget it.

I arrived at my destination and my friends were there. We greeted each other and kissed. But excuse me, my hat was getting in the way! Anyway, they didn’t mind and told me that it looked good on me. Awww, sweet! Then, we went to a café. I didn’t want to wear my hat inside so I took it off.

And bravo, now my hair went all flat. No choice but to put it back on like I was a cursed woman.

Voilà, my four solid reasons why. Even if I love to take pictures of hats and love to draw them, the truth is, I won’t ever wear them again.

Translation : Magali Eva Suárez.

Dans les temps irrémédiablement reculés de mon adolescence, dans mon île splendide et sauvage où, à 11ans, je m’ennuyais déjà ferme, où j’avais l’impression que la vie était ailleurs, où je regardais des cartes du monde en rêvant, Internet n’existait pas encore.

Ma seule fenêtre sur le monde, à l’époque, à part les voyages que j’ai fait assez vite et souvent seule, c’était la presse du centre ville. Celle qui avait la petite étagère “presse internationale”. Là, tous les mois, avec trois mois de retard, je retrouvais ma vie. Principalement The Face et iD.

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There are realizations that won’t ever come to us. A hundred miles separate me today from Hyères so I can amuse myself in waking up this already, well, nearly fading flower.

I’m back in Paris and all I have left are some snapshots, observations and chronicles on imbibing the new cool. I’ll show them to you as we go along and afterwards, we turn a new leaf and  lead ourselves to new adventures that are, I’m afraid, more in tune with city life.

+ We are already aware that the it-shoes have taken over the it-bags, as strikingly proven on the beaches of Hyères. When pebbles threaten to ruin your leather heels, take off your shoes and carry them with you. That’s the latest chic alternative.

+ Never ever go to parties organized by the staff at Baron.*

+ Melvin Sokolsky took all our breath away, leaving my mouth wide open at the sight of his brilliant exhibit. And the way he eats gambas, too.** The genius can be extremely human sometimes. It doesn’t make him any less of a genius. But he’s human, after all.

+ Reveal your intimate life to the first person you meet. This is very summer of 2008.

+ Take an old rotten, ratty and especially baggy pair of jeans, cut mid-thigh and roll up. Voilà, you’re now the coolest girl of the bunch.

+ Riccardo Tisci*** is way more good-looking than Christian Lacroix.

+ Invite 200 people for dinner at the Villa Noailles, make them wait and starve and finally at 11:30 pm, serve sea-urchins. Put them aside while watching their faces contort in disgust and pick fights everywhere. Following the arrival of the plat de résistance plus your choice of exquisite pastry  for dessert, the battle among fashionistas can never be more delightful.****

+ Talk about Marc Jacobs’ fuck-you attitude.

+ Do like everybody else. Be accessible, kind, cool and smiling. This is how you behave during the summer. Add some eyewear, ditch the hairbrush and you’re an it-girl. Simple as that.

+ At all times, go barefoot this summer.

+ Information counts for what it’s worth. I bought a thin gold chain to hold my glasses.

+ Loïc Prigent, love and admiration renewed.

So there. And my suggestion for next year’s activities, I’d like the festival to last for two more weeks than the usual. As such, there’d no longer be trees on the villa’s parking lot and there’d no longer be talks about sea-urchins and gambas. We’d take away the beach pebbles and see Daren again. Also, that would teach me how to travel light yet  fall short on eating light, because, um, well, you know that’s a hard habit to break! Bisous!

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* The Baron is a happening spot in Paris that gets much attention. A little too much, that is.
** Melvin Sokolsky does not know how to eat gambas and that’s quite amusing to see.
***Tisci is the brilliant designer of Givenchy who succeeded Lacroix as president of the jury at Hyères this year and who’s a lot nicer.
****Sea urchins are generally served with a plate, something that was missing at the buffet in Hyères. With a small knife, you eat the eggs (the red substance). You can put them on bread. Without the knife and the plate…. well, what do you know?

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Tee-shirt inspiré du fameux Lanvin.

Telle que je vous parle, je suis dans le TGV, assise en face de Géraldine qui est en train de rédiger son prochain billet. On est lundi, il est 16h37 et c’est pas pour cafter, mais elle a mangé tous les bonbons Haribo Polka et ne m’a même pas laissé un Cocobat.

Aujourd’hui, j’avais prévu de vous parler des seins du top Lara Stone. Lara et ses seins, c’est toute une histoire pour moi. C’est que, comme qui dirait, ça me rappelle quelqu’un. Moi. Oui, Lara me rappelle moi, que celle qui ne s’est jamais une fois dans sa vie identifiée à un top en couv’ du Vogue Paris me jette le premier carré coupe-faim.
Quoi ? Jamais ? Allez-y, jetez, jetez, je risque d’en avoir besoin.

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Robe inspirée du défilé Alexander McQueen.

Ça m’arrive rarement de commenter les défilés, je préfère souvent vous faire le dessin d’une pièce que j’ai aimé. J’ai toujours peur de ne pas savoir en parler et je trouve que d’autres le font beaucoup mieux que moi.

Mais là, moi qui ne jure que par le casual, le masculin-féminin, moi qui cherche encore une robe dans mon placard, j’ai été vraiment soufflée par le défilé McQueen de cette année.

Pour une fois mon manque de culture mode ne m’a pas plus gênée que ça. Pas du tout encombrée par des références que l’on dit indiennes, victoriennes, Empire, j’ai pu me laisser emporter par la romance.

Et trouver enfin tous les costumes pour l’un de mes livres préférés, Les Brumes d’Avalon de Marion Zimmer Bradley. Je suis sûre que vous connaissez. Le Graal, Morgane, Guenièvre, Lancelot, Brocéliande. Les chevauchées, les châteaux, les mystères, l’amour fou, la magie, et les rêves et sortilèges qui se mêlent au fil que l’on tisse en attendant le retour des chevaliers.

Alors c’est clair, je me suis fait my own private délire. Mais, comment dire ? L’imaginaire n’a pas de limites. Et quand on vous donne un support aussi éblouissant pour vos rêves, ne faut-il pas se contenter de l’accueillir et d’applaudir ?

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