Fashion
So why is John Galliano obsessed with making his models look so bizarre? The task of rejuvenating Christian Dior's old-school image clearly demanded a creative statement, but eight years on the continuity of his extreme designs, not only at Dior couture but also at ready-to-wear and Galliano, provide a vision that challenges the common conception of beauty.
The catwalk shows that typically fill our dreams consist of sporty waifs in inches of satin that skim softly over their hip bones or cup their butt cheeks so tight we wish we'd done exercise more than twice last year. And the antithesis of this is the recurring nightmare of Galliano's neon CD logo illuminating a graffitied full Victorian skirt that's slipping down a white corset on a forties housewife who's just been mud-wrestling in a leather cowboy hat (that was Autumn/Winter 2004 couture in case you want to commission it for a May Ball). We actually think the girls looked quite pretty in their geisha makeup and lemon corset-tutus, but you could argue that anyone who transforms Gisele's radiant features into a transvestite-like mask is slightly barbaric.
The much publicised Tutankamun of the most recent couture collection shown at Paris Fashion Week, is therefore quite in tune with what has become Dior's image. In fact we are almost convinced that it is a logical progression, an inspired sampling of past trends (Ancient Egypt... 1940s London... cross-dressing showgirls...) until we refocus on the notion of wearing a gold mask to go with our gold-wrapping-paper ball gown. WE know we don't actually get to wear haute couture, but some lucky ladies do (Naomi Campbell, the Queen, Kylie in uber-arty fashion shoots) and I'm not sure if Tutankamun is going to be compatible with their social events.
But referencing the Ancient Egyptians is not totally illogical: Cleopatra's status as a beauty guru was undoubtedly sealed by her milk-bathing, Roman-hero-seducing antics, and she is the original black eyeliner icon, but I fear death masks may not achieve such widespread popularity. On the other hand Galliano wouldn't be the only designer to use ancient burial traditions as inspiration. Helmut Lang's minimalist wedding dress for Stella Tennant was reminiscent of mummies, provoking her grandmother, the Duchess of Devonshire, to call her the "bandaged bride", and Alexander McQueen's models look close to death as they stumble down the runway supported by their male counterparts.
A couple of years ago Another Magazine featured a McQueen centrefold photo shoot in its second issue that starred Olivia Inge (McQueen's then muse) looking dead in the corner of a festering room. She looked corpse-like enough to induce nausea, and there was a cat pawing around her, yet it was consistent with McQueen's campaign at the time, which was as simultaneously beautiful and challenging to the fashion humdrum as ever. Like Galliano's creations, McQueen's clothes are exciting and intriguing and, most of all, hype-inducing, but we might be more inclined to wear one of his swirling masterpieces than Dior's golden pharaoh number. That is, obviously, the difference between ready-to-wear and haute couture, where extravagance is the name of the game and artistic expression passes as fashion.
And for us marginally less glamorous beings there are things to be taken from all this expressive hyperbole; perhaps not the corpse look (although we always find that nude fabrics drain colour from the skin much to that effect) but little touches of madness that can transform the most regular jeans-and- jumper Jane into a fearless superstyler.
Gold, for example, once the preserve of bronzed grannies in St Tropez, works beautifully on the whitest of skins (of the milky and freckly variety, not sallow, mind) and will provide a break from the norm on the accessory front - we know you are addicted to brown but so is everyone at the English Faculty. According to Vogue gold is the colour "if you're looking to dazzle on the party circuit", so don't be shy and break that silver habit. Plus you could take a tip from couturiers and SJP and try showing a bit of black bra under your golden gown. Unconventional we know, but very, very sexy.
Today I am forced to sing the praises of the humble trainer following the unsightly number of Pretty Young Things clomping around their college quads as if bound for a newly acquired post at Goldman Sachs or their big sister's wedding. I am presuming that these poor misled creatures are under the illusion that wearing high heels makes them look sexy (dreams of SJP blur their perception) but I beg to differ.
The sex appeal of comfort is not to underestimated. Think of European girls. When you go to Barcelona the streets are filled with eyelash-batting, peachy-skinned chicas in trainers. The natural stride of their pins in comfy shoes beats the strained strut of stilettos any day. The key may be in looking like you have something to do, somewhere to go - as if you are practical and ready for anything, a bit like the theory behind nude make-up. Swap your leather pointies for a pair of fashion's latest soft and sporties and you'll find yourself suddenly able to run, frolic and dance on demand. Oh, the freedom of walking to the faculty without breaking into a sweat!
And for student fashion folk the trainer has yet more to offer in its rewarding ability to look better with age, especially white ones (although I do recognise that Chelsea-girl appeal of pristine running shoes beneath pristine Earl jeans). This pleasure is not, however, endless; when your toes start to get wet accept the end of the relationship and move on. Oh, and fret not, as only clubs you don't want to go to (those ones that try very, very hard to be chic) implement a no-trainer policy. Sketch lets you wear 'em so say no more.
29th Jan 2004