Frothy, feminine to a fault
It’s been a bit of a midwinter snooze so far at Fashion Week here, where designers have mostly offered tweedy versions of the frothy feminine nostalgia currently in stores for spring. Not that fashion and feminism have ever been bedfellows, but after a while, one wonders if anyone considers that women work, they carpool, they ride public transportation (well, OK, not so much in L.A.). How many pencil skirts, girlie pastel cardigans and coats with now-ubiquitous three-quarter sleeves does one need? Didn’t we leave those behind with the Nixon administration? Throw us a pair of pants once in a while!
One of the more modern collections came from Tara Subkoff’s label, Imitation of Christ. Setting aside the reworked vintage clothes and gimmicky productions of her past (remember the funeral parlor, and the movie premiere?), she presented her show at the Upper East Side town house of independent curator Jeanne Greenberg Rohatyn. If you could get past the bodyguard with two gold teeth, it was a sunny, inviting space on a cold day, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows and displays of hand-blown glass terrariums.
On a meandering paper runway strewn with roses, Subkoff offered her vision of strong women, in gold Puma boots and get-up-and-go sweater dresses -- some short with long crochet sleeves, others in silver Lurex in tank styles -- accessorized with black tights, cuff bracelets and slouch hats.
Marc Jacobs’ vision of dressing for success involved sorbet tweed pencil skirts and paisley bow blouses, mink coats with Peter Pan collars, and round-toe pumps. A shell-pink cashmere cardigan with peaked shoulders was tied with a grosgrain ribbon belt, and a jelly-bean-print crepe de Chine dress with a full skirt and a high, modest neckline was something Maggie Gyllenhaal might have worn to take dictation (or a paddling) in the film “Secretary.” But then there was the laughable lynx cape with a burgundy bow stuck to the front like a Christmas package, and a group of twisted burgundy and turquoise jersey gowns that looked hastily thrown together.
The scene was less than stellar, too. The usual phalanx of paparazzi waited in the middle of the runway for the show to start, hoping for any remotely familiar face. But there was no Puffy, no Sofia even, only the Donald, one of the “Queer Eye” guys (“the decorator,” perhaps?) and a few models (one with a tousled boy toy who brought his wine bottle in a paper bag). When a pair of beefy bodyguards took position, the photogs thought they had struck shutter gold. But it was just Gina Gershon.
At DKNY, Donna Karan visited similar girlish themes. The tweed skirts, in autumnal shades of moss green and brown, were worn with belted turtleneck sweaters and vintage brooches or, as at Perry Ellis, with fitted leather bomber jackets. For evening, satin halter dresses looked fresh, texturized with accordion pleats folded into diamond patterns.
But no one does evening like Oscar. There’s a reason it was an Oscar de la Renta -- a hot pink cocktail dress with box pleats from the spring collection -- that Aleksandr Petrovsky wooed Carrie with on a recent episode of “Sex and the City.” When the designer’s dresses arrived on the runway, they were like valentines, covered in lace, feathers and beads, each one more breathtaking than the next. A beaded salt ‘n’ pepper tweed shift sprouted feathers at the hem. A pink chiffon sleeveless confection had a sweet little dollop of ruffles and a black ribbon tied ‘round the neck. But the dreamiest of them all was a navy strapless ball gown covered in silver beaded shooting stars. Equally opulent was a gold cut-velvet embroidered suit, trimmed in sable, worn with matching knee-high gold lame boots. A sable messenger bag was the perfect accouterment -- if perhaps one were commuting to the Romanov Court.
Carolina Herrera, De la Renta’s partner in society-dressing crime, showed a sportier touch, with techno-luxe fur ski vests and silk flannel ski pants tucked into short leather lace-up boots. Snow white silk shirts trimmed in pieces of ermine fur that looked like little dangling tails were odd, as were ivory chiffon ball skirts with diagonal zipper pockets. Layered black organza dresses, some decorated with broad gold paint strokes, were intriguing in an arty way.
Mark Badgley and James Mischka also find themselves in the class of designers who cater to the red carpet, the charity ball crowd and not much else. But this season their clothes had so much flash, they could attract the kind of attention even those who crave the spotlight don’t want. One column dress, mink jacket and satin suit after another came out dripping with icicle-like crystals, ropes of rhinestones and strange shimmering epaulets that looked as if they might have come off of one of Michael Jackson’s jackets.
