Arriving with flair
Sean “P. DIDDY” COMBS isn’t showing his Sean John collection here this week, but he is playing fashion mogul. First he appeared at the Tommy Hilfiger show, seated across from ex Jennifer Lopez (no, they didn’t make eye contact). Then he arrived at Zac Posen’s show wearing a diamond cross as big as his fist, with a little white dog and a beefy entourage in tow. Combs invested in Posen’s business in April, and if there was any question about what these two can do for each other, it was answered Friday night.
Posen was a baby designer with a few celebutante clients a mere two years ago. But this season he has hit the big time, or the big top. He didn’t just have a show on Friday, he had a scene with fire-hazard potential. There was drama. (Will the stiletto set be able to negotiate the black sand runway?) There was intrigue. (Just what is Claire Danes going to do with all those photos she’s taking, anyway?) And, oh yeah, there were some pretty great clothes too.
Continuing his flirtation with pattern and volume, Posen showed his range, delving into daywear like never before. And like so many designers this season, he was obsessed with the backside. A white pantsuit with gold stripes down the legs sported a curious kiltie on the bum, while a beige pencil skirt trailed a prize-ribbon-like ruffle. On the more conservative side, a mint green baby-cable pleated skirt looked sporty paired with a navy polo.
For evening, horizontal slits provided air conditioning on a short black cocktail dress (not to mention a thigh-high, PG-13 view). A colorful tank dress in a chevron pattern was vaguely Southwestern by way of Missoni, and a splendid, exit-making black gown with a parachute cape caught air when the model walked. After the show, the famous crowd headed directly over to the new Sean John boutique on Fifth Avenue, to toast Mr. Mogul himself.
At least Posen has the talent to live up to the hype, which is more than can be said for Marie Claudinette Jean. Her Fusha line is the worst example of vanity designing (of which Baby Phat’s Kimora Lee Simmons is also guilty). It seems that fashion design is the latest rich lady hobby, no experience required. (Nicky and Paris Hilton have fashion labels. Socialite Tory Burch launched her Tory by TRB line this year at Bergdorf Goodman. The Phi label, founded by Susan Dell, wife of Michael, was on the runway at Bryant Park last week. Ilona Rich, billionaire daughter of Marc and Denise Rich, showed a few seasons back in her family’s Fifth Avenue penthouse. And on and on....)
At Fusha, infamous publicist Lizzie Grubman filled the front row with paparazzi bait. Nicole Richie and Ja Rule got the flashes popping. But even an opening guitar solo by the designer’s hubbie, Wyclef Jean, plucking the strings with his tongue, couldn’t distract from the badness of BeDazzled purple chiffon.
Miguel Adrover, back after sitting out a season because of a lack of funds, knows how to put on a show without celebrity eye candy. But in the fashion world, ingenuity and good tailoring alone don’t sell clothes. (Adrover’s line was in Neiman Marcus for a couple of seasons, though much of it landed on the sale rack at Loehmann’s.)
Still, Adrover’s shows are their own kind of spectacle. The “runway,” actually a small, fenced-in park in the Bowery, acted as a kind of fashion terrarium. As usual, the designer’s models were ordinary people, friends and neighbors, who looked as if they might have walked in off the street. And looking on from outside the park fence was a crowd that did walk in off the street to see the show and, perhaps the bigger oddity, the fashionista audience.
Adrover started off by exhibiting his flair for tailoring with some expertly cut suits in a camel and brown windowpane check, signaling his bigger intention with the addition of high hats as accessories. What followed was a fascinating riff on the American West, from the obvious (a fringed suede tunic dress and cowboy boots) to the not-so-obvious (a cream shift with abstract black and red stripes that brought to mind a deconstructed Navajo rug). In between there were some fabulous pieces: a dress made from tattered quilt squares, a man’s suit with black and white embroidery reminiscent of designs on Pueblo pottery, a blue gingham dress with a smocked turtleneck and ruffled hem, and a tepee coat with cave drawings of bison and warriors. There were also witty touches: a leather satchel shaped like a drum, and a white button-down with the dry cleaners’ motto “We Love Our Customers” spelled across the back.
It’s nice to see that Adrover is able to keep his sense of humor, even as he’s complaining about having less than $40 in the bank. When he took his bow, he was wearing a T-shirt that read: “Anyone See A Backer?”
Elsewhere on the runways
If Tom Ford was fashion’s pacesetter for the ‘90s, then Miuccia Prada has taken up the baton for the ‘00s. With globetrotting prints; modest, even matronly cuts; artsy-craftsy accessories, bejeweled necklines and shoes among emerging trends for spring, it’s been a veritable Pradapalooza.
Clearly, American designers have observed Prada’s knack for producing unique, itemy clothing (often with a handmade quality) that has all the appeal of a must-have accessory. It’s a viable strategy in this confusing marketplace. After all, who’s going to buy designer basics when Club Monaco does them just as well for an eighth of the price?
Although he had his share of Prada’s jeweled sandals, tulle-backed brooches and woven straw belts, only in Oscar de la Renta’s hands could the traditional Ikat weaving of Central Asia look utterly sophisticated. He crafted the textile into a smart jacket, worn belted over a white embroidered boucle pencil skirt, and a flirty circle skirt decorated with round patches of rhinestones. A bikini and matching caftan were done in the colorful paisleys of an oriental rug. And was that really toe jewelry, at Oscar?
Yes, the collection was quite youthful. There was even a white cotton crochet tennis dress, perhaps whipped up for Serena Williams, in the front row. A bit of the casual revolution crept in when a T-shirt was thrown over a very ‘80s fuchsia silk faille pouf skirt, and a sexy black lace bustier was tucked into a lavender silk bubble skirt, cinched at the waist like a paper bag. But as always, the designer also offered drop dead red carpet looks, such as a petal pink, silver sequin dusted chiffon gown with fluttering ribbons of tulle.
Diane Von Furstenberg’s show was all over the map, with postcard-print chiffon dresses (a la Prada’s ‘50s postcard prints from last spring), a pink skirt in sari-like silk with jingling coins on the hem and a caftan painted to look like a sunset on the African Savannah. What saved the audience from whiplash was the novelty of pieces such as a delicious flapper dress with African beaded fringe.
Behnaz Sarafpour traveled to Japan amid the jewels at Tiffany & Co., with obi belts tied over simple black dresses and short-sleeve silk kimonos topping pearl-fringed skirts as opulent as the contents of the glass cases. With a runway that wound ‘round the Fifth Avenue store and plenty of diamond brooches and tiaras on the models, the collection struck a luxurious note. A black cocktail frock with cowl sleeves was edged in silver paillettes, and spring’s must-have luxe tank top was covered in gold sequins. For daytime, a green “shibori” wrap dress was a nod to Prada’s tie-dye separates.
In the accessories department, DKNY offered a clever take on Prada’s jeweled tweed pumps, but in raffia. Instead of a runway show, the line was presented at the trendy Pastis restaurant. Mannequins (with lip gloss that had been deftly applied by a makeup artist) wore floral embroidered linen jackets and circle skirts with a bohemian feel.
Rather than the starlet, socialite or porn star, this season’s fashion icon is the hot young mom. Perhaps it has something to do with all the magazine editors and celebrities who have recently given birth. At Tuleh, Bryan Bradley poked fun at the new cult of motherhood with a rap soundtrack that blared: “I’m 38 and I felt my clock was ticking so I had a kid and kept the camera clicking.” The clothes were stay-at-home meets party circuit chic: a floor-sweeping lavender and gray paillette skirt topped with a ribbed cotton tank, and a baby-ruffle ecru tulle gown that zipped up the front, with a wide collar that flopped over the back like a sweatshirt.
Monique Lhuillier’s take on domesticity was more syrupy sweet. Working in pastels, the L.A.-based designer let too much of her bridal aesthetic seep into her evening and sportswear line. A yellow baby-dot chiffon dress with a tiered, ruffled skirt took primness to ridiculous heights, while a lace-edged camisole and a satin column with a jeweled halter were more suited to the boudoir than the red carpet. (Miuccia Prada, the former Communist and feminist activist, surely would not approve.)
In the same vein, when the models marched out at Luca Luca, they looked eerily Stepford. A strapless, ruffled chiffon dress was the color of lemon meringue pie; a four-tiered white organza gown embroidered with pink flowers resembled a tea towel; and a damask swing coat had the feel of a housecoat. All that was missing were the aprons. Fittingly, the show invitations were delivered in mock condom boxes. The whole thing was enough to make one editor quip, “Where’s my mint julep?”
