The way Stone is talked about in this Vogue story — cover line "When Size 4 Is Too Big: A Curvy Model's Struggle To Fit In" — you'd almost think she was a plus-size model instead of a girl with the highly typical (for a straight-size model) measurements 33"-24"-35". Writes Rebecca Johnson:

'What they say is 'curvy,' but you know they mean fat," says Lara Stone, who is Dutch and so soft-spoken, you have to lean forward to hear what she's saying. However, she enunciates that word — fat — clearly and forcefully, as if it were caught at the back of her throat. The word hovers over the din of the hotel lobby where we are seated in downtown Manhattan, laced with irony and just a tinge of bitterness.

So that's 11 rather straightforward words from Stone, and 59 words from Vogue about what Stone said. (I guess when a word, having at last dislodged itself from the subject's throat, literally flies out of her mouth and floats in the air of a hotel lobby, it requires special treatment. Did she fling her arms in the air, too, Vogue? Because limb amputation sounds almost as painful as reading that sentence!) Anyway:

Worse than being called fat is a gaggle of stylists whispering in a corner after you've been trying on clothes for ten minutes. "That," she says, "is when I know I'm about to be canceled."

And even now that her position in fashion's firmament ought to be secure, given she has earned Karl Lagerfeld's favor, worked with the world's top photographers, and been on multiple covers of British, French, and American Vogue, she still encounters narrow-minded folks who make her feel like "the odd one out." "I was on a shoot just last week," Stone told Johnson, "and the stylist took out this tight corset dress and said, 'Here, put it on,' and I was like, 'Who are you kidding?' There was no way, so that was very rude of her. It's like, come on, she's a woman; whether you're buying jeans at the mall or wearing couture, you know what it's like for clothes not to fit. It's not an easy kind of rejection, because it's very personal. It's you, your body. You take it to heart."

What I guess a lot of people don't realize is that modeling is just manual labor with fancier clothes. The work is deeply bodily, and therefore the division between you and your work dissolves: everything you wear, how you present yourself, how you walk, every product you put on your face, every haircut, and, mostly, everything you put in your mouth, impacts your career. It is automatically a professional choice, not a personal one. There is no meaningful work/life balance, because your body is your work. Of course, women outside of the modeling industry have long been told that their bodies need to be their "work," too: that we all need to obsess over our arms and abs and thighs and do 30 squats on our lunch breaks and always take the stairs and use the Shake Weight and join gyms and buy athleticwear and Lose 12 lbs Before Sunday. It's just that for models, these imperatives are professional. Living is work. And that can kinda mess with your head.

Stone herself, being unable to budge from what must be her set point weight range with diet and exercise, began taking pills to lose inches. "But they made my heart race," she reports. So she started drinking. Nobody noticed, and her work didn't suffer, but soon she was waking up with the shakes. Stone did a month of rehab in January — the longest she'd spent in one place at a stretch in the two years since her career kicked into hyperdrive, she told British Vogue — and has not had a drink since.

What is elided in these kinds of stories that trumpet Lara Stone's "curves" and proclaim her to be a size 4 — because we all know clothing sizes are meaningful and consistent nation-wide standards, oh wait — is that Stone differs so barely, so incredibly tinily merely, so very little, from the accepted size standard for fashion models. She is slightly shorter, at 5'7", than most runway models, and her measurements are well within fashion's preferred range. While it's undeniable that she has a slightly different body shape than most models, her size is entirely typical of the industry. (Technically, her stated hip measurement, 35", is about 1" larger than the 34" it "should" be for her to model, but there are dozens of other models who have worked, and done the show circuit, with hips of Stone's size.) It's all well and good to call her the "curvy" model, and it is obvious from her runway work and every nude shoot she's ever done that Stone has breasts. When she slings one hip out, like for the photo accompanying this Vogue story, sure, she can indeed look kind of voluptuous. (When she doesn't, she doesn't: Would you call her the "curvy" one in this Givenchy campaign?) These stories never make clear that Stone veers from the accepted modeling standards only every so slightly, and that booking her for a shoot or a campaign is not some revolutionary act of body diversity. If anything, the fact that she is seen as a different kind of model for her size is the ultimate indictment of the fashion industry's standards. But Vogue would never make that point.

An item on Fashionista this morning points to two actual plus-size models, Crystal Renn and Amy Lemons, who are both busy working in Europe. Renn — whose struggle with anorexia and exercise bulimia is documented in her recently released memoir, Hungry — apparently went blonde for a shoot for Italian Vanity Fair, and Lemons, who also began her career as a straight-size model, is working for French Elle with the photographer Tesh. Her spread is apparently over 30 pages, and includes cover tries. Lara Stone is a fantastic model. I love a lot of her work. But seeing a plus-size model on the cover of a major fashion magazine, now that would be a real sign of change. Yes, plus-size models are still models, and the fashion industry still makes its money presenting women with images to aspire to that are, for most, unattainable and unrealistic. But if we can change the parameters of the beauty standard even just enough to accommodate tall, enviably proportioned young women who don't have 23" waists, then I'd still call that progress of a kind.

Fittingly, Fashionista asks: Italian Vanity Fair and French Elle are great, but where are the U.S. magazines? Aside from Glamour's admirable commitment to using plus-size models consistently in fashion spreads from issue to issue, and V's forthcoming January special issue, what is going at American Vogue, Elle, and Harper's Bazaar? Will we see a plus-size model in a fashion spread in an American magazine that isn't trudging through the clichés of its obligatory annual Love Your Shape issue? I have a feeling — call it blogger's intuition — that it might happen sooner than you think.

Hello, Gorgeous [Style.com]
The Tides Are Turning [Fashionista]

Earlier: Model Crystal Renn On Self-Acceptance, Size, & The Fashion Industry

LaChapelle's "The Rape Of Africa" is the title piece from a recent exhibition the photographer held at a gallery in Amsterdam. This is the full Flaunt cover shot:

If it reminds you of a certain Botticelli painting, you aren't alone. As the Daily points out, the composition is a direct reference to the Florentine painter's 1483 work "Venus And Mars."

The original is actually a kind of touching portrait of male vulnerability, albeit one with somewhat trite overtones about love conquering war. Mars, the Roman god of war, has fallen asleep in a forest clearing, having removed all of his armor and laid down his weapons. Venus, the god of love, watches over him in a lavish gown, all the while allowing little satyrs to play with Mars' lance and helmet. One is about to whistle into Mars' ear with a shell that would have been used as a hunting horn. The mighty god of war lies supine, clad only in his underwear.

So what does it mean that LaChapelle recreated the scene with modern weaponry, Naomi Campbell, and threw in a reference to Africa? I personally find it discomfiting to see Africa personified by the bare-breasted Campbell in the context of a work called "The Rape Of Africa." But perhaps highlighting the unease of using rape as metaphor is the point. Is this more empty, self-consciously "controversial," candy-colored bombast from the photographer who once gave us the Courtney Love pièta, or is LaChapelle actually making some kind of statement about...something?

Flaunt Magazine [Official Site]
LaChapelle Studios [Official Site]
If You've Got It... [FWD]

Blume, in an interview with New York magazine's Amy Odell, appeared to cast aspersions on Tavi Gevinson's success as a freelancer — Gevinson has gained much notoriety through her blog, and has a story in this month's Harper's Bazaar. Her full quote about Gevinson and the Harper's Bazaar piece read:

"A lot of people are going to read this. Is this a smart marketing move? Of course," Blume said. Did she get the sense people were taking Tavi seriously? "I think she's very dear, but I think it's crazy. I think it was insulting enough when we were expected as adult women to take our fashion cues from Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen. All of a sudden women in the fashion world were starting to look like bag ladies. I mean, that's very silly."

Blume doesn't think the industry's top buyers will take Tavi's fashion critiques seriously. "Are the creative directors of Neiman Marcus and Bergdorf Goodman going to tailor their purchases according to [her tastes]? Probably not. But is Harper's Bazaar going to sell a bunch of issues because of the novelty? Yes. Will she end up on morning shows? Yes she will," Blume said. "I don't think she's a fashion sage, I think she's a novelty and I think she's going to be used as a marketing device as a novelty."

So: Tavi Gevinson's success is "crazy," and vaguely "insulting" to "adult women," Gevinson is better suited to "morning shows" than real fashion criticism, and her appeal is solely based on her "novelty" value and usefulness as "a marketing device." Pretty harsh gist for a girl barely into her teens.

In the same story, Elle editor Anne Slowey wondered aloud if Gevinson actually wrote her blog, or her other freelance work. Slowey even compared Gevinson to JT Leroy, the famous teenaged author and novelist, whose existence was later revealed to be a hoax perpetrated by the writer Laura Albert. "She's either a tween savant or she's got a Tavi team," remarked Slowey.

Today, Blume is distancing herself from the remarks she made to New York. In an e-mail — actually, several e-mails to two different Jezebel editors, plus a bonus Facebook message — about the young writer, Blume says she never meant to imply Gevinson was just a novelty, but rather that she was "addressing how an adolescent is likely being used as a marketing device, which is actually a very protective stance on Tavi's behalf. That said, the tenor of the NY Mag piece is not what I would have liked, so I hope to clarify my own stance."

I'm not in any way leading a charge against Tavi. As I emphasized in parts of the interview not published by NY mag, I believe that passion like hers should be appropriately encouraged and celebrated ... yet I also expressed concern that she is being used as a novel marketing gimmick by an industry not exactly known for its positive messages for and treatment of young girls.

I hope that she's being amply guided and protected as her star rises, as 13 is a very vulnerable age, no matter what confidence is projected. I most certainly would never attack a precocious thirteen year old girl, but rather I am skeptical about the industry's response to her. As someone who's covered the business side of the fashion industry, I think it's more than valid to address the marketing aspect of this phenomenon, especially when the welfare of an adolescent is concerned.

I contacted New York for a response, and they declined to comment other than to say that they stand by the story.

Photo of Tavi Gevinson via her blog

Earlier:Elle Editor Leads Backlash Against 13-Year-Old Blogger

Related: Editors Like Tavi But Don't Take Her Fashion Advice Seriously [The Cut]
Style Rookie [Official Site]

Gevinson's meteoric rise — she made the cover of Pop magazine, and became a darling of Kate and Laura Mulleavy, the sisters behind Rodarte, all before apparently graduating middle school — has culminated, for now, with a column in this month's Harper's Bazaar magazine. (Gevinson also blogs for Pop.) Yesterday, there was a flurry of Tavi-related news, with the announcement of the Harper's Bazaar column, and the release of a video about the Rodarte for Target collection that Gevinson had been working on since August.

Apparently, not everyone is enamored of this precocious 13-year-old's considerable talents. The Tavi Gevinson backlash has officially begun, with big-name editors like Elle's Anne Slowey and prominent fashion writer Lesley M. M. Blume leading the charge.

Gevinson's magazine piece is a pretty self-assured piece of work — and not even necessarily "for a 13-year-old." Her writerly voice is striking: school hallways have "berainbowed motivational posters" and the Mulleavy sisters sent "California condors, draped in burnt cheesecloths and distorted leather" down the runway. The column is a short, considered wrap-up of a fashion season for a general audience. Which means, apparently, that there's no way she could have written it.

Blume writes off Harper's Bazaar's hiring of the adolescent as "a smart marketing move" while Slowey characterizes it as "a bit gimmicky." Blume — who would no doubt prefer that Tavi were reading her young adult novels, rather than competing with her for freelance gigs — then refers to Tavi three times as "a novelty."

Slowey also dismisses Gevinson's writing, saying that the voice of the Harper's Bazaar story "doesn't sync up with" the way Gevinson talks about fashion in the Rodarte video. (This isn't exactly a fair comparison, since the Rodarte video is mostly off-the-cuff, and very few people talk the same way they sound in a piece of writing that they have the chance to revise and edit.) Bizarrely, Slowey says the video clip had "this vacantlike quality where it was like everyone was on Vicodin. Like everyone was uncomfortably dumb except for me."

"Will she end up on morning shows? Yes she will," Blume says. "I don't think she's a fashion sage, I think she's a novelty and I think she's going to be used as a marketing device as a novelty." Slowey doubts she writes her own work at all. "She's either a tween savant or she's got a Tavi team," notes the editor.

Ever since Gevinson's blog first was noticed by the mainstream press — beginning with another post on The Cut last July, followed by a rote online safety trend piece by the AP, and coverage in the New York Times Style Magazine — questions have been raised about Gevinson's involvement in the site that bears her name. "We're not sure if a 12-year-old is actually doing all this or if she's getting some help from a mom or older sister (some of the photos of her were definitely not self-shot)," wrote The Cut. (It turns out Gevinson sometimes uses — wait for it — a digital camera on a tripod with a timer to take pictures without encountering the dreaded self-taken arm-in-shot problem.) Steve Gevinson, her father, says he was only dimly aware of his daughter's blog before the media coverage. "I may have known, but to me it was a kind of a non-thing to know," says Gevinson père, a high school English teacher. "I didn't look at it. I wasn't terribly interested in seeing it."

But the main argument for Tavi Gevinson's authorship of her own blog and associated freelance work isn't her parents' proclamations of non-involvement, it's the consistency of her writerly voice, as evidenced by just over 18 months' worth of frequent posts. Whether she's talking about Darfur — her bat mitzvah service project benefited the charity STAND — or drawing connections between collections across seasons, or detailing a school art project that involved making a miniature model of a Jeff Koons dog, Gevinson sounds like nothing more or less than an uncommonly smart 13-year-old. Because that's what being 13 kind of is: you're young enough that having too much free time is still a problem — hence the ability to devote extraordinary levels of concentration to extracurricular obsessions — but old enough to be developing in curiosity and understanding of the grown-up world. Saying that Tavi Gevinson couldn't possibly be authoring her own work because of her age just underlines our society's innate prejudice against adolescents. Why should our expectations be set so low? And, perhaps, it shows just how willing we are to forget our earlier selves.

A quick survey of the writers for this site revealed a raft of early over-achievers. At 13, Latoya Peterson was writing poetry that people assumed she must have plagiarized. Anna North won an essay contest and met the mayor of Los Angeles. I sent a short story in to New Zealand's oldest literary journal, without mentioning my age — and they published it and sent me a check. Anna Holmes was picked by visiting Irish dance experts to perform a complicated jig, in tap shoes. Irin Carmon wrote a novel when she was 12, "which I hoped would be published before I was a teenager and the novelty wore off." Dodai Stewart had been in a commercial, recognized Andy Warhol on the street and took his picture, and got to light the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center one year. Then she wrote a screenplay, which she imagined would star Bruce Willis. Is it really that preposterous to think that Tavi Gevinson's talents and interests are her own?

I've always thought that a lot of Gevinson's appeal to the fashion crowd relies on the fact that she, with her unapologetic bookishness and self-described intense fashion "fangirling", reminds some of the major players of themselves, at her age. Perhaps this backlash is coming from people who remember how they were at 13, too — and recognize that they weren't at Tavi Gevinson's level of proficiency. Not by a long shot.

Editors Like Tavi But Don't Take Her Fashion Advice Seriously [The Cut]
Style Rookie [Official Site]
Exclusive: Rodarte, Tavi, And Target Team Up On Video [Style.com]
Tavi Gevinson Reviews The Collections [Harper's Bazaar]
Meet Tavi, The 12-year-old Fashion Blogger [The Cut]
Young Fashion Bloggers Are Worrisome Trend To Parents [AP]
Post Adolescents [NYT Style Magazine]

It's not terribly surprising to see, after Vogue Paris's noble flag-bearing effort to make blackface directional, the white model, black makeup look become a trend worth imitating. In this case, the online magazine Tangent chose to one-up Carine Roitfeld and Steven Klein by opting not just for a blackface fashion spread, but a blackface cover. The cover image has apparently leaked ahead of its publication date, because Tangent's website still features Issue 1's cover. But this picture was shot by the magazine and intended for use.

Does Harry Connick, Jr., need to come explain it to you again, Australia?

Meanwhile, there is a near-complete absence of any actual Asian people acting the Asian roles in Karl Lagerfeld's just-released movie, Paris-Shanghai. The film relates a journey Coco Chanel takes around China: visiting workers in the 1960s, dropping in on Marlene Dietrich in the 1940s, gambling with Wallis Simpson in the 1920s, being received by the Empress Dowager and her adopted son, presumably sometime before 1898, when she put him under house arrest. And then Coco wakes up and it was all a dream. Actually, it's worse than that, because you see her falling asleep on her office couch after the conclusion of the interminable opening scene, so you know even going into it that it's going to be one of those just-a-dream endings. There, I just saved you 23 minutes.

The plotting is trite, the acting atrocious — Edita Vilkeviciute, as young Coco Chanel, seemingly makes no attempt to hide her thick Lithuanian accent, and Heidi Mount, as Dietrich, gets peevish and sulks like a bored American teenager — and between the tedious pacing and Lagerfeld's failure to indicate what exactly is going on whenever something minorly climactic does occur, it's a hard film to get through. (Turns out Lagerfeld's genius reaches its limit where the task of making beautiful and effective moving images begins.)

What unfolds is a classic orientalist narrative that treats China as the interesting backdrop to an intrigue motivated by and created for white Europeans. No mention is made of the various upheavals that were actually going on in China during the early part of the 20th Century — like, uh, the end of the monarchy, the struggle for unification, and the Civil War — or of the 1960s, the period of the Cultural Revolution. In 1923, Sun Yat-Sen proclaimed the Three Principles of the People as the basis of the modern Chinese state, and Mikhail Borodin arranged the first Soviet arms deals with China — but the year is represented in the film by a craps table back-and-forth about palm reading between Chanel and Simpson. Lagerfeld told Women's Wear Daily his film "is about the idea of China, not the reality. It has the spirit of, and is inspired by, but is unrelated to China." Far easier indeed to investigate your own "idea" of a country than to contend with the reality of it as a place in itself.

But what is most worthy of note is Lagerfeld's consistent choice of European actors to play Chinese roles. This is obviously intentional. "It is an homage to Europeans trying to look Chinese," says Lagerfeld. "Like in The Good Earth, the people in the movie liked the idea that they had to look like Chinese. Or like actors in Madame Butterfly. People around the world like to dress up as different nationalities."

WWD calls it like it is: yellow face. The Empress Dowager is played by Lagerfeld's longtime muse, the Briton Amanda Harlech. Her son is played by Lagerfeld's latest boy-toy, Baptiste Giabiconi, an Italian. Giabiconi, in an earlier scene, plays a Chinese peasant alongside the Dane Freja Beha Erichsen. Erichsen then pops up in the gambling scene, as the "Chinese Courtesan":

There are a handful of Asian actors who warrant small roles. Tao Okamoto, a model who is, incidentally, Japanese, gets about two minutes of screen time as Anna May Wong, the actress who played opposite Dietrich in Shanghai Express. Some of the men in background scenes, and the train conductor, are Asian. But what the sight of Erichsen and Giabiconi in their various Chinese roles conjures most for me is this:

Image of Mr. Yunioshi via Hokubei

Will Tangent Be Left Red-Faced By 'Blackface' Cover? [Imelda]
Karl Lagerfeld Talks Shanghai And Fashion [WWD]
Chanel Paris-Shanghai Part I [YouTube]
Chanel Paris-Shanghai Part II [YouTube]
Chanel Paris-Shanghai Part III [YouTube]

In a cover story (not available online) in the new issue of Rolling Stone, the pop star says that the pictures were intended for the cover of her latest album:

"I did a photo shoot with Steven Klein for my last album cover, and I painted my face black, except for red lips and white eyes. It was a play on words. Have you ever heard of the Black Madonna? It has layers of meaning, and for a minute, I thought it would be a fun title for my record. Then I thought, 'Twenty-five percent of the world might get this, probably less. It's not worth it.' It happens all the time, because my references are usually off the Richter scale. That's why I have people like Guy [Oseary, her manager] in my life who look at me and go, 'No, you are not doing that.'"

That album became Hard Candy, the cover of which was also shot by Klein, and those "Black Madonna" photos with their unspecified "layers of meaning" never saw the light of day.

Rolling Stone [Official Site]

Earlier: Fashion Photographer Steven Klein Has Done Blackface Before
Oh No The Didn't: French Vogue Does Blackface

"There's no Chanel collection without black. (It) will never exist. Who can live without some black clothes."

The designer takes a bow at the conclusion of his all-white Chanel couture show, February, 2009.

"What I hate most in life are people who are not really the peach of the day but who want to be young and sexy. You can fool nobody. There is a moment when you have to accept that somebody else is younger and fresher and hotter."

Lagerfeld in Harper's Bazaar, September, 2008.

"Life is not a beauty contest."

"The discussion of fur is childish." Furriers make a living "killing those beasts who would kill us if they could."

"There are nearly 30 per cent of young people who are too fat. So let's take care of the zillions of the too fat before we talk about the percentage that's left."

Karl Lagerfeld in 2000, when he was still fat, and Devon Aoki still modeled.

"When I was four, I asked my mother for a valet for my birthday."

At the Paris Hotel des Monnaies, holding a gold commemorative Coco Chanel coin worth 5,900 euros.

"I wish her all the luck in the world, just so long as I don't have to see her any more or hear her spoken about."

Karl and then-muse Ines de la Fressange in happier times on French television, in 1987.

"I am a sort of vampire, taking the blood of other people."

• The designer in the 2000 documentary Karl Lagerfeld Is Never Happy Anyway.
  
  "I'm a kind of fashion nymphomanic who never gets an orgasm."

  
  "I have no human feelings."

  
  "Vanity is the healthiest thing in life."

At downtown boutique Opening Ceremony, the line stretched down the block. The promised customized cars, out of which designers like Rodarte (a low rider convertible) and Alex Wang (a black van) were to sell their wares were just a row of cars parked cheek by jowl on the side of the narrow street; the real action was in the store, and the entire population of Williamsburg appeared ready to wait upwards of an hour to see it. I texted a friend who works at the store — no response — then screwed up my courage to go talk to the burly security guard at the door. "I'm a reporter," I said, plaintively. "I'm here to write about this!" He looked at me skeptically. I repeated this claim to a small woman in a large fascinator and a complicated dress, who eventually waved me in.

New Fashion Rule: If you cannot spell "Azzedine Alaïa", you should not be permitted to sell his shorts for $60.

I'd had a weird day at the tents — at one point I was standing next to four people deadpanning conversation, all wearing sunglasses inside — so I called that affable Marxist/skewerer of frivolity/drinker, former Jezebel editor Moe Tkacik. My partner in crime for the night eventually made it into the store, and we were served big cans of Asahi by a smiling bartender in a skintight waistcoat. We looked at the people. We looked at the wares — knits covered in rickrack, jewelry that looked like animal claws — and watched as people lined up to buy Fashion's Night Out t-shirts. We drank our beers and watched the crowd. Later, we made our way to Rag & Bone, the pricey vintage store What Goes Around Comes Around, and a multi-designer sample sale at the TriBeCa Grand hotel. Sadie, on the whole a more dedicated shopper, checked out Opening Ceremony, Prada, Intermix, Banana Republic, Oak, Club Monaco, Madewell (she likes their boots!) and a couple of boutiques.

Jenna: So! I was just writing about the scene at Opening Ceremony. What did you think of Opening Ceremony? How long was the line when you got there?
Sadie: The line was nuts - all the way down the block, and it didn't seem to be progressing at all.
Jenna: I shamelessly blagged my way in as press.
Sadie: The whole vibe was unpleasantly "hot club" — down to the letdown of getting in.
Jenna: Yes! All it needed was a velvet rope. The bouncers, the clipboard dragons. The boomboom music. It was just like a club, except inside it was brightly lit. And, you know, except that the Beatrice never tolerated anything so unseemly as an actual line outside.
Sadie: Well, Banana Republic actually had a 3" velvet rope!
Jenna: Wow. Tell me about that — I didn't go there.
Sadie: Ha, that was the best: they had the rope, and this poor woman in an evening gown wielding a fan — but then inside it was...Banana Republic. Open late, it's true! Did you get to Intermix?
Jenna: No, I missed it. I went to Rag & Bone to see my friend who works there, except the FNO iPhone app sent me to the Christopher St. store. And my friend works at SoHo. Thanks, Style.com!
Sadie: Oh, dear. How was R&B otherwise? Hipstered out?
Jenna: Actually, it had a very pleasant down-home kind of feel. I rendez-vous'd there with some friends who had just come from the gallery openings in Chelsea, and one of them lives in Japan. He kept on comparing the store's aesthetic to Japanese clothing, which I can actually totally see.
Sadie: Oh, definitely. Were folks shopping?
Jenna: You know, that classic pieces reworked and finessed, done with an eye for design, but subtle, kinda thing. But it was strange at the same time, because the store was made over as an Irish pub.
No, I saw very few shoppers.
But they had a fiddle band! And honeyed whiskey. And Guinness, from an actual keggerator. (I think.)

Sadie: Ooh, nice!
Jenna: Moe and I got to talking about keggerators, because she used to live in a house that had one.
Sadie: I got insufficient drinks, considering.
Jenna: (Dude room-mates, of course.) Rag & Bone also had this neat gravity-fed whiskey autodispenser. Very technological.
Sadie: Ha! Now: what did you wear?!
Jenna: Important question, which I spent a long time thinking about before leaving the house. I wore: a green 1940s bouclé jacket with balloon sleeves and a nipped waist. It has a totally shattered lining — which meant I got it cheap — but the greatest part is it's got an awesome collar. It's self fabric on one side, and rabbit fur (I think?) on the other. And you can either let the collar fall open across your shoulders, and it looks like these awesome, structured, furry shoulderpads on the outside of your jacket. Or you can tie the collar up tighter and it forms a big muffler around your face. It came in handy because it was so cold last night! I wore it with jeans and comfortable shoes. What did YOU wear? :P
Sadie: Well, I changed from my actual work clothes into a fake business costume, trying to convey that "coming-from-a-cool-office" vibe. I wore this swell pair of very high-waisted pleated plaid trousers, apparently the former possession of an elderly society matron, now in a nursing home. They are about 40% ridiculous. With them, a plain blouse and some very high vintage heels. Oh, and I cut myself a possibly ill-judged ragged bang just before running out the door.
Jenna: Oooh, last-minute haircut. I like that. I trimmed my own hair myself the other day because it was getting shaggy in back — I'm trying to turn my pixie into a messy bob, Karen Elson c.a. 1997 kind of thing. Naturally, I thought of your post and all kinds of disastrous self-inflicted haircuts of years past.
Sadie: Yes, but the temptation always proves irresistible! Did you see any really noteworthy looks? (Besides those dudes voguing wildly in the window of Opening Ceremony.)
Jenna: I saw two great looks, actually: I dragged Moe, Japan-man, this German guy, and everyone else I was with to What Goes Around Comes Around, where they were almost out of booze but had amazing black and white cookies. And this shopgirl had on the perfect pair of jean shorts, not cut-offs but actual high-waisted vintage shorts, and a really simple silk printed blouse. And cowboy boots. It was very straightforward but the pieces looked fantastic together, and she looked comfortable, especially for someone who was standing around in 40 degree weather in shorts. Then, at the sample sale at the TriBeCa Grand, there was a beautiful woman wearing a teal suede vintage mini-dress. It had shoulder pads and a scoop neck, and it fit her perfectly. She said she'd bought it at a thrift store in Palm Beach for $4.
Sadie: I saw one girl whose look was so hip as to verge on dowdy, and I loved it: she had sort of Cameron-Diaz-in-Being-John-Malkovich hair, big glasses, and this maxi dress. She also looked furious.
I spied Lynn Yaeger, in what looked like vintage lace but might have been partly Prada.
Most folks were too self-consciously fashion-y in cage heels and leggings etc.
Jenna: Oh, man, a Lynn Yaeger sighting. I am so jealous. That Cameron Diaz in Being John Malkovich look is so hard to pull off, I always mentally nod in respect when I see it even attempted. I agree, though, in general the crowd was very skinny-destroyed-jeans, studs-on-things, chunky-heels, blouson-top, "I-totally-just-threw-this-on," either all-black or whoa-random-colors. Kind of a boring look.
Sadie: I complimented her, which was maybe breaking the fourth wall, because she was clearly put out by my importuning. My blouse got ripped in the crush. But hopefully everyone thought it was a deliberate twist on buttoned-up menswear. Punk edge, you know.
Jenna: me: Absolutely. So where else did you go?
Sadie: Saw a little of the Rapture's "set" at Prada...glimpsed the Miller sisters...
Jenna: Spy Grace Coddington?
Sadie: No! Sadly. I bet she left; I don't blame her — having to strand around these stores for 6 hours seems very tedious.
Jenna: Absolutely. Not least because nobody was buying much.
Sadie: I grabbed drinks at Madewell and Club Monaco, as they were en route to the hot dog truck.
Jenna: I guess they are hoping heavily for a sort of follow-through, now the seal has been broken.
I did not have any food all night! Aside from those black and white cookies.
Sadie: One assumes. Tell me how much actual shopping you saw, because I witnessed very little!
Jenna: Plenty o' booze, though. Moe and I did well on that score. Very little shopping. Some people were trying things on at the TriBeCa Grand. But most of the stores I went to were mobbed because of the entertainment/gawking/novelty factor.
Sadie: The atmosphere was really not conducive to shopping. And some places served red wine!
Jenna: Not because of actual sales opportunities.
Sadie: How would you characterize the atmosphere, overall? And the crowd? (Relative to the hype.)
me: It was really cool, actually, I enjoyed myself more than I thought I would. It was definitely fun — if occasionally ridiculous. I saw a woman in a leopard print dress and a (different) leopard print scarf at What Goes Around Comes Around. She tried on a blue sequined jumpsuit I had just browsed on the rack. It cost something like $2,500.
And the Opening Ceremony scene was just — nuts. The camera set-up in the store window, the prices of things, the mayhem.
Sadie: I mean, that was frankly kind of my idea of hell. That's why I don't go to "clubs."
Jenna: did you see that cardigan by Rodarte at Opening Ceremony, folded up, with two tags? One was printed and said $2,800. The other was written by hand in highlighted sharpie, and said DO NOT PICK UP RODARTE. It was the most heartbreaking thing ever. I took a picture.

Sadie: YES! But overall: yeah, kind of fun. There was definitely a carnival atmosphere on the streets.
Jenna: So Moe and I went over to the mannequins and TOUCHED THE RODARTE. Rodarte is soft, it turns out.

Sadie: NO!!!
Jenna: Yup, we did.
Sadie: Did officious publicists scream at you? Did the guys in the window stop voguing? DID YOU HURT THE ECONOMY?
Jenna: No! We just pawed at the pretty gothic-Stevie Nicks dresses until we were satisfied. Then drank more Asahi. Did you buy anything?
Sadie: Nope! (Well, except the hot dog.)
Jenna: I bought a gorgeous Marios Schwab dress from a vintage seller at the TriBeCa Grand. me: it's black, billowy chiffon, with polarfleece sleeves, and a strange technofabric-and-elastic boned harness that comes over the shoulders and clicks in front with a — one of those closures they use on backpacks or fanny packs, generally with poly webbing. You know? Or on bicycle helmets. It was really cool, in a sort of techno-gothic way. I'm wearing it right now! It's warm. Best of all, it was only $50. But I only had $20, so I had to get my Opening Ceremony worker friend to spot me $30 from his hidden stash of emergency money. As he said, it was clearly a Fashion Emergency. (Yuk, yuk, yuk!)
Sadie: That is the perfect thing to buy at a fashion event. (Besides a hot dog.) Wear it next year — maybe we can skip the lines at O.C. Assuming this hasn't fixed the economy, that is.

Collins is ready with examples:

"Do you want me to hold something?" he will inquire. "Are you cold?" "Would you like a biscuit?" Adrian Hallewell, a chauffeur in Yorkshire, who has known Bailey since he was a boy, told me, "He keeps a low profile, does he, Christopher."

It's interesting that Burberry chose Bailey — whose father was a carpenter, and whose mother worked as a window-dresser at Marks & Spencer — as its new creative director in 2001, at a time when the venerable English house was trying, artfully and carefully, to distance itself from the appropriation of its brand by a distinctly lower-class kind of customer.

In order to revive Burberry from a beside-the-point position as a legacy brand, then-C.E.O. Rose Marie Bravo made Burberry and its distinctive beige-and-red check ubiquitous — but the paradox of an upscale-but-instantly-recognizable brand is that if it becomes too popular, or suffers from the wrong kind of exposure, the hard-won "upscale" image can evaporate. (Louis Vuitton waged a long-term fight to win back its identification with exclusivity by ending department store sales in favor of only own-store retail in the 1980s, but some would argue that the company's famous monogram — or imitations of it — metastasized to a brand-harming extent during the recent economic boom.)

In England, Burberry had gone from outfitting royalty, military top brass, and explorers to being worn by reality television personalities and second-rate soap opera stars making their first public appearances following septum-repair surgeries. (That would be Danniella Westbrook, of EastEnders, pictured above in 2002 with her daughter.) It used to count Roald Amundsen, Robert Scott, and Sir Ernest Shackleton as customers; by 2002, it had Jade Goody and a contingent of xenophobic soccer hooligans who were particularly fond of a $90 plaid hat.

Burberry stopped making the hat. It also began to devote much of its energies to policing its brand — no more pet products "in the famous Burberry design," or "Chavalier" Vauxhall Chevaliers with customized Burberry paint jobs. (Incidentally, virtually every tacky-Burberry example Collins offers up, including the "Chavalier," Westbrook, and a photo of a woman with Burberry-check acrylic nails, was highlighted in a thoughtful post about the history of the brand and its increasing identification with "chav" and football culture on the blog Finally Woken last November.) After new C.E.O. Angela Ahrendts took over in 2006, she discontinued many licenses and product lines she felt did not represent that brand well, or distracted from its core luxury image: "Burberry used to do little bottles of whiskey," said Bailey, "We're not experts on whiskey, so why the hell would we do whiskey?" Burberry Prorsum, the high-end line founded under Bravo's watch, is now the company's moody torch-bearer. But Bailey, who is understandably sensitive to any accusation of classism in the company's repositioning, especially in the class-fraught British context, is hesitant to cast the change in terms of sidelining "undesirable" customers. "I think that probably a lot of it was counterfeit," says Bailey, of the various Burberry-ish clothing items the paparazzi snapped in the early 2000s. In fact, the designer counts spotting one of his authentic designs in "a kind of skanky pub" as a highlight of his career, so far:

Few things please Bailey more than encountering his work in the nooks and crannies of the British experience — a trenchcoat draped over a Westminster politician's arm, lining out; a checked scarf, worn as a hijab, in the immigration queue at Gatwick. A small triumph of his career was spotting a checked purse that he had designed tucked under a table at a bar in Yorkshire. "It was this kind of skanky pub, and all of a sudden I was like, 'It's actually amazing that this little baby thing that I work on with my gang goes out into the world and then finds its way back to my home town,' " he said. "You want to know the story behind it."

Before coming to Burberry, Bailey worked at Donna Karan, and for another great recent fashion revival case, Gucci under Tom Ford. Although he didn't take much from Ford's sexy Cosmo-cover-line aesthetic, Bailey undoubtedly experienced an object lesson in how to design a venerable house away from the brink of irrelevancy.

Like almost every luxury company known to man, Burberry is facing hard times right now because of the economic crisis; since last fall, the company has laid off employees, closed factories, and still saw a 2008 loss of $8 million. (Perhaps partly because, as Collins notes, the company moved into expensive new purpose-built headquarters in London last November.) Nonetheless, Burberry has fared well enough since listing on the London Stock Exchange in 2004. Today, the company made the news when it was forecast to crack the FTSE 100 by the end of this week. With the news that Jaeger-reviver Harold Tillman is buying the fusty, bankrupt British classic outerwear label Aquascutum — with plans for a grand shake-up in place, according to British Vogue — it's clear that there are plenty of others seeking to meet the same challenges Burberry faced so recently.

Check Mate: Burberry's Working-Class Hero [New Yorker]
Harold Tillman Acquires Acquascutum [Vogue UK]
Burberry To Check In To FTSE 100 [FT]
Thinking About Buying Burberry? [Finally Woken]

We decided to resurrect some early gems, like this Versace campaign, shot by Richard Avedon, and co-starring (who else?) Naomi and Linda.


There is an entire cultural studies thesis about power dressing and the representation of women as authority figures and "having it all" latent in this picture from 1987.


Isn't it strange that this one, though it dates from almost ten years later, seems so passive by comparison? Calvin Klein had Turlington on a very restrictive exclusive contract until the early 1990s, when she was dumped by the brand for cutting her hair without consulting them — a relationship, and a reaction, that has always struck me as emblematic of a deep paternalism.


Herb Ritts, for Versace, makes Turlington look here like a piece of Surrealist art.


You just know there's a hipster in Williamsburg itching to wear this, a coat so ugly even Irving Penn couldn't make it look appetizing, right now.


Pressing questions: what is going on with the crotch of those pants?


Oh, man, remember film grain?


Since it seems inevitable that we're heading back to the 90s, would it be totally unrealistic to hope that we might return to these 90s?


Because I, for one, do not relish the thought of going back to these ones.


Ah, that's better.


Irving Penn contributes so very rarely to Vogue these days — which is understandable, given his advanced years. But this picture, and the next one, help show why he is missed.


Seriously, how long has it been since we've seen the actual shape of a human body, unaltered by Photoshop, in the pages of American Vogue? All the twists and overlaps are what make this picture — like the bulge in her arm that proves its supporting her weight, and the indentation the protrusion of her heel makes in her ass. And you can easily imagine these being among the first features that would be smoothed and tightened away under today's aesthetic regime.


Like they are here, in this otherwise striking cover from 2002.


Someone should make pumps like these again. They're not stupidly high, they have that perfect not-too-pointy toe, and the classic tapering heel. No hidden platform, no witchy long vamp, no 4" stiletto to negotiate walking in — just cute proportions and cute prints. Linda is saying, "Fuck yeah!"


Meisel in the 80s doing Avedon in the 50s isn't the most original of themes, but I'm a sucker for shots of women putting on their makeup and jewelry. Something about those moments of feminine toilette is so intimate and fascinating.


Shoulder-grazing ear-rings and 3 lb necklaces are fun to wear! Whee!


Never one to shy away from the unusual, for a 2006 campaign for her Puma line Nuala, the supermodel had artist Alex Katz paint her.

Christy Turlington is, of course, a lot more than a model these days. She quit the industry at the age of 25 to study comparative religion at NYU, and is currently a graduate student in public health at Columbia. Now 40 and a mother of two, Turlington is making a documentary about maternal health in developing countries. She's financing it with the money she makes from her occasional gigs, like being the next face of YSL. "I can talk about things that people in the field are afraid to bring up," says Turlington, "because their funding is tied to administrations and policy."

25 Years of Christy Turlington in Vogue [Style.com]
Beauty And Soul [Style.com]

The Boston-born Cunningham started shooting street fashion in 1966, when a photographer friend of the young fashion journalist gave him a $35 camera and advised him to use it like a notebook. Captivated by the New York's clothing soup him ever since, Cunningham has photographed a weekly "On The Street" fashion column for the Sunday Styles section ever since a couple good shots of Greta Garbo's nutria coat caught the section editor's eye in 1978. Cunningham has a passionate, discriminating, but stubbornly democratic love of fashion. He's as likely to be captivated by the turn of a workman's trouser cuffs as he is by the twist of a Balenciaga heel; despite a lifetime spent working in the industry, starting off as a stocker at Bonwit Teller, Cunningham retains an outsider's eye. He loves shooting on 5th Ave., where he says you can see the whole world go by, if you're patient enough. But he's been known to get on trains to go clear across the city if he thinks he's missed a shot that'll fit with his week's theme.

Lauren Collins, who profiled Cunningham in this week's Style issue of the New Yorker, reveals that the photographer, who turns 80 this month, lives alone in the Carnegie Hall Tower. He sleeps on a piece of foam that tops a board propped up by milk crates, and has access to a shared bathroom and kitchen. He is most often dressed in a utilitarian blue cotton smock — like those some garment workers still wear, with thimbles and embroidery scissors in the pockets and needles holding many colored threads in a row down one sleeve — and he generally gets around town on his red bicycle. When he travels to Paris, his editor at the Times, Trip Gabriel, reports that Cunningham "insists on staying at a cheapo hotel that has no phones in the rooms." He takes all his pictures with a well-used Nikon; in the years since the Times photojournalism department went digital, Cunningham has processed his film at a 1-hour photo lab on 43rd St.

Cunningham is a quiet man who works in the loud, twinned industries of fashion and media. But what captivates him is still the simple aesthetic joy of noticing what people wear, and identifying commonalities. "I don't really see people — I see clothes," he says. And he has little patience for the sky-is-falling rhetoric of America's allegedly faltering style. "People say everybody's a slob. Ridiculous! There are marvelously dressed women you see at a quarter to eight, going to business. When people say fashion is no more, they're ridiculous! It's as good as it ever was."

Cunningham has perfect recall of individual ensembles — what they were, when they were worn, what the person was doing — that were of particular interest to him, going all the way back to the 1960s. "I'm looking for something that has beauty," he says, simply. And he hasn't the heart for criticizing the sartorial choices of private citizens. "Dos and Don'ts? I don't think there are any don'ts! What right does one have?"

In the profile, Collins mentions that Cunningham has often been called a "fashion monk" — but instead classifies him as an oblate, "a layperson who has dedicated his life to the tribe without becoming a part of it." And it's this crucial distinction that sets him apart from the current popular crop of street style bloggers, whose work Cunningham's pioneering in many ways made possible. There's often a mind-numbing sameness to the outfits recorded on various of the well-read blogs that chronicle the styles of the world's cities; it's the young, good-looking subject, wearing the cool outfit with the 80s thrift-store touches, shooting a doleful look down the camera's lens. Reading their offerings, the overwhelming impression is one of a flattened world where all the hip young things have the same ideas about how to dress, whether they happen to live in Mexico City or Berlin. The stylistic tranche being diaried is limited. You can't imagine Jak & Jil finding anything of interest at the Puerto Rican Day Parade or in the outfits of tourists — two things Cunningham loves.

Although a few street style blogs, like Garance Doré's, seem to share Cunningham's enthusiasm for fashion as it's worn by real people — and his knack for identifying unthought-of trends — a lot of street style photobloggers behave as though they're (im)patiently waiting for their place at the fashion table. And why shouldn't they? Scott Schuman, aka the Sartorialist, has been featured in a Gap campaign and himself photographed the new DKNY Jeans campaign. Jak & Jil's Tommy Ton (who says of Doré and Schuman, "They're interested in taking a beautiful photograph. I'm just a freak for the Balmain and the Balenciaga!") nonetheless attracted the attention of the Asian retailer Lane Crawford, who asked Ton to step into Inez van Lamsweerde and Vinoodh Matadin's shoes and shoot, presumably at least somewhat beautiful, images for its next campaign.

Cunningham eschews such trappings of the profession. He lives for the next great shot, the next strange confluence of colors and shapes, the next windstorm that turns umbrellas into spiny exoskeletons, the next rainstorm that shows the wealthy that the waters don't magically part. "Oh, it's marvelous — it just rearranges the whole fashion scene when the wind blows down from the top of the Avenue," says Cunningham. "Six-, seven-hundred-dollar shoes, and they're all in the slush — hey, it's pretty peculiar! Nothing like a good blizzard, kid, and you get pictures."

Which is not to say that Cunningham doesn't speak fluent couture — he can spot a Dior or a Chanel at fifty paces, and he has a particular love of the more eccentric labels, like Comme des Garçons and Martin Margiela. (In 2000, when hip-hop fans started wearing their sweatshirts "abstractly, with the neck hole on the shoulder, or with the sleeves dangling down the back," Collins writes, Cunningham compared the look to the Japanese avant-garde deconstructionist designers.) But despite his depth of insider knowledge, or perhaps because of it, it's fashion qua fashion that interests him, not the label per se. That might be the biggest difference between Cunningham and Ton.

Cunningham is looking forward to seeing, over the coming months, how people are going to reflect the changing economy in their daily dress. "Fashion, the people wearing it, will do it before they even know what they're doing. You don't know yet, it's just starting to gel, but there will be a style. You watch, you'll see something. There's the old saw about hemlines. Who knows? It's only in the future you can know. You just have to stay out on the street and get it. It's all here."

Man On The Street [New Yorker — sub req'd]
Bill Cunningham [NY Times]

Elbaz, who has long won accolades for designs that consistently hit at the sweet spot of the continuum between beautiful and interesting, started off in the industry working on "horrible mother-of-the-bride dresses" in New York's garment district. Given a leg up by Geoffrey Beene, who took him on as an assistant, Elbaz eventually earned his first head designer position at Guy Laroche in 1997. A stop at YSL followed, but what Elbaz is known for is the eight years he has now spent at Lanvin.

In the pages of the New Yorker's Style Issue, Levy captures Elbaz's uneasy relationship with the images of luxury he so skilfully creates. Elbaz is 47, and, Levy writes, "there seems to be something fundamental about him in need of comforting." He is also overweight, and in a moment that must ring familiar to almost any woman on earth, Levy observes him dithering over his breakfast order at the Carlyle Hotel: " 'Should we be good today or bad? Maybe we start good and get bad later.' He ordered the fruit salad. He wanted the pancakes."

Some designers are, or at least seem, to the manner born: Karl Lagerfeld, Ralph Lauren, and Tom Ford, et. al., embody the moneyed ease and supreme self-assurance their particular labels sell. Other talents clearly retain something closer to an outsider's perspective, some sense of a life beyond the lifestyle evidenced through frumpy outfits or quiet demeanors. (Some designers, like Marc Jacobs, start up in one camp and end up in the other — the early Jacobs, with his nerd glasses, pallor, and paunch is orders of magnitude away from the contemporary gym-toned, tanned, health-farm Jacobs; it's like looking at an El Greco and then a Botticelli.) Elbaz is clearly in the more modest category. He compares his job shaping the dreams and expectations of the select group of women that are his customers to working as a concierge in a fancy hotel — the concierge being the person who has to go home at night. "You have to go back to reality. You have to go back to nothing in order to maintain the dream," he says. "The moment the dream becomes reality and you start to mingle too much with all these people..."

Photo by Tim Walker

Levy's profile really heats up when she contrasts Elbaz's aesthetic with that of Tom Ford, who took the Moroccan-born Israeli's job at YSL Rive Gauche a few months after Gucci Group's acquisition of the brand in 1999. (Yves Saint Laurent had at the time been grooming Elbaz as his successor.) Ford, in Levy's construction, was the spirit guide and permanent booster of the ra-ra bling-bling late 1990s and early 2000s, while Elbaz was the quiet talent cut out for more unassuming times.

Ford could not have been a more maddening foil. Where Elbaz was pudgy and Jewish and self-doubting, Ford was toned and tan and Texan. Elbaz is shy and still not exactly a household name; when Ford guest-edited an issue of Vanity Fair, in 2006, he put himself on the cover, flanked by Scarlett Johanson and Keira Knightley in the nude. Perhaps most significant, Elbaz has always presented in his work a quiet, complicated conception of female sexuality. One of Ford's more memorable ads as the designer for Gucci featured a woman [Estonian supermodel Carmen Kass] pulling down her underwear to reveal the letter "G" shaved out of her pubic hair.

Perhaps the New Yorker's sense of propriety forbade Levy from mentioning Ford's other boundary-stretching campaign of the period, when, during his time with YSL Rive Gauche, he chose to advertise the men's fragrance M7 with a full-frontal nude portrait of martial arts champion Samuel de Cubber.

"But," writes Levy, "little by little, as the money and the grandiose sense of self-assurance of that era fell away, Ford's sensibility came to seem less stylish." The writer narrates Ford's retirement from women's fashion and the Gucci Group, in 2004, and mentions that a pair of cufflinks she recently browsed in Ford's eponymous Manhattan men's wear store costs $34,000. Her conclusion:

In our current moment, Tom Ford, with his tan, and his cufflinks that cost as much as a car, and his naked-man-on-bearskin-rug aesthetic, seems distant and comical. He has become Bijan. And Alber Elbaz has gradually won.

If Levy's skewering of Tom Ford, whose idea of recession-friendly pricing is a pair of jeans that costs $990, is a delight of schadenfreude, it's also a little easy. Elbaz, and his aesthetic, were never in any mortal danger after being cut loose from YSL; the designer walked into a dream position at Lanvin, where the label owner's only instruction was to "Please wake the sleeping beauty" less than a year later. Moreover, Elbaz's clothes for Lanvin are every bit as expensive as Tom Ford's were for Rive Gauche and Gucci. It's difficult to imagine many women who can admit a $4,000+ sheath dress into their wardrobes without hardship.

Elbaz explains the huge cost of his garments in terms of their materials and workmanship — which is true to a point. (The markups that retailers typically add, which can be 60-70% over wholesale prices, go unmentioned by both Levy and Elbaz.) Elbaz, who alternates in the profile between the airy fashion-speak of one who spends his life on the astral plane of aesthetics, and more articulate quotes, analogizes making a dress with the research and development requirements of pharmaceutical companies. "Doing a collection, for me, is almost like creating a vaccine," he says. "Once you create the vaccine, then you can duplicate it for nine dollars and ninety-nine cents. But see if you can create it for nine dollars and ninety-nine cents, and the answer is no. In that sense, I have absolutely no problem with the prices. I don't think we do it just to do it." (It's also worth pointing out that the Lanvin atelier is located in France, where garment workers earn a middle-class living, and where Elbaz claims his company pays 65% taxes.)

The designer has said in the past that he does not care to design the dress that will make a man fall in love with a woman; he wants to make the dress that a woman wears when she falls in love herself. But I'm not sure the rhetorical inversion necessarily works: although I appreciate woman-centered design, that departs from the first principles of the wearer and her needs and desires, as opposed to those of the implicit male observer of the dress, whoever knows ahead of time when they're going to fall in love? A dress to make you more loving is a curious idea indeed.

At times, Elbaz seems flinty and difficult, which can often be the downside to being a visionary (at least for those who surround you). When he visits a potential site for his fall/winter show with his team, a former load-out station in the 13th Arrondissement, Elbaz speaks in a stream-of-consciousness that must be impossible to parse. "I had many, many thoughts. The dogs. The black car waiting outside. The man with the white coat and the dirty hands. The crystal on the floor and the train station just in the back. I'm looking for something to clean my eyes!" He muses for a while on the "bad spirit" of the warehouse space, before, in what comes across as a self-pitying gesture for its very unseriousness, momentarily contemplating leaving fashion. There's also an episode over some handbags which aren't to his liking, and an hours-long meeting with the team of architects who are at work on his London store, in which he exclaims, "If a woman comes in and it doesn't smell right or the light isn't right, she will think the dress doesn't look good!" Elbaz sometimes seems like that maddening boss who expects everyone to do the right thing but cannot articulate what it is.

All in all, I think Levy's thesis — that women have moved beyond Tom Ford's sexy dresses, and into the prim refinement of Lanvin under Elbaz — isn't entirely spot-on. Any woman, no matter her career or age, wants at least occasionally to look hot; if that note is missing on Elbaz's scale, it's a lack. And it's a heartbreaking statement about women in general that Elbaz should have such a presumed accord with our needs because he personally understands feelings of physical inadequacy. (When Levy asks him what his life would be like if he were thin, Elbaz doesn't skip a beat: "Amazing.") But Elbaz's work as the concierge of Lanvin, ironically, displays all the assurance he himself can't seem to muster. He never exhibits the clumsy pretty-ugly tics of Miuccia Prada — he knows real women don't want to look dowdy. His idea of sexy is never louche, like Roberto Cavalli's. His clothes are tailored, but not restrictive like the work of Roland Mouret. Intellectual touches don't impede wearability, as they can at Comme des Garçons. ("If it's not edible, it's not food," says Elbaz. "If it's not wearable, it's not fashion.") Alber Elbaz's work, for those who can afford it, is classic without the connotation of dustiness. And it's nice to get to know, at least a little, the fevered, nervous, visionary personality behind the curtain.

Ladies' Man [New Yorker — sub req'd]
Ariel Levy On The Designer Alber Elbaz — Audio Slideshow [New Yorker]
Lanvin Fall/Winter 09 Collection [Style.com]

According to Ryan Holiday, an American Apparel PR rep whose name sounded strangely familiar,

The report cards are real. One is actually up on DovCharney.com. The rest are hanging in a photo display in the factory. Someone probably scanned them and sent them to Jossip. It can't be more likely that someone dusted off a typewriter and made four fake report cards from 1987 than the fact that maybe Dov is a nice person.

We'll reserve judgment on whether it's true that Charney is actually a nice person (or not) — but Holiday is correct that one of the report cards in question, for Ethics, with teacher James P. Dalton-Thompson in the Fall of 1986, is indeed up at the American Apparel founder's personal website.

Barring the prospect that this is a bit of corporate whitewashing — and it does remain awfully convenient that Charney should suddenly be revealed as a "mo-ped" riding, local-newspaper-reporting, obsessively hard-working Canadian boy genius, when his company has had such bad press lately — there is one conclusion that is inescapable:

Dov Charney's Choate Rosemary Hall Ethics teacher mis-spelled the name of John Stuart "Mills."

Day tuition at the Connecticut prep school for the year 2009-10 cost $33,030, not including boarding costs and fees.

Earlier: American Apparel Founder Got A B+ In Ethics

Related: Dov Charney — Schooling [Dovcharney.com]
American Apparel's Internal "Bankrupt" E-mails [Gawker]
Choate Rosemary Hall Tuition And Fees [Choate]

Jossip has posted what purport to be report cards from one Dov Charney's time at Choate Rosemary Hall, the Connecticut preparatory boarding school that Charney attended for just one year before reportedly being expelled. (Supposed reason: "He pooped in his cereal to frame another kid for doing it." Whatever you make of that.)

Maybe that incident was what the dean was referring to when he wrote in Spring of 1987 - the American Apparel founder's final semester - "Through all the crazy moments that I went through with Dov, he has somehow managed to endear himself to me, and my life will never be the same."

"His style is and will be controversial": John Ford, Choate Dean of Students, what a gift for prescient understatement you have!

Apparently, his interest in ethics was such that he regularly called his teacher at home to ask questions about things covered in class.

Also a harbinger of things to come: the young Charney wrote a term paper on reciprocal free trade between the U.S. and Canada for his history class.

As cute as it is to imagine the idea of Dov Charney, schoolboy t-shirt mini-mogul, riding around campus on his moped and always burning with desire to discuss the finer points of J.S. Mill (as opposed to burning with desire to sleep with his cokiest girl employees), I have to wonder if these documents are real. It's awfully convenient for such a uniformly positive picture to emerge.

It strikes me as a tremendous coincidence that all of Charney's teachers would find him so charmingly precocious, with his work on the hard-driving reportorial staff of the central Connecticut Record-Journal (which was a "credit to himself and Choate" — History teacher John H. Connelly) and his endless enthusiasm for parsing the Jeffersonian and Hamiltonian positions on interpreting the constitution. Something about a teacher (Connelly, again) mentioning that Charney's "shrewd" observations always drew the admiration of his classmates raises my bullshit meter.

If these are his report cards, then late-teens Charney was clearly that charmingly/annoyingly smart guy with the big mouth who always did the reading, and then background reading, and some background on the background, just so he could ask the kind of questions you would never have thought of. Which, if true, would make it seem like an even greater shame that he's now reduced to masturbating in front of female journalists, defending endless sexual harassment lawsuits, and narrowly avoiding bankruptcy after his kudzu-like retail expansion. Seventeen-year-old Dov, if we are to take these documents at face value, actually sounds like a decent guy. Which somehow would make it all the sadder.

Dov Charney Was Such A Good Kid...What Happened? [Jossip]

Earlier: Dov Charney May Be More Of A Scumbag That Anyone Realized

Related: American Apparel's Plans For Recession Success: More Sex, Please

American Apparel's Internal "Bankrupt" E-mails [Gawker]

Update: A reader says, "The Baroness isn't really a famous celebrity fashion designer like DVF or Donatella Versace (unless you mean by fetish standards). Her designer name is the Baroness, her website is www.baroness.com, and she has a store in the East Village where she sells her latex clothing."

This issue, with Simon Le Bon on the cover, is from fall 1993. It was nibbled by a pet rabbit, if you were wondering.

Please, please, please, please: Don't let these pants come back in style. Please.

Is Moby pinching his nipple?

Nick is a model who doesn't know how to operate a button.

Raise your hand if you had jeans that were "built for two."

Extra points if you wore stripes on stripes.

Tommy Lee, doing what he does best: manhandling a chick. Fall 1994.

Confession: I sort of love this Diesel ad, in which the white people are trying their best to be brown and the brown people are trying their best not to bust out laughing.

Little-known fact: Uma Thurman's brother was a model, briefly.

Gorgeous. Love Patricia. This Venezuelan model went on to be in The Mummy and The Mummy Returns and The L Word.

These boots are made for stompin'.

Doesn't it seem like the fabric is in all the wrong places?

That there on the left is miss Jamie King, known in the '90s as "a girl named James." If you saw My Bloody Valentine 3D a couple of weeks ago, you got a peep at her acting skills.

Trend: Fuzzy = LOL.

What Fleuvogs used to look like.

More chunky, clunky shoes. It was impossible to sneak up on people in the '90s.

Someone wants you to rent Singles.

Earlier: Back Issues Of InFashion: Party Like It's 1992

This cover is from Fall 1992. John Corbett was "that guy from Northern Exposure" and Sex And The City had yet to be unleashed on the American public. The woman he's posing with is MTV VJ Duff. It seems he'd love to just tilt his head and knock her right off the cover.

Ladies and gentlemen: Kristy Swanson, star of a little film called Buffy The Vampire Slayer. She's mad for plaid! Fall 1992.

Did women actually wear quilted vests and tapered pants tucked into boots? This woman did. Fall 1992.

Who could possibly look at a jean jacket and think, "what this thing needs is a see-through panel" ? Fall 1992.

Where are these people now? Winter 1993.

The only thing more frightening than her eye makeup is that platformed and chunky-heeled boot. Not that I didn't covet it, at the time. Let's not talk about the hair. Winter 1993.

Please note the frayed pants hem and Colonial Williamsburg shoes. Did people actually get laid in the '90s? Winter 1993.

A threesome you don't want to watch. And where is her hand? Winter 1993.

Her hideous vest was $82, which has got to be almost $200 in 2009 dollars, right? Anyway. If you lean in, you can hear Arrested Development playing in the background. Winter 1993.

Gah. What's funnier — the hats, the hair, or the sucked-in-cheeks this model is throwing at the camera? Winter 1993.

I would like to pretend I didn't wear something like this to see the Chili Peppers and Ice Cube at Lollapalooza but I can't. The shame is crippling. Winter 1993.

Jeremy spoke in class today. Winter 1993.

Would you look at Ms. Tyra Banks? Getting all close and personal with the dude who sang "I Hate Everything About You? Her eyebrows are… severe. Spring 1995.

The spread says "Café Au Lait," but the message? Black coffee is strong. By the by: This model, credited as "Wale," is Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje, also known as Adebisi from Oz or Mr. Eko from Lost. Spring 1995.

No thanks! Spring 1995.

Look closely and you'll see CSI's Gary Dourdan jumbled in this pretty pile-up. Also: Yay, diversity! Spring 1995.

Big toothbrush, little skirt. Are we raving now? Spring 1995.

Oh, dear: The inevitable rollerblading story. "The blading scene is largely about being seen," reads the copy. Spring 1995.

Nuno Bettencourt, on the left, was in Extreme, the band caused "More Than Words" to be on the airwaves. Incessantly. The lady to his right is then-19-year-old Vanessa Paradis, who was releasing an album produced by Lenny Kravitz. Johnny Depp: No where to be found. Winter 1992.

In the interview accompanying these shots of Marky Mark, he uses the word "dope" over and over again. "I think of myself as a very flavorsome rapper. I'm versatile and that's what I think makes my style so dope," he says. "I did a dope rap on voting for MTV. I just started getting hip on voting." Winter 1992.

This actually feels rather current. Could be My Chemical Romance or whatever, no? Winter 1992.

Male supermodel, Marcus Schenkenberg, gives his best "blue steel." Winter 1992.

I suppose it was about time to read another one of these articles where some writer wrings his or her hands over Americans’ allegedly inconsistent commitment to fashionable dressing. The rhetoric in these trend pieces never changes: we are always and in perpetuity too fat, too lazy, and too dumb. (Although there was, always and in perpetuity, a mythical time in the not-too-distant past when every male citizen of every state wore a 40R jacket and every female citizen could rhapsodize extemporaneously about the superior hand of natural fibers.)

What I don’t understand is why writers like Reddy, and Lynn Hirshberg of the New York Times, who wrote one of these dismal pieces in 2007, consent so easily to playing the scold. Writes Reddy, “The stereotype of the ugly American has become intractable.”

If you ask citizens of other countries to paint a portrait of the average American tourist, it would look something like this: a loud, chubby sight-seer wearing a fanny pack, baseball cap, printed T shirt, jean shorts and sneakers.

I wonder, why do we care? And do these people not realize they have elasticized waistbands in France, too?

Reddy harks back to the age of Mad Men — a fictional, modern-made television series with a professionally styled wardrobe department — as evidence that we only recently forgot ourselves and embraced casualwear in the workplace. That Nicole Phelps, executive editor of Style.com, points out that real working women of the 1960s had to wear girdles more painful even than Spanx to fit the reigning professional silhouette of the era, doesn’t trouble Reddy, probably because he is a man.

Once upon a time, he continues,

Those with the means made a virtue of exuding relaxed elegance; they didn't try to overdo anything, but they saw no shame in appearing put together. It was an extension of what they believed in, a polished pragmatism that, today, has given way to self-indulgence.

Comfort has its place, of course, but if that becomes the guiding value in getting dressed—or anything else—then we've got a problem. This misplaced priority has arguably contributed to our current troubles with credit, education and productivity. Compared with our parents and grandparents, we've had it relatively easy. We've got cable TV, microwave popcorn and GPS. The world is at our command and we are at ease, but this kind of comfort breeds complacency—not to mention Velcro straps and elasticized waistbands.

You heard the man. Velcro and other signifiers of “self-indulgence” caused the credit crisis.

Hirshberg’s piece was not much better: “I have long believed that leisure wear is one of the great evils of our times,” she writes,

When a waistband can give and give, why should anyone stop eating? When a shirt does not need to be tucked in, who cares about the belly beneath?

Although the sizism of these kinds of pieces — specifically denied by both writers — is easily parsed from the continual references to "tent-size" shirts, "sloppiness," and “XXL polo shirts”, what’s also distressing is their classism. While dressing well needn’t be expensive, what these writers seem to be calling for isn’t merely fashion as fun self-expression, it’s fashion as a system of social representation — the idea that one ought to look good, so that one can be recognized by other good-looking people, and feel mutually reassured in one's tastes. And that kind of dress-as-shibboleth requires the sublimation of most of one’s ideas about clothes into the safe confines of designer labels. Reddy detests chubbiness; I don’t like his clubbiness. Or his condescension.

Inherent in these stories is the idea that a certain way of looking equates with a certain way of being. I love fashion; I love playing with ideas of representation and how we declare ourselves in the world. But I think that when you start alleging that fashion — or, worse, "taste" — has some kind of absolute, timeless value, you get into potentially dangerous moral (and extraordinarily boring sartorial) territory. Hirshberg’s story ends up reifying Italian President Silvio Berlusconi and former French Prime Minister Dominique de Villepin as tidy dressers; it’s as though the fact that each is often in the public eye for corruption somehow makes their alleged fashion savvy more impressive.

Reddy thinks fashion in ’09 will take a turn towards his narrow definitions of “chic” with the coming of the Obamas. What I’d like to see from fashion in ’09 is fewer hectoring “trend” stories about lazy poor fat people and their lazy poor fat people habits. Comfort is not the enemy of style, and fat is not the enemy of fashion. Maybe we could just end the entire idea of fashion as a capital-F top-down regimented enterprise fit only for vetted experts. Then we could get back to wearing what we want, wearing what we think is fun, wearing what makes us feel good, wearing what reminds us of that one really great day when…and not being judged by mean writers for it.

Putting The Chic Back In Dressing [Newsweek]

Related: The Emperors' New Clothes? [NY Times]