The Mulberry Leah on the runway.
I’m no fan of pink (never have been, unless it was on my nails, toes, or in lipsticks). But somehow, the bright splashes of pink via the shoes and bag was styled more eclectic than girly. Coral lips, big, crimped hair, and bright pink compliment a sophisticated outfit rather well, if not impeccably.
Darlings. Like I always say. It’s always about juxtaposition and balance.
I kind of, sort of, like really adore Dasha’s style.
I need a subscription to POP magazine, a.s.a.p.
For the rules & to enter, click away here or on the picture, babes!54
{ tribute painting | d a n n y r o b e r t s }
It’s rather unsettling to be here writing this; a part of me harbors this notion that no, it can’t quite possibly be real, that the one and only Alexander McQueen is d e a d . Suicide was the stipulation for the death of this iconic British designer.
Harsh, isn’t it? Those words. The finality of the words death and dead that we all sought to avoid, and herein we try to appease our souls with less confined descriptions: rest in peace, left the Earth, escaped worldliness, etc. Our minds, with the knowledge of our own fragility, grow scared at every reminder of our mortality. It’s admittedly pathetic, but nonetheless human.
I know I’m perhaps the last to dedicate a tribute of sorts to Alexander McQueen; what exactly do I write about him that could put to justice to the amount of beauty and artistic genius he gave to the world? Alexandra Schulman at Voguehad said, “Lee McQueen influenced a whole generation of designers. His brilliant imagination knew no bounds as he conjured up collection after collection of extraordinary designs.”
It was exactly that - his boundless imagination and lack of inhibition – that brought him to where he was today. I do believe that my reverence for him – and countless others’ admiration for the designer – was for that very quality. Few people possess the ability to do so without recoiling from insecurities or fear of what others would think. On a smaller scale, we shelter a part of ourselves from the brutality of the world, so save our egos and creative bits should our peers scoff at what isn’t in the norm. To be able to forgo any and all insecurities, self- and societal restraints, is a feat to be praised for, especially when displayed for the entire world to see, and ultimately, judge. That, in itself, should be commended.
Thus the news of Alexander McQueen’s suicide is especially devastating for any who have heard of the iconic name; in my mind he (and the likes of Karl Lagerfeld) were near immortal: physically as the last man standing, and intangibly as in their influence upon the exclusive fashion world. Yet at the same time it was strangely forsee-able. I obviously have no personal connections to the man, but in seeing his designs, brash and impulsive (writing “I am a c*nt into the sleeve of Prince Charles’ suit!), there was an undercurrent of pessimism in his romantically, arch-romantic collections – elements that perhaps reflected his inner self. His collections were always beautiful in a nonconventional fashion, yet dark.
Choosing the perfect image to accompany my tribute post to Alexander McQueen stopped upon seeing
We all cringe at the headlines everywhere: ALEXANDER MCQUEEN, AGE 40 DEAD. Bolded, in the rather unfeeling Times New Roman font – all the more imprinting the finality of his leave. It’s a funny thing, how we think death means the end of all good that came from that being, when in fact, it only immortalizes him.
Abbey Lee Kershaw, Vogue Australia, in Louis Vuitton SS2010.
I usually refrain (read: stay a good distance away, as if the thing were cursed – not that I believe in superstitions or anything) from posting any image I’ve seen on at least two blogs. The blogosphere is a bit incestuous, sharing images, ideas, etc. in such tight-knit community.
But like every rule, there is an exception: this picture is far from the norm of what I typically like: there is something about it that makes me swoon a little inside. I may be biased because I absolutely adore Abbey Lee; regardless, the jade nails, orange lips, neon pink hair have me praising the stylist. The combination was so wrong (only to be seen on the emo/goth/punk girls that moped the halls of high school), but done so right. The palette of neon colors could have been blinding, yet with Marc Jacob’s ingeniusity, looked nothing short of what the most sophisticated of punk-surfer girls would wear.
Lovely indeed. A great breath of fresh air from the ubiquitous Balmain-induced Balmainia trends. (Yah know – studs, rips, spikes, etc.)
Dear American Apparel,
I absolutely, positively a d o r e your double u-back body-con long-sleeved dress in black (I do plan on splurging on a few more in various colors). It’s become my go-to LBD, my signature, my “freakum dress” (as dearest Beyonce would say, or sing, rather).
But take that dress, plus this print of the unknown universe. The stars, the swirls, the colors. The juxtaposition of dark and glimmering light. That would be one hell of a dress, let me tell yah.
Your biggest fan,
La Couturier
{ image source: t h e f a s h i o n s p o t }
I suppose it would only be fair to all you lovely non-pareils that I begin with an apology explaining (in great depth) my reasons for this ridiculously long hiatus. I have not neglected this blog no. 2; my absence on La Couturier x POP was due to a combination of a re-prioritization of my aspirations/goals/etc. (if you’re truly curious and have quite a bit of time to kill, the article is on my other blog) and viral attacks that nearly killed my darling laptop. So if you’ve already forgotten who I am (or perhaps are a new reader who has only just stumbled upon here), scroll a few posts down to the first post in which I properly introduce myself.
With that said, happy belated 2010!
Isn’t it lovely that it’s a new year? And an even one, at that? I have a gut feeling 2010 will be quite the eventful year; my only qualms with it are whether or not I should call it “two-thousand ten” or be cool and call it “twenty ten.” Is “oh-ten” a viable candidate in the running, too? Let me know what you think.
But before you question the relevance of the post’s title and the lovely editorial of Abbey Lee Kershaw, I will explain. The end of 2009 began (I’m well aware of the paradoxical statement I have just made) with a bang, really, of which the rather dark film, Where the Wild Things Are, epitomized. The film was nothing I expected, harboring a much deeper and darker message than I had entered the theater expecting. Instead of simply recreating the six-or-so children’s book it was based upon, the movie version ultimately explored and exposed the core of humanity.
We are all children at heart. We are all wild. Animalistic. We dream of our unconscious’ desires, adventures, fantasies. Quite Freudian, sans the vulgarity.
One of my resolutions for the brand, spankin’ new year of 2 0 1 0 , besides the ubiquitous get-fit-lose-weight-and-go-on-diets thing, is to wholly embrace the concept of Carpe Diem-ing. Forget social constraints and norms, and let your imagination roam. Unleash the inner wild child, the free-spirited you, whether she be hipster, hippie bohemian, or whatever. Forgo inhibitions and release all tension within. Tackle the resolutions and aspirations you have laid out. Start new projects. Build something out of nothing. Embark on a spontaneous journey or vacation to wherever that plane/car take you. Embrace, explore, and discover yourself along the way.
It’s 2010.
Where the wild things are.
And when the wild things come out.
bisous,
La C.
{ a l e x a n d e r w a ng }
I used to tell myself I hated the Alexander Wang ‘Brenda’, purely because everyone seemed to be in love with it. (I have a tendency of disliking things declared “it ____ of the moment”).
But now that the wave has died down and retreated back to the calm it once was, I find myself loving it a bit more with every glance. Buttery soft, aged leather. Practical, portable. A bit androgynous.
He’s a smart one, that Mr. Wang.
bisous, xx
{ image source: g a r a n c e d o r é }
Something about the unkempt bed hair and smokey eyes is undeniably alluring; perhaps because it is a standout against a crowd of perfectly coiffed ladies, who spend hours in the morn applying perfectly winged liner and a red lip. That just-rolled-out of bed hair, slightly suggestive of a rather exciting evening, in addition to makeup left on from the night before is simply fascinating. For she alone is proof that a woman can in fact grab her handbag and run out the door in a minute’s time sans the daily routine of dolling up. Because a woman shines most in a state of nonchalance, radiating wild and uninhibited beauty in imperfect perfection.
But her ability to catch all eyes extends far beyond the rumpled hair and bedroom eyes, the blasé loose tank and a chic scarf loosely thrown over (an aside: I must find the perfect leopard print scarf!). It is the glimpse of ink on her side, one that gives a peek of a tattoo that few bystanders catch, but later doubt if they did actually see something. The mysteriousness, the romanticism of tattoo in cursive, inked to her skin in such a demure fashion is unbelievably beautiful. For so long I’ve admired those who embraced tattoos; a rosary on the ankle, a meaningful quote inscribed on their back. On men it gives the undeniably sexy, bad-boy look; on women, it is adds mysteriousness and edginess. Whether or not such effect comes with preconceptions of tattoo-baring people really is irrelevant at this point, because the effect is in fact unique, inimitable by clothing or hairstyle or makeup.
It may come as a surprise to most to hear that I have always (in secret) wanted a tattoo. I loved the idea of being rebellious, of wearing my heart and mind on me (literally), of letting it speak for itself, of being different. After all, a tattoo expresses so much more than clothing or accessories ever could; it takes permanent residence on your physicality, leaving an eternal mark and reminder of whatever was significant to you at the time. I have longed for a simple word or quote, inscribed in black script along the ribcage on the side much like the woman above. Only glimpses of it can be seen with more revealing ensembles, in the bedroom, or at the beach, otherwise covered with modesty.
But I am still in the process of brainstorming that perfect word/phrase. Perhaps something in Latin or French?
bisous,
La C.
Qui suis-je? I’m but a seventeen year old girl, sometimes described as a bit of a coquette, but always one who immerses herself fully and headfirst in everything related to fashion. I admit that I have a potentially unhealthy obsession with cocktail rings, bags, and body-con dresses, and am rarely sans polish (an odd habit of mine). I am no expert at fashion – simply what one would consider to be a fashionista (however much I despise the word). Fashionphile? Not too keen on that one either.
Rather, I choose not a general label, but name myself La Couturier; a name that is grammatically incorrect in French, but done ever so intentionally. The masculine noun, “le couturier”, specifies a couture designer, whereas the feminine variation “la couturière” is a seamstress. The connotations and differences can, of course, be carried on to a debate about the imbalance in the sexes’ status quo in society. Thus the combination, la couturier, becomes a blend of the genres. Like the typical Parisian woman: utterly feminine and sensual, but wears le smoking Yves Saint Laurent blazers and pants for a mélange of androgyny and sensuality.
And to be approached by one of my favorite cult magazines to work in partnership with is truly surreal. I am honored, and beyond flattered, to be considered worthy of being attached to POP in some way, shape, or form alongside the likes of the legendary Jak and Jil . So herein begins a slightly different path astray from the original blog, presenting an e d g i e r version of my take on fashion, on aspirations, on everything with the same purpose in mind: to i n s p i r e in some way or another.
bisous,
La C.