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Spring-Summer 2010 RTW


I am, as some of you may or may not know, a creature of many inclinations, proclivities and preoccupations, most of which are all too apparent on this blog. I’ve written about food, children, music, fashion, books, discoveries – whatever riles me up, gets my goat or get me going – it’s all fair game, all fodder for the blogosphere, all smelted down, distilled and poured into that great Gundestrup Cauldron I call MoltenMetalMama.

In fact, the blogosphere is where I have been known to spend a good portion of my time online, because there is always some hidden gem to find, some diamond in the rough that maybe, baby, can expand my own horizons for good or bad, make me laugh – or just make me feel privileged to be a part of this marvel we call Life On Planet Earth.

So, people, I read a few of them, and they are as diverse as my own self.

I also, as I’m sure you know, am a devoted reader of the online edition of New York Times, not because I live there but simply because I like to be informed in a way that does not insult my intelligence (or lack thereof) and which also is nearly as diverse as the city of its origin. I don’t always agree with the editorial stance, and many things in said august purveyor of information have riled me up no end, but – again, like the city it comes from, it’s anything but boring.

The three highlights of my drab and dreary week are Thursdays – because of the Style section – Fridays, when the Book Review ticks into my inbox, and Sundays, because I love getting buried in papers on Sundays.

The NY Times did a feature one Thursday, not too long ago, on a particular blog that had been striking terror in the hearts of many insiders on the NY fashion scene. This blog was particularly snarky, sometimes vicious and always thought-provoking, especially since it was obviously written – quite well and often beautifully, I say – by someone who knew all the dirt from the inside, and no one knew who was hiding behind it.

Well, the NY Times blew that whistle. Now, I was really intrigued. Snark is good, vicious is excellent, so off I went. Besides, I love cats.

Enter one Very Cool Cat, Fluff Chance of The Emperor’s Old Clothes Fluff has a mouth and many pointed teeth, none of which he is at all afraid to use.

For a longtime devotee of the fabulously frivolous, his blog was a revelation.

I read through all the reviews of Spring-Summer/Fall-Winter/Resort/Couture/RTW (Ready-to-wear) in many other places, and let me tell you, sooner or later, verbal hyperglycaemia will set in. More sugar than in the Magnolia Bakery, more sycophantic claptrap lipservice and mutually advantageous back-slapping – or worse – than you can find at any point on any corporate ladder. My head starts to hurt, and my brain needs a countershot of neural insulin. Now, I like fluffy, frivolous and verbose overload as much as the next woman, but geez, people – c’mon! Get real! Lay off that thesaurus entry for “fantabulous” and – open your eyes!

So few of them dare. It might cost them advertising, a job, an editorial spread, a mention of just how “now and happening!” these people’s opinions are.

So refreshing to find honesty, integrity and a view to The Big Picture, in an articulate voice. Fluff has Been There, Done It. He sees all the bs of the business and will never call it roses, lilies or any other flower, come to that. But Fluff also knows a thing or two about that Big Picture, which is not at all about clothes, or who will be wearing whose, or even momentary sartorial insanity.

It’s about the bottom line, people. Fashion, lest we forget, is a b-u-s-i-n-e-s-s.

Very rarely, so rarely it merits headlines of its own, is a collection about that Other Thang, that other monster, the big pink elephant in the room the mercenary and mercantile, crisis-stricken industry has completely overlooked in the wild hunt for the Next New Fantabulous.

It’s called creativity. It’s called vision. It’s called expressing something unique and uniquely visionary, which may or may not be beautiful or commercially viable or even, dare I say it, commercially exploitable. It’s called putting that vision on the line for your peers and contemporaries to either applaud or berate, but by Golly, it will out, it will be done, it will say – something and it will, if you’re open enough and tolerant enough, change your perspective, a little or a lot.

Enter one of the Greats in my personal fashion pantheon – Alexander McQueen. Love him or loathe him, just don’t ignore him. I’ve always had a thing for McQueen, ever since that birthday I received a David Bowie CD as a present and he was wearing a frock coat of the Union Jack made by – Alexander McQueen. I had never seen anything so flawlessly cut – or executed – since the heyday of Yves Saint Laurent’s Mondrian dresses.

When I staggered out of bed to my Mac this morning, Fluff had been at it again, and to my delight, he was writing about Alexander McQueen. I had to read it, even though it was 5 AM. Somewhere in the depths of the first cup of latte of the day, I decided that I had to contribute my own two cents, because Fluff saw what I, too, had seen – a visionary collection, a breathtaking and mind-blowing artistic statement unlike any others, or any others anyone had ever experienced. Just as he did for his last collection, Mr. McQueen took no prisoners, made no compromises, and definitely no excuses. Here was what he had to say and this was how he said it, and all we paltry, pathetic mortals could do was clang our disbelieving jaws to the floor in awe – and not a little delight at the heretical thought – that finally, at last, enfin, mes amis! someone had DARED.

Titanium balls – or ovaries, even – should always be applauded and certainly encouraged.

I saw it – and said it, in my comment, and such being the impact of the blogosphere, Fluff completely made my day by replying to my comment by personal email, thanking me for my comment.

A solitary voice in the void, many miles and lightyears away from hip and happening, had made the cat meow.

Fluff, the pleasure is always mine. Some day, I can hope, you might forgive me that I wrote about it!

I had to. And when Fluff meows, I will listen!

Honesty is always refreshing, in a day and age when it is in increasingly short supply, and should be applauded, just like titanium gonads!

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