Oh Kate: the shrewing of a tame one

I lost respect for Kate Winslet today.
Not all of it, but a considerable amount.
More than a little.
In fact, quite a bit.
Well, a little.

First, read this (if you haven't already), and then report back to tell if you've spotted the reason.
Or just to read me talking about it.

Isn't she deneuvely?

Oh yes, she is very "deneuvely".
(And considering I never particularly liked Deneuve - except her looks - that might not fare too well with me. But I digress.)

She is suddenly gorgeous beyond belief (even considering the heavy airbrushing).
And that's coming from someone who LOVED her as an actress, but never really saw her physical attraction.
(Yes, of course she was pretty, even beautiful. But... come on, was she really all that?)

That's certainly not the reason of my discontent.
Even her alarmingly sudden loss of all facial fat - which made her lose her delightfully "period" appearance - didn't bother me to the point of eliciting this blurp.
Or her apparently needless "tarting up".
(We get it: she is sexy. We don't really need to see her naked body to get the idea.
Or is it the "once a fat kid, always a fat kid" - that's Winslet talking, not us - that made this show-off of bare curves irresistible to her?)


No, it was this:


Casually dressed in a gray T-shirt, black pants, and flats, Kate Winslet has just descended from the rooftop deck of the downtown-Manhattan loft that she shares with her husband, film and theater director Sam Mendes, and their two children. <...> She admits she has just been upstairs indulging in her only known vice—smoking. Winslet, 33, rolls her own cigarettes; she picked up the habit on the set of Sense and Sensibility when she was 19. “I don’t smoke around my kids,” she’s quick to point out. “Like that makes it any better that I smoke at all, because obviously it doesn’t. But I don’t smoke in the house. I mean, I had a cigarette this morning, which is because I hadn’t been. Coffee and a cigarette: bingo!” She pauses. “I’m not sure if I want you to print that,” she says. Then she laughs.


The woman apologises for her smoking - so profusely that it takes half of a passage.
Smoking is obviously the mother of Satan. Yes. We know that.
And, God forbid, she doesn't smoke in front of her children.

OK, so she is concerned about her children, bless her heart. Of course. Who could blame her?

And also about her public image.
(Especially considering she was in NYC at the time, and we all know that smoking is the latest incarnation of Belzebub there. Not that London is much better in that regard, not lately.)

Personally, I would have preferred to elegantly dispense with such explanations and apologies, but then it's not my terrace, or my interview.

But consider the very next passage:


Hang around her for five days or only five minutes and you get the same woman: unfiltered, frank, sometimes blunt, though her British accent and her musical intonation make her speech, even the way she uses the word “fuck”—and she does use the word a lot, for comma, period, and exclamation point—sound like poetry.


And notice how the reporter herself beatifically qualifies this idiosyncracy (as opposed to the mute approval of her self-bashing regarding smoking): Kate's florilegium of assorted fuckery (Fuck yeah!, You bet your fucking ass I do!, et-fucking-cetera) sounds like poetry.
And lest we don't get the picture: "Winslet exhibits a refreshing lack of pretention".

Ahem.

But then, we have come to almost expect such gregarious conformity from reporters (especially American ones) - haven't we?

It's the actress' conformity, its her gregariousness, what surprises me.
And not in a good way.
Not like her acting.
Or even like her new-found blonde bombshell look.

Let me see if I understand this: she feels compelled to apologise for her smoking (on her terrace, to boot) - but she doesn't feel the need to be even remotely embarrassed by her documentedly copious and blatantly unnecessary use of expletives, including the F word?

Are we being told that, in Winslet's opinion, seeing mum indulge in smoking (on the terrace!) would be more damaging to her children than hearing the poetry of effing as a substitute for punctuation?
(No Queen's garden party for you, kiddies!
And believe it or not, they CAN be fun.
Really.
No, really.)


When I started this, it was much less Kate's odd perspective than a certain frame of mind - and the insidious forces that do the framing - what I had in mind. And the best illustration of it that I can think of right now is certainly not this interview but rather certain passages in Milan Kundera's book The Unbearable Lightness of Being in which said frame of mind and said framing forces are brilliantly exposed.

But it will have to wait. Late afternoons are always made later by heavy rain.

And besides, you can always go and read the novel for yourself - and then tell me if you see its connection to this apparent rambling about Kate's interview.
(It is a very, very subtle connection, I'll give you that. Definitely.
But subtle doesn't equal irrelevant.)

Or just read it.
If nothing else, parts of it are pure poetry.
(Unless, of course, you manage to find some prim and purged translation...)


Bah... this vent has made me see that I do still like you, Kate.
Come over, we'll have a cigarette.
On my terrace.
I'll even let you roll it for me.

Just don't bring any fucking reporters with you.

RED-HOT MAMA!

Ready for red?
You better be.

This just in:

Dress red for success (among men, that is)

(It doesn't seem to work on females.
I am assuming turkeys are all male, then...?)

So, ready or not, here they come: legions of redly dressed women, invading our cities and countryside like the Huns of yore, to ravage our retinas.

Until the next groundbreaking (shouldn't that be groin-breaking?) "scientific study", that is...

Who is censoring Angelina's nose?

Unless Angelina Jolie has a not-quite-identical "look-alike" who was sent to pose for the latest Vanity Fair cover, I'd say the person responsible for the digital retouching of the photo has gone mad. Or severely myopic. Or both.

Be it as it may, that person obviously doesn't like Angelina's natural nose: shortish (like her father's), a bit stumpy - and cute as a button. A nose that makes her eyes and her lips look even bigger than they are - and also as sensuous as they look. It may not be a "perfect" nose by certain standards, but it is an unobtrusive nose that helped make her face an icon of sexiness because it doesn't stand in the way of her eyes and her mouth. It doesn't assert itself, if you will. And it certainly isn't a "refined" nose.

Which is perfectly fine, because Angelina's beauty is supposed to be unconventional, if it is to reflect her Sturm-und-Drang-turned-Mother-Earth-placidity public persona.

Which is exactly why the unnatural nose she features on the Vanity Fair cover is so off.
It's about a third longer than Angelina's natural nose, with an uncharacteristically thin tip (I suppose "refined" is exactly the adjective the artist was after), while the also thinned bridge is even slightly crooked.

Unless, of course, Angelina did send a look-alike to the photo shoot and forgot to tell.
In which case it makes sense that the lady's nose grew long...

YSL Forever

"Fashions fade, style is forever"

Yves Saint Laurent (1936 - 2008)

Yves Saint Laurent died tonight in Paris.
From a brain tumor.

He was called an enfant terrible in his youth. And he remained one.
That's the secret of many a great artist: to remain a child at heart.

(You doubt that fashion design is art?
Then have a look at the title of this section of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where some of YSL's historic designs are preserved. Or this timeline.)


We will be writing more on YSL in the near future.
Meanwhile, here is a design or two, from among his more emblematic creations; and an early work.

Enjoy.

That's what they were made for.

Yves Saint Laurent, Evening dress, 1969–1970
The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

And here's the description from the MET online catalog:

Diana Vreeland recalled of Saint Laurent, "He struck me right away as a person with enormous inner strength, determination and full of secrets. I think his genius is in letting us know one of his secrets from time to time." The sheer theatricality of this evening dress shows Saint Laurent at his most flamboyant and transfigurative.

Before Saint Laurent was Saint Laurent,
he was already Saint Laurent...







Yves Saint Laurent, evening dress, for Christian Dior, 1958.
The dress is coming up for auction at Christie's (sale no. 2017), in July 2008

... and then rocked on with the times

"There is no attire quite as beautiful as the naked human body. There is no prettier gown for a woman than the arms of a man she loves.
But for those who aren't so lucky, I am there."

Yves Saint Laurent

A nipple-buster ushers in the blockbuster

The London premiere of the Sex and the City film wasn't eagerly awaited only for the film itself, but also because many an audience member couldn't wait to see what »the girls« - celebrated, especially Sarah Jessica Parker, as trend setters, »fashion »icons« and what not - would be wearing to the premiere.

Not everyone was as wowed by the fashion (or should I say »fashion«?) aspect of the SATC series as nostalgic eulogies in the wake of the series finale may have suggested. And while it may have helped set trends, this alone isn't necessarily a good thing. »Outrageous« doesn't automatically spell 'flattering' or even 'pretty'.

Which is why some people – yours truly included- were actually surprised by Parker & Co.'s fashion choices for the opening night in Leicester Square.

Sarah Jessica Parker chose an almost-perfect outfit. The pistacchio/chartreuse colour really brought out her natural colouring and it was definitely not »boring«. Its best feature was probably the cut of the dress: »girly« but not overly frilly and silly. And the length was almost perfect: short enough to be »girly sexy«, but long enough to disguise - by the shadow of its hemline – the slightly unsightly vacuum between SJP's knees. (I can hear you! Get your mind out of the gutter...! :)

The main conversation piece was, of course, SJP's hat.

Personally, I loved the arrangement of the hat itself.

What I didn't like at all was its position – upright – as well as the size and position of the bonnet on which the upper part was affixed.

SJP's forehead is not that big (in fact, it's almost perfect for the shape of her face) – but she does have what people usually call a »big« nose. And anything that visually shortens the upper portion of the head is automatically going to accentuate the mid-face AKA the nose. Result: her nose looked bigger than it should have, and if it weren't for the heavy (but appropriate) eye make-up, it would have eclipsed SJP's lovely eyes.
Furthermore, the panache being so huge and stiffly upright, it made SJP look tiny. All in all, her face looked remarkably like a honey bee's one.
(I love bees, and I love SJP – but she is no bee and she shouldn't look like one.)
Had the hat been designed in such a fashion that the ikebana on the top were slightly tilted or just placed lower, so that it could rise from behind her head – instead of looking like an oasis clamoring to the heavens for water, complete with the aerial of a second-hand satellite dish brought in by a caravan of Beduins, or something – it would have lent SJP's lovely angular face a touch of lush, sensuous extravagance; her face would have been softened and enhanced by it, as if emerging from a cascade of lush greenery.

Kristin Davis opted for a demurely breezy dress which covered up her chest but revealed her legs and arms, and caught the eye with its strong block red colour: a »maiden sexy« combination which was very much »in (Charlotte's) character«. My only real complaint about her dress is the frilly lower part of the dress. It seems unnecessary: it detracts from the clean outlines of the dress – and of Kristin's body. (OR the dress should have been white; then it might have worked.)

I can only assume Kristin chose the flesh-coloured shoes for their traditional function: beige or flesh coloured shoes visually lengthen the legs, thus making them more slender in appearance. And any other colour, including red, would have made Kristin's legs look stocky, even stumpy. (I am not being unkind: I am praising Kristin's flair and fashion wisdom.) But it must be said that a pair of high-heeled red sandals - no ankle straps - would have performed pretty much the same function.

To see why, you only need to look at Kim Cattrall's legs on that particular evening.
Her outfit – a Westwood – was the »quirkiest« of the lot: slightly daring in its cut but not too excentric.
The problem with that dress on Kim was its shape and length. It made her statuesque body look HUGE (that's not a euphemism for »fat«, I mean just huge), as if it were a few sizes too small for her. And of course, there's the length: such a brilliant colour and a relatively high hem are going to make the legs stand out visually – so you really have to have good legs to pull it off. And Kim's calves are simply too massive to look good in it.
(Just to be clear: there is nothing »wrong« with her legs or with any part of her body – it's just that the dress did nothing – certainly nothing flattering – to them.) And black (i.e. optically shortening) sandals WITH an ankle strap certainly didn't help. Had she chosen an inconspicuous flesh tone – or lithe red sandals – with no ankle strap, the looks of her legs would have been considerably less impacted by the shape of the dress.

And finally, there was the astonishing sight of Cynthia Nixon...

Her sparkling black dress has been oddly under-commented on. And I bet I know the reason: when cheaper-by-the-dozen (i.e. the most read) newspapers and magazine's fashion critics can't say something bad, they'd rather say nothing at all...

The fact is that Cynthia apparently struck everyone into shocked silence with the looks of her breasts. They were simply – or almost – perfect for that most revealing of gowns.
I remember a girly kvetching about »seeing underbreast« somewhere... I am assuming she meant the natural shadow of a natural (still firm) breast when subject to the natural law of gravity.

And she is, what, forty-two...?

Has the woman no shame?
How dare she parade perfectly good breasts at THAT age?!
(And that comes from women.)
Good for you, Cynthia!
I hope you are feeling as good about yourself as you should.

So... all in all, there were surprisingly few fashion faux-pas.

Now let's wait and see how "the girls" look on the next grand opening night.

C. U. N. Wednesday... in Paris.

UN-bimbo: the Light Alchemy of Madame Sarkozy

My love for feeling the pulse of the world as reflected in "trivia" has made my heart give more than an extra thump in the past few days.

I've always loved the art of strategy; and when strategy includes playing on the seemingly eternal precepts of beauty, I am in love. (With the strategy itself, not necessarily with its executor.)

Carla Bruni, now Mme Sarkozy, has gone to Britain on a state visit with her new husband, the French president - and conquered it hands down.

I knew she would.
How could she not? She has the poise, culture and self-assurance of the "well-bred", and the grace that once made her a "supermodel".

Nor was I surprised by her choice of clothes.
(You can see a lovely set of photos here, at the BBC website.)

Some of the commentators expressed surprise at her "nun-like" attire (it tells you a lot about the general concept of elegance in this day and age, when mega-stars of the pop kind indulge in showing their privatest parts in very public spaces...).
What did they expect? That she would strut around in a mini and decolletage down to here?

But the Dior outfit she chose for the first day of her visit is hardly "nun-like" anyway, if by that they meant 'unflattering'. Grey is not really the way to describe its colour (no more than red or green or yellow even begin to describe their nuances): it's "Dior grey", an enchanting slate/steel bluish grey that conveys a very "ladylike" (and sexy!) modesty while enhancing the delicate freshness of fair skin and bringing out the colour of grey, blue or green eyes. And combined with the daring black (oh yes: black is the daring colour par excellence) of the handbag and shoes, with the lady's beauty as its only "ornament", it's irresistible.

This is almost as good as it gets, I thought - until I saw the gorgeous violet coat with which she complemented another grey outfit today, and the sheer evening gown of the same hue (violet) she wore last night.

What fascinated me the most was the perfect harmony between her outfits and her colouring AND the colouring of the environment itself.
Because, you see, this is an aspect of "style" that is seldom, if ever, talked about - and yet any woman of style (i.e. the opposite of a fashion ape) takes into consideration when choosing her outfits for the day: the colours and general "feel" of your environment - including the weather - will make your particular colours (skin, hair, eyes, etc.) look in a certain way. And it's hardly surprising: light is colour, colour is light - and light is always subject to change.

Of course, to enhance one's colouring does not equal fighting the local atmospheric conditions influencing the colouring - certainly not at all costs. (Which is where the occasion itself should be taken into account.)

And so, in a mostly grey/steel/green/mist coloured environment, such as London in the early spring, it makes perfect sense for a woman of Carla's colouring to wear an intense, bluish/greenish grey, which blends so beautifully with the "misty" and picturesquely "cloudy" atmosphere of oceanic islands, especially in a metropolis such as London, and especially during a strictly formal, state occasion. (A first lady, or the consort of any high-powered man, should never outshine her husband by the sheer "force" of her clothes and grooming - but she need not vanish into woodwork, either.)

When the schedule become a tad less formal, Carla chose a light coat in a marvelous violet colour, with no frills or ornaments, to wear over (and complement the colour of) her grey outfit . The "water" tones set off by the vibrant violet made Carla graciously "acknowledge" her environment (always a sign of good breeding ; - and a must for a first lady, of course) and at the same time stand out from within it, not from without; it was as if she grew organically from the colours of her environment.

A warm cream/beige suit, perhaps with a very modest touch of golden thread, would have been another good choice, although it would have required an extra glint of sunshine.
(Late April is probably the best time - in the UK and many parts of Europe, that is - to wear cream/beige/gold.) And, of course, jewel tones - such as subdued emerald green - never fail in the "moist" and "misty" atmosphere, such as the early spring weather conditions in the UK.

The worst colours to wear would have been mustard yellow/green, pigeon grey, strident red (it would look just cheap), baby blue or baby pink, mauve, most brown hues. (And black, of course, is never worn before early evening, unless the circumstances dictate otherwise.)

Anyway, Carla delivered the goods, as I (and her husband, if I may presume of being able to read his mind) expected her. She came across as a vision of grace, beauty and culture: the UN-bimbo. (And remember: you heard it here first. ;) Not for the first time, of course - but certainly at a very important occasion.

Knowing the lack of imagination that so many reporters seem to be afflicted by - not to mention the populistic mindset of their editors - the comparisons with Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy were inevitable.
But comparing Carla with Diana Princess of Wales?
It's not surprising, of course, given the fashion revolution that Diana introduced and which became her hallmark.
But the reports that draw such a comparison don't stop at the clothes and "glamourous" image, as they should. They push it further and generalise it - as if Diana were a role model for Carla (or for anyone) to follow.

I doubt that Carla will ever be the "queen of people's hearts" (picture a puking smiley here).
She simply hasn't been miserable enough to redeem herself for the outrageous benefits of her enchantee - if "wild" - life so far.

And I doubt that she gives a damn.