Indy blogger Sarah Outen is on a global trek by land and sea from London2London:Via the World. She set off from London’s Tower Bridge in 2011 and has since rowed, cycled and kayaked over 17,000 miles across Europe, Asia, the Pacific Ocean and North America en route to London. Here she gives us the latest update from the bike in Canada as winter draws near.
When the models began to take their complex turns at the Givenchy show on Sunday night, whizzing around the venue as if ricocheting around a pinball machine (the hairpin bends, I must confess, made me feel a bit sick), the first thing I thought was: well. It’s been a while since we saw this.
This being sex. Or rather, sexy. or rather, a certain idea of sexiness. “I would be a very rich man if I could make sexy clothes,” said Gianni Versace in 1997, in one of his final interviews. Which, from the long-acknowledged Italian master of dressing to undress, speaks volumes. Namely it poses the question, what is sexy in clothing?
Two of the most satisfying shows of the current Paris season showed nothing anyone would ever want to wear. No great loss. And no insult, or injury.
That was the point, in fact, of both Rei Kawakubo’s Comme des Garçons collection and Jean Paul Gaultier’s final ready-to-wear show. Nevertheless, they could not have been more different: something old, versus something new. Looking forward, and looking back.
Two of the designers I find myself thinking about the most are Edward Meadham and Benjamin Kirchhoff. Their show last Tuesday ended London Fashion Week, for me at least, and heading into Milan, seated in plush showrooms and watching so much money and so many tired ideas swan by so pointlessly, it was something that niggled at the back of my mind.
Designer doppelgängers, and the wonder of weariness: Versace, Emilio Pucci and Bottega Veneta in Milan.
Designer identity is a big thing in Milan. Here, they’re practically rock stars, their lives and collections dissected with fervid, sometimes morbid curiosity. Earlier this month, the Corriere della Sera newspaper published a letter from Stefano Gabbana to Domenico Dolce professing his love.
There are so many races happening all over the UK every weekend and they pretty much rely on the goodwill and enthusiasm of volunteers to keep entry fees at a reasonable level for those of us who want to run. One day I’ll put some real work in, give something back to the running community [...]
Time is something I’ve been thinking an awful lot about during the London leg of the spring/summer 2015 collections.
Actually, that’s a lie. Because there’s no time to think. Or to eat, breathe, go to the toilet. Those kind of things. It makes you long, a little, for New York, for the wide open spaces of their fashion week calendar (at least, my fashion week calendar). In London, every hour, on the hour, there’s something to see.
I often wonder what people really want from Victoria Beckham’s label. In fact, that’s rubbish. I know exactly what they want. Shall we be blunt? They want her to fall spectacularly, sensationally flat on her face. They’ve been wanting her to do it since day one, because Beckham has it all and the fashion world loves a bit of schadenfreude.
New York Fashion Week is a nice way to start the season, for very cynical reasons. There are lots of shows, and few new ideas. You get plenty of reflections of the season just passed – especially at the very start of a “week” where, in all honesty, we could be done, packed, and back across the Atlantic in four days if we shunted most of the chaff off the schedule.
After the stunning kitchen garden at my Aunty Liz and Uncle Tom’s Baltic-side bolthole in Finland last week, back to a bump in Blighty and the overgrown paths at Plot 35a. Actually, I only left the plot for a week, not two as I usually do for a summer holiday, and popped up there before [...]
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