Hippolyte Flandrin
Lyon-born French painter Hippolyte Flandrin (1809-1864) won the Prix de Rome in 1832. This famed study of a young man sitting by the sea dates back to 1836.
Versace
On the sound system, Lou Reed was deadpanning his way through his Velvet Underground classic, “I’m Waiting for the Man”, but Donatella Versace’s young men were waiting for none. They sped down the catwalk in a flurry of urgency; there was no time for detail. The color palette was essentially black and black, with a secondary group that offered shades of brown. Textural interest showed up as strips of shiny patent on gloves or across the shoulders of a black suede blouson. Patent piping also bisected one leg of a pair of trousers, a graphic touch that was amplified in a black mock turtleneck carved on the diagonal with a slash of scarlet. There was something 80s-ish about such flourishes, equally so for a big, black leather military coat and another one of those diagonal bisections, which looked like a signaling flag. The show notes did mention the military parade ground as a possible venue for such items, but more intriguing was the reference to clerical garb (presumably that meant the black dog collar on a white shirt). The same style appeared with tails in the finale. Rejigger it as a Nehru collar, and it was almost as though Donatella was thinking ahead to what the menfolk might need to wear for the upcoming Rajasthan nuptials of her friend Elizabeth Hurley. To cut a long useless story short, Versace goes weird. Ish. Disappointing…
Gucci (part 1)
The nonwinter that European ski resorts were enduring last year is one more reason to reflect upon the implications of global warming, and Frida Giannini was not the only designer to wonder this season if the lifestyle she was celebrating in her new collection might be a thing of the past. If this is indeed the endgame for winter wonderlands, Giannini is at least determined they’ll fade out in style. Against a stone-paved and crested backdrop that subtly evoked one of King Ludwig’s lodges, she offered up a charming, funny, and luxe-lite salute to the Alps winter ritual. If an extravagant fur coat thrown over a chunky, white rollneck and plaid pants raised the specter of Günther Sachs in full playboy cry, Giannini was equally capable of channeling the romantic young swains that preoccupy artist Elizabeth Peyton. Hence her original take on eveningwear, which hybridized a ski suit and a tux. (Just when we were thinking skinny was so passé bourgeois, we’re face to face with the apotheosis of lean !)
But it was exactly that sense of young bucks at play that trimmed the fat out of such Tyrolean specials as a forest-green suede jacket (lamb-lined, leather-piped) or stolidly upper-class winter wool plaid suits. One always felt that Giannini was having fun, especially when she tacked on the crests and feather cockades, or sent her boys out in mukluks and black leather pants. When a burgundy astrakhan smoking jacket appeared on the catwalk to a blast of Bond music, it was more Moore than Connery (never mind Craig). Giannini called it “Snow Glam” and it’s a major part of her achievement at Gucci that there is no room for irony in her chalet.
But it was exactly that sense of young bucks at play that trimmed the fat out of such Tyrolean specials as a forest-green suede jacket (lamb-lined, leather-piped) or stolidly upper-class winter wool plaid suits. One always felt that Giannini was having fun, especially when she tacked on the crests and feather cockades, or sent her boys out in mukluks and black leather pants. When a burgundy astrakhan smoking jacket appeared on the catwalk to a blast of Bond music, it was more Moore than Connery (never mind Craig). Giannini called it “Snow Glam” and it’s a major part of her achievement at Gucci that there is no room for irony in her chalet.
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