Fashion's on the prowl...

The Fashion World is a funny beast. One moment it's reaching for the stars in designs recalling celestial magnificence (Sequins! Sparkle!); the next, it's fallen with a thud back to Mother Earth, digging deep to discover what really gets us humans hot under the collar for the upcoming season.

Their unanimous, unerring verdict? The Animal Kingdom.

Ponder for a moment and see if you can't think of a time when some form of bestial inspiration didn't rear on its hind legs and prance down a runway somewhere. Consider the following: Leopard and zebra prints. Feathers (Alexander McQueen's final, post-humous show was a glorious tribute to golden plumage). The pussy bow. Horse snaffles (here's looking at you, Hermes). Fur. Why, even the enduring 'pony tail' bears the follicular essence of its horsey provence.

But now, the claws are most certainly out. The animals are fashion-fit, and fighting back.

Let's begin with the apparently benign. You've seen it. I've seen it. We just weren't cognisant of the beginning of a four-legged fashion revolution, of dogs and cats pitter-pattering their perfect paws the world-over in various threaded guises. Sweaters! Sunglasses! Bandanas! Hats! Heavens, I even saw a canine dressed as a bumblebee around my neck of the woods the other week. The foot path is no longer the domain of the two-legged Trendster; it's become the lower-level stomping ground for our newly-minted, furry-fashion frenemies.

For how can we compete with such a daily spectacle of sartorial magnificence? Animals are, after all, the only ones who can get away with wearing real fur. With 'cool cats' and 'hot dogs' no longer innocent utterances, the sheer hide of it all has got me scratching for solutions.

Indeed, a scrawled 'Found' poster in a Sydney cafe this past month adds to the mounting evidence. 'Found: One grey shihtzu (sic) in Newtown wearing a black velvet jacket and red, diamante-studded collar. Name: Coco (on tag)', etc, etc.

There are several things in the above which one must question and yet simultaneously applaud, for even the name 'Coco' is resplendent in its unrivalled fashion nous, and Coco Kennel has a certain je ne sais quoi to it when pronounced with a drawn-out affectation. But perhaps what struck me most was that little Coco was dressed to the puppy nines. Black velvet and red diamante collar? For day? That shrieks four-legged fashion fantasy to me. There can be no doubt: Doggone it = fashion found.

And let's not pussyfoot around the fact that cats are also discovering the unimaginable joys of dressing up for the occasion, the Puss In Boots fable proving to be not so far-fetched as we once imagined. Indeed, L.A.-based label Juicy Couture is having a field day with its Crittoure take on its human perfume, Couture. Dare I say it, with all this now taking on a life of its own, it may not be long before those of endless pockets seek out the pinnacle of purrfect fashion for Moggy, et al: Haute Cature.

Think it through. They're clever, these four-legged types, already eyeing off those high-end labels and making them their own. Viktor and Rolf? Viktor and Wolf. Miu Miu? Meow Meow. Pucci? Poochi. Destined to be a howling success, there's not a thing you, nor I, can do about it.

They'll have their way, and perhaps it's about time. My advice? Simply keep them on a tight leash and suspend their subscriptions to Dogue magazine and the like. It may not hold them back forever, but for now, let the four-legged enjoy their upstanding moment in the spotlight of being fashion's beast in show.

In the meantime, sharpen your claws and prepare to catch out those bleeting sheep in Viktor and Wolf's clothing and that lamb dressed as mutton.

One thing's fur sure. Fashion's dog-eat-dog world is about to become a whole lot ruffer.

The DNA of Double Denim

Denim. You know the drill.

Or do you?

This season, it's 'double yer pleasure' as fashion revisits what is oft-viewed as a style taboo: To do, or not to do, double denim . However, before we even consider the hazards of such a coupling, let us take the time and pay homage to those who wore it best (Steve McQueen; Brigitte Bardot (BB in DD, mais oui); Ali Macgraw; John Wayne; Paris Vogue in the '70's; AC/DC), the latter being the pinnacle of 'dirty denim done good' (and, quite possibly, to bastardise some of their lyrics, 'done dirt cheap'; always a plus for those seeking the look for less).

And yet, citing just a few iconic examples of those who 'wore it well' (namely, with purpose, panache and a pile of precociousness) can't quite eradicate the visions of the many, many multitudes who have tried - and failed - to conquer the fashion world's own Mt. Everest. In essence, the very discovery of double denim's elusive DNA, and how to make it work for you.

Let's call it jeanetics. I've got it, you've got, almost the entire world has it. They just don't know it. Yet. Consider the core evolution of denim. From humble beginnings as workwear in The States, it gained momentum in the '40s and '50s where it morphed into 'leisurewear' and gained screen-idol status, with stars such as Marlon Brando working it in On The Waterfront and The Wild One, only to relegate it to the back of the wardrobe for sharp tuxes in The Godfather and discarding it (even he knew his limits) for swimming muumuus in The Island Of Dr. Moreau.

With its ascent, the advent of denim shirts, jackets, caps, hats and even vests came to the fore. Everywhere you looked, jeanetics had people in its sturdy clutches. For better or for worse, fashion's most-enduring love affair has seen it all, continuing to morph even today into lusty guises so that we, the ever-insatiable style addicts, are driven by an omnipresent, fervent desire to 'have and to hold... 'til denim death to us part.'

Indeed, there are some who have died a double-denim death so unerringly awful, it's almost too much bear. If you can (and you really must), cast your mind back to a time of innocence and love; when underpant-less starlets emerging from limos hadn't yet reared their pert behinds to a howling pack of paparazzi, and when the only thing the traditional 'cougar' pounced on was a slab of freshly killed meat; not fresh meat of another kind.

And yet, in this world of innocence of which I speak, it was denim that brought it all profoundly undone. In a display of its own DNA code so horrific, two young stars-on-the-rise (and real-life loves), managed to divert the world's gaze from other global atrocities to bare witness to theirs: Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake, doing it together, in double denim.

Even now, it's pinpointed as being perhaps the moment when the mere thought of daring to wear such a combination ever again elicited parties that celebrated its mockery with their 'double denim' dress code. To be seen on the street in 'DD' garnered whispered giggles and cruel jibes, such was the tsunami effect of Britney and Justin's sartorial defectiveness.

So why are we turning back towards the 'DD' light, as it were? Who can say, except that perhaps in order to move forward in fashion, we need to look back to those stitches in time and learn from the mistakes of others (perhaps even our own) to embrace 'the old in the new'. In new shades; new cuts; no rules; new rules; it's a veritable denim delight out there in fashion land for those who dare to double-up and do it.

But before you don, do consider this. In the quest for jeanetic supremacy, it's wise to remember that double the wrong will never add up to a whole lot of right.

Hollywood wear that again... or will she?

Ah me, it's a time-old honour for those in the biz; a golden nod for a 'job well done', to be lauded and acknowledged by acting's elite. Yes siree, it could only mean one thing: 'Award Season' is upon us again.

For many, many years, the revered red carpet, in all its guises, has served as a stepping-stone to achieve off-screen fashion immortality. And yet for those less fortunate in stature and stylist, this stretch of pampered, preened and perfect rouge rug can see a star or starlet fall far from the fashion heavens in a flashbulb, landing back to earth with a resounding red-faced thud, both online and in the special-issue, first-thing-Monday glossies.

Even today, with a heavily armed 'expert' team behind nearly every actress worth her $15 admission ticket, things can go dreadfully, dreadfully wrong. And, thank God! It only proves to us mere mortals that money, truly, can't buy everything, and that the ubiquitous 'mermaid' dress should be put out to watery pasture. Pronto. Indeed, this quest - this inane hunger the world seems to gorge on to see who's wearing what at awards time - is akin to a couture car crash: we know it's wrong, but we can't stop looking. Conversely, the sheer pressure of it all has had the numbing effect of end-of-film credits as, one by one, the young, the nubile and the revered raise a botoxed armpit to wave to the cheering crowds, give great sound bite to marauding journalists and pass by in gowns that, as exquisite as they might be, look near-identical, such is the length/colour/frilled nature of them all.

So let's give it up for those who have, in the past, defied convention and relied on their own skewed vision to go where no-one had gone before, or indeed, ever will again. These are the fearless, the fun-loving, the fantasy-turned-nightmare looks of several very lost leading ladies. In no particular order, may I present: Cher (designer Bob Mackie on crackie), Bjork (sartorial swansong), Demi Moore (bike shorts meets billowing skirt), Lara Flynn Boyle (tutu too-too much), Rita Wilson (doing time in chandelier-inspired crime) and Celine Dion (Dior gone roiD in major back-to-front meltdown).

What perverse joy these head-scratching ensembles brought to a weary worldwide audience. Here, at last, we were witness to such heavily misguided missiles of individualism that you could almost hear the collective gasp and giggle as each and every sartorial bomb went off. But now, such is the sheer control that the uncontrived barely gets a look in. Dark days indeed.

So, is there light at the end of the interminable red-carpet tunnel? I just don't know. And yet, perhaps if the reality 'cast' of MTV's Jersey Shore were to ever be nominated for 'best abdominal crunch' or 'perma tan', we could once again be privy to a cavalcade of delicious downfalls from Mike 'The Situation', l'il 'Snookie', et al.

But for the time being, my guess is that, sadly, it's more than just a l'il stretch of the heavily constrained red-carpet imagination.

Beach fashion: Far from the sureline...

The first blush of Spring is merely a week away and, naturally, thoughts turn to what's ahead - namely, months of warm sunshine and cool water; every Sydneysider's god-given right. And yet with this onset of sun comes a flurry of fleshy nervousness that hits both sexes beachside with equal angst: How to look good when almost naked?

The swimsuit or swimmers has always been a bone of sartorial contention. After a few cocoon-filled chilly seasons, we're suddenly summonsed into the light, inevitably forced to shed those protective layers and reveal what truly lies beneath. Laydeez, time to take your pick from the one-piece or bikini in new cuts that promise to strap you into shape without ending up looking like the string-bound Christmas ham. Gentz, the dickstickers or budgie smugglers form part of many a man's sunbathing ritual, however, for modesty's sake, the boardies offer a level of decency that society politely requests these days.

And yet there are those who have deemed, in a world much different to our own, that it is quite acceptable to bare the flesh in a fashion that's, well, never in fashion. Case in point, an episode during my teenage years when, en route to Bondi with a dear friend of mine, we encountered our very own version of the dicksticker come decidedly unstuck.

Can you imagine, a pair of innocents out for a day of 'fun in the sun', seated on the bus opposite a gentleman who, in a pair of shorts so tiny and tight, let his testicles out for an entirely unnecessary airing. Glancing down we saw them: a pair of sorry, scooped-out molluscs, unceremoniously evicted from their synthetic shell and placed, like some flaccid offering, on a well-worn seat, most certainly not sunny-side-up.

Clearly, he missed the memo. The last time I looked, public transport was still fervently clinging on to that all-important 'l'.

And yet it would appear that some things never change. A quick stroll around many of our beaches indicates that it ain't rood to be nearly nood. Truly, I'm no prood, but at some point, surely we must ask of ourselves and each other:

When it comes to beach fashion, where do we draw the line in the sand?

To me, it seems like the craziest thing - an invisible sphere where unrelated bits 'n' bobs get to hang out in unadulterated unison; a chorus of on-show butts 'n' boobs creating their very own siren call, one that I have yet to heed. And yet, just a few hundred metres away, the sphere dissolves and hey, presto! Those sand-groping parts, so acceptable a moment ago, are cause for wide-eyed stares and stern 'tutt tutts' from a wary public.

Ah me, it's all so tense-making - enough to scare a girl away from our sunny shores in search of less-frightening summer style, where the great Aussie thongs remain the sole domain of the feet, not a floss-like thread of butt-clenching swimwear.

The bottom line? For me, t'is a world in which beach and balls remain mutually exclusive. Of this, I am shore.

A/W11: Fashion's new hair apparent

People, you have been warned. A/W 2011 is, quite simply put, a jungle. Have you glanced online or skimmed through the international glossies recently? There is a veritable entanglement of all things furry that has quite got my hair standing on end.

I blame the giant, bona fide iceberg that Chanel's Kaiser Karl transported in especially from Scandinavia to take centre stage at the Fall '11 ready-to-wear collection. Amidst its hulking presence, and the subzero winds swirling in cahoots around Le Grand Palais, out trotted what appeared to be a collection of Caveman Chic; looks that suggested the Kaiser had been watching Harry And The Hendersons on prolonged repeat. Sure, the iceberg and the ensuing (faux) fur-covered foray were all an unmistakable nod to global warming, but in all things holy, is this the tip of the (ahem) iceberg for fashion's newest global norming?

When worn in moderation, fur can add a touch of luxurious glamour - a chance to keep it real in fake; perhaps the only time in fashion when this won't raise an attempted arched eyebrow of botoxed contempt. A snug jacket encourages late-night 'touchy-feely' conversations in some dimly-lit corner; a textured handbag becomes the tactile topic du jour.

But in the guise of some wayward homage to an extinct woolly mammoth? Let's. Get. Serious. This whole, ol' caveman look is dead and buried. Indeed, it's highly possible that the word 'ugh' came not from an utter lack of language, but rather from the inherent, overwhelming sadness at their overall attire; hardly 'date night' appropriate. So why attempt to bring it back? Why dress men as manimals in what appears to be a couture version of the 'Snuggie'; the all-in-one ensemble designed for those one step away from refusing to wear 'proper' clothing again, such is its purported comfort.

Truly, I search for answers, but have come up as empty-handed as the empty-headed who will doubtless buy into this pileous look. And like a sartorial soothsayer, I also forsee grave danger in embodying the 'wilder' side of fashion: one lit ash from an animated cigarette and it's bye-bye beastie. Is that how you want to be remembered?

Please, Karl, come back to us next season with some real fierce fashion. I'm sure that, by then, all will be fur-given.

Fashion's welcome booby trap

Breasts. What to do with 'em? In youth, united they stand; with age, divided they fall. So it's no wonder that in recent years designers haven't quite known how to deal with these upfront symbols of femininity, preferring the more androgynous approach, offering lines that give a 'leaner, more architectural' silhouette. Whilst this certainly has its place for those less-endowed laydeez, it has perhaps caused exclusion for a multitude of women worldwide who have quite rightly pondered, 'Where does this leave me?'

Enter the Fall 2010 ready-to-wear circus, or more pointedly, Marc Jacobs and his team of oft-unheralded designers at the helm of hallowed French fashion house, Louis Vuitton. They have decreed that the bust is back: Not-quite-so-much-the-bigger, but certainly the better-than-ever. Think a young, firm, Brigitte Bardot; a veritable coquette and timeless fashion plate, her golden locks and thrusting bosom raising temperatures and box-office bankability - bums on seats for boobs, as it were. In an era when the sex kitten ruled, her seductive French purrs positively roared across the globe.

But how to make this all relevant for today's world? In essence, how to make the bust boom once again? To understand it better, perhaps we need to examine the overall 'new' proportion. It calls for a seriously cinched-in waist (giving the illusion of a bigger bust), full knee-length skirt and a healthy dose of confidence to let the proverbial 'puppies' off the leash and allow them to command centre stage. And let's make one thing absolutely clear: this is a gracious, ladylike approach - more made-over, modern-day milkmaid, not a nod to the pneumonic Playboy bunnies of today.

But back to LV's winning collection, universally applauded as the season's breast in show. Wheeling out a variety of past and present supes (Elle Macpherson, Laetitia Casta, Alessandra Ambrosio, et al) giving body and boob, parading serenely in front of an appreciative audience who, more than likely, let out a collective cigarette-scented sigh of relief that the afro wigs and gimmicks of the previous LV season were returned to whence they came from, replaced by welcome ponytails, bows and breasts. Can you say 'Ooh la la'?

Fashion's gone broke for the bust, and for women worldwide, I'm guessing that it couldn't come sooner.

The under is still totally over...

As per 2 posts ago, it would appear that the 'ass end' of fashion is alive and well in NYC. I found this photo today on 'The Sartorialist' blog.

To use jive parlance, Going crack is totally whack.

'Nuff said.