I have to say, reading this entire conversation is, in a way, a perfect reflection of the sort of passion and soul that we're all convinced is missing from fashion these days. Look at how much everyone has to say, and look at how emphatically and thoughtfully it's been said.
It used to be that you could sense that sort of excitement or passion or just...feeling...pulsing in the collections of even the most commercial designers or editors. You could tell that the colors, the fabrics and shapes and details and styling, every nuance of the image they were seeking to create, were somehow a reflection of their mood or their outlook or just what they really wanted to see in the world. I mean in the face of the AIDS crisis you had designers like Gianni Versace, Karl Lagerfeld and John Galliano creating clothes which were bursting with enthusiasm and joy and weirdness and life, while stylists like Carlyne Cerf de Dudzeele and Grace Coddington presented them in exuberant, romantic, evocative contexts. Meanwhile behind the scenes they all no doubt had lost or were losing people who were near and dear to them, but they turned that horror and pain into a small form of positivity. In the early 2000s you had designers like D&G, Marc Jacobs, Miuccia Prada, Alexander McQueen, Alber Elbaz, Tom Ford and more embracing humor and fun and frivolity and sensuality and fantasy as a sort of defense against a shaky global economy, a looming threat of war and general political unrest all over the world.
I'm not sure where along the line an entire generation of designers came about that began to treat that sort of feeling as a taboo, or when showing even hints of the human behind the clothes was rejected in favor of something that's seemingly devoid of any sort of palpable emotion, but it's kind of horrifying. I mean the god's honest truth is that when you divorce fashion from all of the mushy, gushy, possibly pretentious but usually enjoyable feelings which goes into its creation -- the humanity behind it all -- you're just left with some pretty (at best) items of expensive clothing that anybody could easily live without.
It used to be that you could sense that sort of excitement or passion or just...feeling...pulsing in the collections of even the most commercial designers or editors. You could tell that the colors, the fabrics and shapes and details and styling, every nuance of the image they were seeking to create, were somehow a reflection of their mood or their outlook or just what they really wanted to see in the world. I mean in the face of the AIDS crisis you had designers like Gianni Versace, Karl Lagerfeld and John Galliano creating clothes which were bursting with enthusiasm and joy and weirdness and life, while stylists like Carlyne Cerf de Dudzeele and Grace Coddington presented them in exuberant, romantic, evocative contexts. Meanwhile behind the scenes they all no doubt had lost or were losing people who were near and dear to them, but they turned that horror and pain into a small form of positivity. In the early 2000s you had designers like D&G, Marc Jacobs, Miuccia Prada, Alexander McQueen, Alber Elbaz, Tom Ford and more embracing humor and fun and frivolity and sensuality and fantasy as a sort of defense against a shaky global economy, a looming threat of war and general political unrest all over the world.
I'm not sure where along the line an entire generation of designers came about that began to treat that sort of feeling as a taboo, or when showing even hints of the human behind the clothes was rejected in favor of something that's seemingly devoid of any sort of palpable emotion, but it's kind of horrifying. I mean the god's honest truth is that when you divorce fashion from all of the mushy, gushy, possibly pretentious but usually enjoyable feelings which goes into its creation -- the humanity behind it all -- you're just left with some pretty (at best) items of expensive clothing that anybody could easily live without.