The Fashionista Files (26 page)
All About My Mother
Live Flesh
Talk to Her
BCP: Pedro, who left home at sixteen to pursue his dream of filmdom, used to draw X-rated comic books, wrote the memoirs of an imaginary porn star he called Patti di Phusa, and performed in a transvestite punk-rock band in his wild, early teenage years in Madrid.
The Baz Luhrmann Oeuvre
This eccentric Australian film director, known for his quick editing style, postmodernist pop-culture play, and elaborate sets and costume designs (created by his wife, who is, of course, his ultimate muse), is the mastermind behind three joyous fashionista favorites:
Strictly Ballroom—
One man and his dream to be the number one ballroom dancer of Australia and the ugly duckling he turned into a dancing swan—who taught him a trick or two. Wacky. FHM: The tiered cancan dresses and major panty flashing.
Romeo + Juliet—
The classic Shakespearean love story set in modern-day Los Angeles with a hip-hop sound track. Full of guns and Prada clothing. FHM: Claire Danes in a fluid white gown and angel wings.
Moulin Rouge—
The postmodern parade of love and music. The “Elephant Love Medley” alone, which combines U2 with Paul McCartney and Jimmy Sommerville, is sooo good, it’s genius! And that “Like a Virgin” number! It’s beyond! FHM: Nicole Kidman’s eyebrows, which do the best acting in the movie.
Worth a note: Baz turned the classic opera
La Bohème
into a Broadway production in New York City, set in 1950s Paris. Baz’s wife created the multimillion-dollar set. The singers, a revolving cast of six leads, were sexy and young (read: not old and overweight). And there were subtitles. David Bowie, Iman, and Adrien Brody were spotted (by us) during one of the show’s previews.
BIG-SCREEN FASHION
Bonnie, Clyde, and a Babysitter
KAREN
I was in eighth grade when I was first truly inspired by the power of cinema.
Flashdance
was all the rage. Jennifer Beals provoked an entire nation to cut up their sweatshirts and bust out the leg warmers. I had already been through my wanna-be-Olivia-Newton-John phase (even though Mom wouldn’t let me take on the vixen-in-spandex look of the “You’re the One That I Want” number). But those were flash-in-the-pan moments. While the off-the-shoulder sweatshirt and the vinyl catsuit left an indelible mark on fashion’s greatest hits, the trends those two starlets spurred were just that
—
trends.
It was fashion, not
style.
But I didn’t know any better. Until one fateful night, when I was sleeping at my friend’s house and her older brother, a long-haired, AC/DC-loving, ripped-jeans-wearing, mustache-sporting, blond hottie all the girls had a crush on, was forced to babysit us (it was some sort of punishment for skipping school).
He wanted nothing to do with us. We hung out in my friend’s room for the most part. But the television blared so loudly from the living room, along with his random electric guitar riffs, that we had to see what he was watching. “Go away,” he barked as we approached the sofa. “Can’t we watch with you?” his sister begged. Some kind of argument ensued, but he finally agreed to share the common area of the house as long as we didn’t say a single word or ask one question. The film:
Bonnie and Clyde,
something I’m sure my parents would have deemed too violent for my young, impressionable mind.
Between scenes from random crime sprees across America’s heartland, I was mesmerized by a retro-looking Faye Dunaway. Her elegance. Her perfect lips. Her hair. Her tough-girl attitude. Her poor-boy sweaters, tweed skirts, and berets! Good God, she was amazing. I wanted to look just like her. The next day I pilfered cable-knit sweaters and scarves from my mother’s closet and paired them with wool skirts and berets and newsboy caps, thinking I was all that. I fantasized that my friend’s brother was a fedora-wearing Clyde and that together we robbed 7-Elevens of Fun Dip and Jolly Ranchers. I wouldn’t wear anything unless I could imagine Bonnie in it. I was fascinated by 1930s fashion and a slightly dangerous, rebellious, yet glamorous lifestyle that was unlike anything I knew about in my small suburban town, where the wildest thing I had ever done was sneak outside at three A.M. with a friend to puff on a cigarette on the front lawn and borrow my mother’s clothes from time to time without her permission.
To me,
Bonnie and Clyde
was the epitome of cinematic drama. I didn’t even care what the film was about. It just represented such style and excitement, a life I craved. Until I saw
The Breakfast
Club—
and started wearing a long brown skirt, riding boots, and a pink T-shirt, and bringing sushi to school every day.
Sid and Nancy
and Me
MELISSA
The most miserable time of my life was my freshman year in high school. I suppose it couldn’t get any worse—in addition to the culture shock of having moved to the United States from the Philippines, I was awkward, overweight, and had terrifically bad hair. I didn’t have any friends. There was no hope of a boyfriend. To compensate, I became obsessed with the Sex Pistols.
Three skinny, dirty guys from England in the seventies who sang foulmouthed music, spit on their fans, did too many drugs, and vomited onstage! What was not to love? I was especially enamored of Sid Vicious, the misunderstood heroin addict and bass player. Like Sid, I fancied myself tortured, misunderstood, and very, very angry. Of course, I still made straight As and never even gave my parents a hint of trouble. While some of my cousins were sneaking around, climbing out the window and meeting their boyfriends, I was in bed by eleven, and spent all my free time reading.
When my best friend, Corrine, and I went to a Cure concert (Robert Smith was also tortured and misunderstood), we dyed our hair pink and silver. My dad drove us to the concert and picked us up afterward. We were rebels who relied on parental transportation! Corrine and I eagerly awaited the release of the Gary Oldman movie
Sid and Nancy.
When it came out, we walked the few blocks down to the Fillmore Theater and watched it with rapt attention. I remember the full-zipper pants (the zipper went all the way down Johnny’s crotch and up his butt), the plaid pants, the ripped T-shirts, the studded leather bracelets, the studded belts. I even coveted Sid’s hospital gown. It was so cool, hanging off his shoulders. I was infatuated with Nancy Spungen’s dyed canary-yellow hair, torn fishnets, and beat-up motorcycle jacket. I remembered the gash of red that passed for her lipstick. It looked like it hurt. I also liked the fact that unlike Sid, she had meat on her bones. She was nowhere near skinny.
I must have seen
Sid and Nancy
five times that month. Every time I felt blue, I escaped to 1970s England, and in my dreams I, too, was a whacked-out speed queen with a zonked-out punk boyfriend. That summer I sent away for the first of many Sex Pistols T-shirts. My favorite was a gory one with Sid’s mug that said “Don’t just sit there, do something. Kill somebody, kill yourself.” I felt dangerous even just
thinking
about wearing it. It felt good.
JOAN AND MELISSA RIVERS NEVER STOOD A CHANCE
The Ultimate Spectator Sport
MELISSA AND KAREN
Nothing’s as fun as watching the pre-Oscar red-carpet runway show. It’s the Super Bowl of fashion, and true fashionistas never turn down a chance to show off their chops. That is, by playing Guess Who Designed It with a roomful of friends as an audience. During the 2000 Oscars, the two of us held court as the supreme arbiters of style.
J.Lo arrived in a see-through pearl-gray chiffon and satin ball-gown. “Versace,” Mel said knowingly.
“Totally,” Karen agreed.
She was followed by a beaming Catherine Zeta-Jones in a black beaded number. “It’s got to be a Lacroix!” Karen yelped.
“But of course!” Mel nodded.
The next day we found out that la Lopez was actually wearing Chanel, and Mrs. Douglas was in Versace. God knows how many more dresses we got wrong! But it was fun to play Mr. Blackwell as we shared our appreciation for each other’s (we thought at the time) innate knowledge of designer styles. Guessing-the-designer is a fashionista pastime most fashionistas indulge in with other fashionistas. Try it! It’s fun!
Bjork, the quirky fashionista always carries an egg-shaped purse when wearing a swan.
As for our Oscar 2000 gown-guessing game, we both were certain obscure designer Bernard Wilhelm was responsible for Björk’s swan song. We shouted Bernard’s name in unison and gave each other high fives in what we thought was a true achievement in the Oscar fashion watch! Especially because Bernard is the type of eccentric designer heralded only in
very small—
and
very varsity—
fashionista circles. “Bernard who? How do you know that!” everyone marveled.
We just shrugged our shoulders and sighed. “Occupational hazard.” We wound up being wrong (obscure designer Marjan Pejoski actually designed it), but boy, was the room impressed at the time!
STYLE PAGES!
Do fashionistas read? you may wonder. Well they like to flip through pages, certainly. Books make nice decorative objects, and fashionistas like to collect oversize, glossy coffee-table books about art and design, and off-the-beaten-path, hard-to-find, esoteric magazines.
High Gloss
While Vogue, W, Elle, and Bazaar (as well as the UK versions of each) are a part of the required monthly fashionista reading agenda, we are also inspired by more offbeat, underground magazines that represent countercultures—an artful world of innovative photography, undiscovered designers, untapped talent of all kinds, as well as serious fashion and trends, which are shown in an ultramodern light with a touch of irony. These magazines—the more esoteric, the better—are great conversation builders and give insiders something even more insider-y to talk about. The titles to read—or sprawl out on the coffee table—include:
Arty fashion books that are a platform for grassroots talent as well as established bigwigs. Get V (the magazine version of Vision
aire
),
Dazed & Confused, Spoon,
and
Big.
Bulky magazines that showcase innovative, edgy photographers. Get
Purple, Face, I-D, Arena.
For a delicious mix of cultural events, gallery exhibits, insanely cool design, and the latest and greatest products from around the country, buy
City
magazine,
Art Forum
(though the specialty here is obviously art), and
Flaunt,
which is much like an art book in itself.
Vintage magazines of any kind, especially
Vogue, Bazaar, Play
boy, and M, which is the now-defunct men’s version of W that was published by Fairchild Publications, publisher of WWD and W, which are now owned by Condé Nast, the behemoth that publishes
Vanity Fair, Vogue, Allure, Self, Glamour, The New Yorker,
Lucky,
and more.
Any funky Japanese or Eastern European magazine, typically found in serious, highbrow fashion outlets like Colette in Paris and avant-garde boutiques all over the world.
Groovy home-design “books” like
Dwell, Nest,
and
Wallpaper*,
which is known for ultra-art-directed decor shoots styled much like fashion shoots in environments that have been curated to perfection.
Note: We also love our tabloids. Aside from guilty pleasures like US Weekly and Star, the British mags like Tatler, Hello!, and O.K.! keep us posted on the fashionistas from across the pond.
SHELF LIFE
From A to B and Back Again
MELISSA
Sometimes I feel like New York is a party that I arrived at too late. I moved here in 1989 and I feel like I missed out on everything. When I moved to the city, Studio 54 was over, Liza was in rehab, and Andy Warhol was already dead. Why else do people move to New York except to worship at the temple of Andy? The man who had his wig cut at the hairstylist’s? The man who tape-recorded all his conversations? Who made the Polaroid a must-have at any party?
My favorite book of all time is Bob Colacello’s biography of Andy Warhol,
Holy Terror: Andy Warhol Up Close.
While I tried to be one of those people who were able to slog through Andy’s bitchy diaries (“Bianca Jagger: major body odor, cab fare to Mudd Club $12”), I was too intimidated by the size of that manuscript. It was a doorstop. I found my copy of Bob’s book in a remainder bin, for $2 (the bargain hunter and the Andy fan in me cheered). I brought it home and devoured the whole thing in one sitting. The book’s philosophy is one that I still adhere to in life.
For instance, Andy, the perennial celebrity-hound, was always excited whether he was meeting the queen of England or the queens from Fourteenth Street. He treated everyone with the same “gee-aw-shucks” manner. He was starstruck and a social climber. But he never let it get in the way of his fun or his true grit. While he wallowed in the glitzy New York nightlife, he lived with his mother all his life.
Andy was a true fashionista, with a signature look, a flair for self-parody, and a desire to go out every night. I carried that book like the bible it was. It still makes me nostalgic for a New York I never experienced.
