Auntie Fashion

NOW Magazine

There I was, a moment ago, watching Sue Thomas: F.B.Eye and sulking in my living room (I was stung by a yellow-jacket and forced into temporary seclusion because my calf is as big as a Virginia ham), when a friend called to let me know that my identity is being questioned in NOW Magazine.

I was glad I picked up the phone.  My self-imposed exile was messing with my head, and in my mind I had just written the first act of a screenplay about a blind fashion designer who rises to the top of the fashion business despite the odds.  But enough about Marc Jacobs!

Anyway, it seems as if NOW writer Andrew Sardone doesn’t believe that I am Prunella Crudsworth.  I don’t get it!  I’ve been upfront about my identity since my very first blog post.  Why do people want to believe that I’m someone else?

I do want to thank Mr. Sardone for saying such lovely things about me and my random musings (Andrew – I’d kiss you, but I just washed my hair).  However, I do feel sorry for Louisa McCormack and Nathalie Atkinson.  Living in my shadow must be difficult.  Still, I’m thankful that neither woman has attempted to take credit for my creative output, although I wouldn’t blame them if they tried.  I’m Auntie Fashion, after all.  It’s easy for me to understand just how fascinating I am.

. . .  and I am the fashion world’s most enduring muse. Throughout the modern era I have provided creative inspiration for almost every designer of significance, from Coco to Cristóbal, Hubert to Halston, and Yves to Yamamoto.

I was born Prunella Crudsworth in 1903. Moments after my birth, my parents were visited by a man of an indeterminate complexion. This dark stranger informed my mother and father that I was possessed by the spirit of Zob: An ancient goddess who had presided over all that was gorgeous since the beginning of time. Naturally, my parents believed the swarthy mystery man; I was a breathtakingly beautiful baby, after all. Soon my entire family was uprooted and moved to a secret, faraway location – a veritable Shangri-la – where I was raised by glamorous, sibylline women who had devoted their lives to the glory that is Zob.

On my twenty-first birthday I was instructed to leave my idyllic home so that I could share the gospel of gorgeousness throughout the world. Soon I was flitting in and out of high society like a beautiful butterfly, inspiring stylishness everywhere I went. I singlehandedly taught Diana Vreeland how to accessorize. I alone convinced Christian Dior to drop his “Old Look” in favor of a new one. I even urged Anna Wintour to take on a monstrously large companion to draw attention away from her preternaturally large feet. André Leon: You owe it all to me!

While the spirit of Zob inhabited my body, I was able to remain ageless. Consequently, I couldn’t stay in one locale for very long. My secret wasn’t sinister, yet I knew that my timeless appearance would eventually arouse suspicion. Like Catherine Deneuve in The Hunger, I couldn’t allow my identity to become subject to investigation. So I moved from city to city, and country to country, influencing the fashionista and reinventing the rules of style worldwide.

Unfortunately, I was in New York City on that tragic day that Marc Jacobs debuted his infamous “Grunge” collection for the Perry Ellis label in 1992. I had never met Mr. Jacobs before, so there was no reason for me to be concerned. However, when the designer was taking his final bow, he looked over to the front row where I was sitting. Our eyes met and in an instant the spirit of Zob fled my body. Marc Jacobs was the Kryptonite to my Zobliness: The antithesis of everything gorgeous in the universe.

Since that fateful day, I have been living a clandestine life as a mere mortal. As a child, I was warned of the existence of an evil AntiZob. Yet I never imagined that the menacing force would infiltrate the fashion world in the guise of a second-rate designer. Now all I can do is await the return of the goddess, and pray that she finds a human vessel with more fortitude than I displayed at that tragic moment when I had the Zob scared out of me.

Until the next incarnation of Zob arrives to save the world from Marc Jacobs and all that is abhorrent, I have chosen to compose this blog under the pseudonym Auntie Fashion. The name suits me ideally, since I tend to dote on the style-impaired like a caring, old aunt. It also describes how I feel about the current state of the world. I would never describe myself as anti fashion – I live for fashion – but what currently passes for fashion isn’t fashion. Until the AntiZob is defeated, I will work tirelessly to spread this message. The existence of beauty itself depends upon it.

The evil AntiZob with one of his minions.