Auntie Fashion

Dear Auntie;

If you’re the fashion world’s most enduring muse, why haven’t I ever seen you?

Nonplussed in New Jersey

Dear Nonplussed;

I’ve always tried to avoid cameras.  While I was hosting the spirit of Zob, I didn’t age like the rest of you mere mortals.  If I stayed in one place, my flawless appearance would eventually arouse suspicion.  So I moved around from city to city, inspiring the residents with my divine sense of style and my unfathomable gorgeousness.  Wherever I went, the fashion world followed.

You can probably find photos of me if you look around.  However, I’m usually the gorgeous woman in the background, wearing dark sunglasses in broad daylight, or with the collar of her trench turned up to conceal her face.  I would occasionally get caught by surprise by the paparazzi, and there are few shots of me “improvising” to avoid the cameras.  I’d hide behind Nan Kempner’s jewelry, Andy’s Warhol’s entourage, or whatever was handy.

For those individuals who were privileged to become part of my inner circle, my beauty was legendary.  That’s why people like Ceri Marsh and Simon Doonan gush over me like I’m some sort of a god: For most of the 20th century, I was.  My glorious visage will be fixed in their minds like a flaw in a diamond.  They’ll spend the rest of their days wondering if Nature will ever produce another specimen as perfect as Zob.  Their only consolation will be knowing that they were given the honor to bask in the glow of my fabulousity.

Love and kisses,

Auntie

Skinny Women

There’s a very interesting article today on style.com.  It seems that the CFDA held a discussion on Tuesday night called “The Beauty of Health: How the Fashion Industry Can Make a Difference.”  The forum was intended to address the issue of skinny models.  It’s interesting to see that Anna Wintour attended the event.  A friend of Zob (and my spiritual advisor), Greg Polkosnik, used to work for Teen Vogue, and he always has a few juicy stories to tell about the magazine.

Like myself, Greg is a gym rat.  He’s been a fitness trainer since 1986.  While he was writing horoscopes for Teen Vogue, he used to include tidbits like “Burn off some nervous energy on the treadmill,” and “Check out the boys in the weight room.”  It was innocuous stuff, yet he claims that it was solid astrological advice, grounded in the placements of the planets.

He continued to offer comments like that to his readers until one day when he was told to stop because ”teenage girls don’t go to the gym.”  His editor at the time was working for editor-in-chief Amy Astley, who reported directly to Anna Wintour.

While Greg doesn’t claim the instructions came down that particular chain of command, he doesn’t dispute the fact that the dictum was foolish.  “I’ve been a fitness professional for half of my life,” he told me.  “Teenage girls go to the gym.”

He might be overstating his case, though.  Perhaps the kind of girls who read Teen Vogue don’t go to the gym.  While they’re busy aspiring to own Marc Jacobs bags, they could be starving themselves like model Coco Rocha, who spoke at the CFDA discussion.  “I was so obsessed with food that I would flip out if I ate an apple,” Rocha told the audience.  The worst part is that Rocha was a dancer before she was a model; she was the kind of person who needed to fuel her body with food in order to succeed in her discipline.  But being told “We don’t want you to be anorexic. We just want you to look it,” probably played a few tricks with her head.  Who can blame her if she starved herself?

I won’t ever say that Wintour is to blame.  I really do like the woman, and I can be guilty of defending her no matter what she does because I know that she’s a businesswoman above all: She wants her empire to succeed.  Still, with such disturbing messages coming from her underlings, what am I supposed to say about her?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a piece of Saskatoon berry pie to eat.

The Evil AntiZob

Some people believe that I have an unhealthy obsession with Marc Jacobs, including my therapist.  He’s been trying to get me to confront my fear of the designer for a couple of months now.  We sit around his office watching Louis Vuitton shows online while debating the inherent evil of the collection.  I tell him that that wearing the clothes steals your soul.  He tells me that I’m being irrational.  I tell him that he should try to walk a mile in my Louboutins.  He asks me if they make a nice slingback in a men’s size thirteen.  I ask him if he’s kidding.  He tells me to call him “Joyce” in his Michael Caine-like accent.  I ask him why there’s a blonde wig sticking out of his desk drawer.  He tells me that our time is up.

Anyhow, he also suggested that I try to take baby steps in order to deal with my so-called issues.  And I’m proud to say that I did!  Yesterday I bought something from the Perry Ellis collection.  Sure, Marc Jacobs hasn’t been involved with the brand since he virtually ruined the company in 1992 with his self-indulgence and lack of artistry, but that doesn’t matter.  What matters is that I put on something that had a Perry Ellis label sewn into it and nothing bad happened to me.

Perhaps the spirit of Zob is still watching over me.  I’ve noticed that my hair has been especially lustrous lately — maybe I haven’t lost my powers after all!  A couple of weeks back I also mentioned that I’m not as disturbed by the designer’s ugly mug as I used to be.  Have I just grown accustomed to his face, or immune to his hideousness?

This is an intriguing development, and it’s something I’m going to need to investigate.

I received the most illuminating comment today from Tawdry Hepburn, whom I blogged about in my last post.  Since my recollection of my own history is spotty at best since the spirit of Zob vacated my personage, I’ve chosen to accept Miss Hepburn’s account of Zob’s Portland connection.  Rather than posting this comment on the comments page, I’ve decided it’s worth of it’s own blog entry.

Here’s what she wrote:

A little known fact: Zob appeared, much like the Virgin Mary, in a park in Portland in roughly 1951. Zob came to intercede on behalf of the fashion atrocities being committed for a century in this backwater burg, and warn against the future.
Zob showed the few chosen that only Zob can make Birkenstocks with socks fierce, that showering and shaving will NOT take your soul, and that patchouli should be used in minute amounts of a perfume, not as a single note to bathe in. Unfortunately, Zob’s audience was a small band of gay-affiliated women and their hairdressers, so Zob’s message did take a very long time to come to fruition. My Grandmother was one of these lucky souls – she claims I was born with the Mark of Zob, as I could walk in heels and pick out Chanel while still a toddler, even while being raised in the most granola, anti-fashion household. Praise be Zob!

Well if that doesn’t explain it all, I don’t know what does.  Now if I only had a photo of the Mark of Zob.  I bet it’s like a scarlet pimpernel, only fierce!

Tawdry, you are truly a friend of Zob.

Miss Tawdry Hepburn of Portland, Oregon sent me this snaphot she took of the word Zob written in the cement outside an apartment building.  Although she believes that the apartment building was built in the 20s, she figures that the cement was poured in the 50s.

I’m a little surprised that Zob had disciples in the Pacific Northwest during that era.  While the name Zob was on the lips of beautiful people worldwide by the middle of the century, most Oregon natives were still clad in burlap sacks and homemade Birkenstocks crafted from sinew and driftwood.  Until the Seattle-inspired grunge era of the early 90s arrived — paving the way for the opening of several Value Village stores – Oregonians didn’t have anywhere to shop.  As a result, fashion was not their primary concern.

So it’s strange to know that someone in Portland would even know me back then – never mind knowing me well enough to scratch my name into the sidewalk!  Perhaps there is a secret Order of Zob based in Portland, laying in wait until they are needed.  With the Zobpocalypse looming, it’s a mystery I will need to investigate.

Dior Resort

One of the things I love about the Dior label is how aspirational it can be: You watch a Dior show, and you imagine what it would be like to be the woman who can wear Dior.  You see ridiculously impractical hats, chiffon caftans and gold lamé palazzo pants, all meant to be worn in places you can only hope to visit some day.  Still, you aren’t aspiring to wear a status symbol; you are aspiring to be more fabulous. 

That’s the difference between Dior and Louis Vuitton.  The former label appeals to the fantasy of living large, while the latter appeals to the notion that carrying a designer bag is living large.

However, the best thing about Dior is how the label caters to such a wide age demographic.  Take the suit in the photo, for example.  As it was presented on the runway, it could be appropriate for an outdoor wedding or getting sworn into the Senate.  Paired with a hat, one of the young Windsors could wear it to Royal Ascot without embarrassing her grandmother.  A magazine editor could wear the skirt with a cashmere turtleneck and an armful of bracelets to New York Fashion Week. Or Ivanka Trump could borrow the jacket from her mother in order to reinvent it for The Apprentice boardroom with a sexy pencil skirt.

There is an underlying essence of practicality at Dior the belies the extravagance of the collection, and that’s what sets it apart from other luxury labels.  While everyone speaks of “investment pieces,” few designers deliver the goods with such style.  Just imagine being the kind of woman who can go into her own archives to reinvent her old favorites twenty years after she bought them.  Just think of what it would be like to get a compliment on your outfit, then being able to respond with the classic line “This old thing?” while keeping a straight face.  It’s something we all should aspire to.  Thank Zob that Mr. Galliano gives us the chance.

Ceri Marsh

Ceri Marsh is the editor in chief of FASHION magazine.  I guess you could say that she’s Canada’s answer to Anna Wintour, only no one has written a scathing roman à clef about her . . . yet!

Ceri graciously submitted to an interview with Auntie Fashion earlier today.  In between margaritas and martinis (we were drinking our way through the alphabet, as is the custom when we go out) I asked Ceri the tough questions that no other reporter has been bold enough to ask.

Auntie Fashion: How is Zob currently influencing the editorial direction of FASHION magazine?

Ceri Marsh: As you can imagine, the team at FASHION considers Zob in everything they do. I can’t tell you how many editorial discussions end with, “Yeah, it’s fabulous, but would Zob like it?” In fact, some of the younger editors congratulate each other on a job well done by exclaiming, “That is so Zob!”

Auntie Fashion: Since I was the last mortal vessel that Zob chose to inhabit, would you consider putting me on the cover of an upcoming issue?

Ceri Marsh: Zob on a cover? Done. My only concern is that FASHION couldn’t afford the kind of international crew a celeb like Zob typically demands. I’ve heard that she’ll only shoot with Craig McDean and demands Pat McGrath and Sam McNight as her makeup and hair team. Come on, we’re the best-read magazine in Canada but we are a Canadian title with modest Canadian budgets…. Mind you, the news stand sales we could expect with a Zob cover would probably compensate for the Zob price tag.

Auntie Fashion: If you had to choose between a weekend in Paris with Jean Paul Gaultier, or a bus trip to Moose Jaw Fashion Week 2012, which would you choose?

Ceri Marsh: A what trip? I only take taxis and I’m afraid of the woods so it would have to be Paris for me. Bounjour, Jean Paul!

Anna Wintour

I have to admit that I took one look at my invitation to the superhero-themed Metropolitan Museum of Art Costume Institute Gala, then I crumpled it up and threw it into the trash.  Sure, it would have been nice to attend such a star-studded event, but I couldn’t go.  I’m no superhero.  I used to be, but I’m not anymore.

However, I did send my several of my operatives, including the heroic Tom Ford/Drofmot and his trusty sidekick Richard Buckley (who probably wore a mask and some tights).  They were there to keep an eye on the Evil AntiZob, who attended with his partner in malevolence, Sophia Coppola.  I’ll be expecting a briefing shortly.  Who knows what sort of evil my allies may have witnessed?

Speaking of evil, Anna Wintour looked anything but evil in her gorgeous Chanel Haute Couture gown.  In fact, it may have been the most appropriate dress on the red carpet for a superhero-themed event.  Her character can be called Platinum, and her powers can include selling ad pages and elegantly deflecting criticism.

Kudos also go to Amber Valletta, Naomi Watts, Christina Ricci and Lynda Carter for getting into the spirit of the event.

Now, back to the criticism.  I do understand how the Costume Gala works.  The event is sponsored.  The tables are sponsored.  The clothes are sponsored.  Everything is basically a big exercise in PR to draw attention to the Met, underwritten by the generosity of select donors.  Meanwhile, many of the celebrities who attend lend credence to the event by donating their presence; their star power is their currency.  Still, I wonder who actually donates money to the Met.

That gives me an idea.  Wouldn’t it be great if someone like Tom Cruise (who attended last night’s event) donated a dollar amount equivalent to the free outfit he got from Giorgio Armani?  Wouldn’t it be great if he did the same thing at every event he attended every time he got a free outfit?  Even if he had to return the clothes afterward, it wouldn’t even put a dent in his bank account.

Maybe he does donate a ton of money each time he attends a party like this — I have no idea where his money goes.  I’m a little leery of celebrities in free clothes, though.  As I’ve already mentioned, I understand the concept of endorsement.  I just don’t trust people to take the high road when it’s right in front of them.  It takes a real superhero to go the extra mile.

Henrietta Southam (upper center)

When Fashion File Host Hunt revealed its cast, I saw Henrietta Southam’s name on the list and immediately thought “What a ridiculous example of stunt casting!”  Auntie Fashion has been around long enough to know how much weight the Southam name carries in Canada.  I presumed that Ms. Southam was put on the show simply because her family name gave her credence as a socialite: They figured that she was the kind of woman who could walk backstage at a fashion show and fit in with the beautiful people.  At first glance, I assumed the same thing, too.

Then the show premiered.  Henrietta entered the studio in an adorable fedora and I said to myself “Ooh!  I love a broad who can wear a hat!”  On the second episode, she crushed the competition during a quiz of past and present fashion knowledge, spelling “fedora” correctly along the way (unlike a certain someone).  Suddenly she was legitimate competitor.  I was rooting for her to win.

Unfortunately, the producers weren’t going to let that happen.  During a subsequent challenge, Southam made a crucial error.  She thought that Fashion File was looking for a reporter when they were really just looking for someone to schmooze with the crowd.  A source close to the show told me that she offended the designers of Bustle and Bustle when she didn’t blow smoke up their asses as required.

Southam threw in the towel after that incident.  She knew that the producers weren’t going to let her win, so she gave up on FFHH.  Who could blame her?

In retrospect, it appears that she left a sinking ship.  A little voice inside her head must have been urging her to go.  I’m sure that it was the voice of Zob.  Zob works in mysterious ways, speaking to the truly gorgeous when they are in need.  And when I look at Henrietta Southam, I know that she has been blessed by Zob.  You don’t get to be that fabulous without a little divine intervention.

Dear Auntie Fashion;

If Zobism is the new Kabbalah, is there a way for me to show off my devotion, like wearing one of those string bracelets?

Wondering in Wiesbaden

Dear Wondering;

Worshipping at the altar of the goddess isn’t about adopting a material symbol to acknowledge your faith.  It’s about doing those things that will set you apart from the non-believers, like flossing your teeth, getting a good night’s sleep, eating a healthy diet and exercising regularly.  If you follow this path towards true beauty, then fashion becomes the frame that displays the artwork that is you.

You can always spot the Zobist in the crowd, because she stands out like an exquisite flower, blooming in a vast wasteland of trash.  Nevertheless, if you want to make a purchase to show your devotion to Zob, I am accepting donations.  As the former mortal representation of the goddess, Zob would want me to spend the money on something fabulous to show the world how much you care.

Love and kisses,

Auntie