Leafing through the gossip this morning, I see that Award Show Season has entered the preliminary phases, which means Fashion Season has arrived. Nothing prompts famous people to don monstrosities like red carpets. I love fashion in any form, even when the subject gets it wrong. Clothing is interesting in its statement. Apparently the statement most young men and women today want to make to the world is “I have become unhinged.” Why somebody would choose to wear trousers or gowns with giant holes and swaths removed is beyond me. If you want to show off your breast do so; don’t hide behind a something that looks as if you came to your destination by way of a tiger trap. Commit to going bold if that is your desire; but leave a good piece of silk intact.
And apparently they allow someone else to dress them – you can see it in there expressions. They sit with uneasy half smiles and eyes looking about, hoping no one is watching. Heavens, darling, you knew you threw on the chintz doily when you looked in the mirror, don’t wonder what happened into the cameras. If the person you hired to dress you places a fishing net over your head and ties it off with the seat belt of your car, perhaps you should consider new help. And accessories! My precious Mouffette is more properly adorned. An electrical cord does not a sautoir make, darlings.
As for the awards themselves, I pay little attention.
Please remember, when I went to sleep in 1913, about the only award given out was the Nobel so I am a bit nonplussed about something that rewards a person for merely showing up for their job. It is interesting how many categories they invent to ensure everyone is awarded something. Singling out excellence has been replaced for acknowledging popularity. My curio cabinet would be overflowing…
So for me, I stick to the fashion. Color has come back in full force; something for which I am entirely grateful. Oh black will always be in my closet, but when you have gone through mourning twice over, a nice splash of citron sets you right as rain.
And the men… Darlings, I love a well-dressed woman (or undressed, depending on the soiree) but a man in a suit is my undoing. I enjoy anything polished – from my silver to my bum. The squared curve of a crafted shoulder, the clean line of a knife-edged lapel, the drape of a well-tailored pant – who cares what they are nominated for, I plan to reward them in earnest as soon as I get my fashionably manicured fingers on them. I especially enjoy if he is the slightest bit uncomfortable. Most Young Hollywood would rather be on a beach sucking on a Mai Tai or their neighbor’s neck than stuck in a suit for any amount of time. Watching them twitch as they are assaulted by microphone after camera just make me think how ready they are to get out of that suit. Those young, able bodies waiting to disrobe as soon as the dog and pony show is over? Why, that is what the Chateau thrives on.
Yes, I welcome Awards Season and all of its promise. I hope this one does not disappoint. My point is, darlings, if you insist on draping yourself in something other than me, at least make it entertaining.