I sat curious whilst partaking in the beginning of the annual cooing fest & and getting huffy when my personal best dressed end up in the worst dressed list of every celebrity magazine charade known to some as award season. Aside from seeing too much of Ryan Seacrest, of which I've heard that too much exposure can televisually induce a rash, award season is the ultimate bitchfest excuse for film & television fashion muses to parade their wares and that of said creative or not so creative designers.
It is true to say that red carpet escapades can be the make or break of said humanoids, favourable towards iconic stylistic education from Liz Hurley, Angelina Jolie & her wandering leg escapades & Winona Ryder.
It says alot for 21st century image obsessed plague that sometimes lingers around said events when in the UK the awards ceremony was not televised but the pre-show "who are you wearing" slam-fest was. But hey, I'm not complaining, these sickly sweet throwaway televisual offerings still end up falling into peoples laps and getting people hooked, even enough to doggy paddle onto social networking to outpour said affections for miscellaneous actresses pistachio coloured backless crepe dress. My twitter was a steady canal (including spirited upstream attempts from myself) of judgement & opinion of the people who doth our screens in cinema or in the comfort of our own boudoirs over the year, who's occupation, arguably, is to act, write or direct. Or is it?
Picture the scene, 70th Academy Golden Globes, Los Angeles. It's a split carpet with scoops of monochrome going into battle with big shades of reds, aubergines, ballerina pinks and seafoam greens. Pre-award acceptance for Best Lead Actress for Silver Linings Playbook, which I have not seen but heard lovely things about, well commented upon Hunger Games poster girl Jennifer Lawrence shuffles over to the man who wins the most punchable face on the planet award, Seacrest, upon which this is the interchange:
Seacrest: Who are you wearing tonight?
Lawrence: It's Dior Haute Couture (confusion face) I don't really know what haute means
Large intake of breath. SAY WHUT
She looked decadent in her coral red organza gown and I could have ate the bodice up with a spork. But did her supposed fashion cluelessness take anything away from the jaw dropping love for the garment from an outside perspective or downgrade her defining red carpet status. From the waves of adoration upon how elegant she looked and how well she portayed herself not at all. If anything I think it enhanced her cute and naive adorability, which is often hard to find in such an environment. There's a reason why stylists have a job and that's because they work so hard to know what's going to work, what is on trend and how to dress their client to exact perfection. If every contemporary namesake knew the ingredients, trend prediction and buzzwords, they would be able to save their pennies and no stylist would be in a job.
I found the interview with Nicole Kidman also enlightening as she claimed she kind of fell out of love with these kind of events and fashion as whole. But since playing Grace Kelly in the upcoming biopic she's unashamedly and naturally fell back into a state of garment affection, as you tell with her mouthwatering choice of Alexander McQueen sheer midriff, waist defining, black floorlength work of art.
I'm not a big fan of celebrity culture, craving to dress like any celebrity or the act of shouting from the rooftops how vile or amazing sometimes bland "famous" folk look, I tend to enjoy the simpler things, like the history, art, concept and craft. I'm in no means against but merely find it watered down in comparison to the inspiration I find from other sources, like the past, on the street, on catwalks, from bloggers, from my favourite members of the russian fashion mafia, from books, from character play, from art, from patterns, from lingerers, writers and editors outside Somerset House when it's LFW o'clock or even from silly cartoons (Squidward doesn't half know how to dress his tenticles). It's so easy to get sucked in to pretty thin actress wearing a pretty designer dress-itus, but as my fashion muses, style and knowledge has grown, it's easier to see out of the thick woods. The society we live is a saintly and sinful mixture of easy accessible everything. But through my years of delving and digging through the infinate forests of fashion is where in time you find yourself and your own niche. By gum it's been a tiring journey of muddy mounds of cheap florals, soggy dragging weeds of ra-ra skirts and gravelly wasted polka dots.
The morning after golden globes night, I looked at myself and the mirror and told myself it's not 2004 anymore, Paris Hilton isn't on the television, a diamante mobile phone never has and never will be classed as an accessory, everyone has realised what a dick Perez Hilton is, collar bones are the new tits and it doesn't matter if a successful actress doesn't know what Haute means. Ever since, I've never had better nights sleeps. After being mildy disgruntled when unnamed trashy trashbag publication said Sienna Miller looked terrible in her Erdem jelly pastel two piece arrangement, I merely took a deep breath, ate some lemon drizzle cake and moved on.
This post really has turned from having a structured purpose into a ramble, but nobodies perfect.
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