Colour Me Bad

Super stellar fashion editors such as Annas Dello Russo and Piaggi have long subscribed to the manifesto of the bright and bold.  Now it’s time for the rest of us to follow suit…


Christopher Kane S/S 11


There is a pure, riotous poetry in the colour-drenched kaleidoscope of the coming season.  Spring collections feel lavishly carnivalesque and psychedelic; has fashion has raided Wonka’s candy-shop, or siphoned the Technicolor from Dorothy’s Oz?

 On SS/11 catwalks, colours sweet enough to eat stacked up like so many ice-cream flavours: pistachio and spearmint at Burberry, lemon sherbet at Chanel and glorious rhubarb-and-custard at Giles.  Migraine-inducing, retina-taxing hues zipped down runways like frenetic fireflies – Proenza Schouler showcased souped-up cerise and fizzy pumpkin.  Cerulean at Gucci and cobalt courtesy of Jason Wu were the kind of intense pigments more commonly concocted in phials of chemical laboratories, or plundered from souks and spice markets of tropical bazaars.  Further forays into the Far East saw exotic Geishas at Galliano and Kenzo compete, butterfly-like, with rainbow-hued Harajuku dolls at Meadham Kirchhoff and Junya Watanabe.

Meadham Kirchhoff S/S 11

So tread bold, but banish clownish overtones by investing in translucent peek-a-boo fabrics looted from romantic heroines of yore.  Juxtapose with mean, lean silhouettes sharper than Lagerfeld’s suits.  Splice with a horde of tribal, tattoo and trompe l’oeil prints, sneak in a dash of sport-luxe, and you’ve got yourself one seriously stupendous wardrobe for spring, summer, and that bright beyond…


Happy Birthday, Capote

  Truman Capote, flamboyant author of Breakfast at Tiffany’s and In Cold Blood, made a name for himself, in his literary and social heyday, in more ways than one.  Indeed, I don’t immediately think of his stories when I consider him.  I’m more familiar with the film Breakfast at Tiffany’s than the slick little novella it was based on, having watched Audrey onscreen about, oh, thirty four times, and only read Capote on the page once.


It’s Capote’s character, and private, or not-so-private-life, that absorbs.  His name  is rather a catalyst for a steady drip-drip of associations that come slowly swirling about one, like confetti or the measured skitter of the snow.  And it’s a heady concoction of Warhol,  murder cases,  Marilyn and Audrey, TV chatshows, feuds,  the glorious, iconic  Black and White Ball at the Plaza,  60s Hollywood, debauchery and meanness,  Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones, and  Studio 54.

And then finally, wonderfully New York:

 “…as we watched seaward-moving ships pass between the cliffs of burning skyline, she said: ‘years from now, years and years, one of those ships will bring me back, me and my nine Brazilian brats, because yes, they must see this, these lights, the river– I love New York, even though it isn’t mine, the way something has to be, a tree or a street or a house, something anyway, that belongs to me because I belong to it.’ And I said: ‘Do shut up,’ for I felt infuriatingly left out– a tugboat in a dry-dock while she, glittery voyager of secure destination steamed down the harbor with whistles whistling and confetti in the air.”

Read this fascinating Telegraph article about Audrey, Capote and the film here