Nude is one of this season’s hottest trends. Nude not as in clothing optional, but nude as in (Caucasian) skin tones. In other words, beige gussied up with names like oatmeal, flesh, and taupe, as well as spring’s perennial pinks and peaches. Not only is this palette “in,” but wearing heels in a color that matches your skin will make your legs look longer, at least according to best-selling fashion author Charla Krupp, quoted in an interview in “O” magazine. At 5”3”, I can use all the illusion I can get, so off I went in search of nude heels.
Surfing the fashion blogs turned up a pair of peep-toe stilettos by Giuseppe Zanotti in a patent leather pale pink that looked as though they would “make your legs go on forever,” as the description on TheShoeGoddess.com suggested. The only hitch was that I’ve never mastered the peculiarly feminine art of walking in high heels. Mastering as in being able to walk down the street with my usual long strides in the delicate, sexy shoes my eyes are invariably drawn to. Despite the fact that I’ve ended up giving away or returning virtually every pair of high heels I’ve ever bought, hope--or marketing-- springs eternal. Perhaps this time I would find a shoe that was sexy, comfortable and matched my legs. Surely, that was not too much to ask.
My first stop was the Nordstrom shoe department, primarily because of its generous return policy. I tried on two pairs of Cole Haan pumps with Nike Air heel pads, one with peep toes, the other closed, but the toe box in both felt too confining and the shade of beige was too yellow for my coloring. A pair of Athena Alexander leather slides in a cream color were fairly comfortable, but not vamp enough. And then I spotted the Nine West ankle strap pumps in a variety of colors, including a deep metallic blue and a pinky nude. The latter were the closest match to the color of my feet, and fairly comfortable, but the blue ones also tugged at my heart strings. I could imagine wearing them for a night out with black tights and a little black dress or even to work with black tights and a navy dress. In contrast, the nude heels would have to be worn with bare legs or pale fishnets and couldn’t go to work. I tried not to think about the fact that both pairs had three-inch heels, and put both on hold, heading off to the gym to ponder my choices.
The next day, I settled on the nude heels. My boyfriend suggested I wear them to an upcoming party. After prancing around my apartment for an hour in my new three-inch shoes, I felt my back noticeably relax when I removed them. I went back to the store to look for another pair, a lower-heeled, more comfortable one, but alas, the only one I found was a taupe snakeskin slingback with a kitten heel, which at $278, was several times the cost of the Nine West pair and out of my price range.
Saturday night came and we arrived in San Francisco’s Mission District. Once we were inside the party, I slipped on my nude heels. In the dim light, it took me a few minutes to find the right hole in the ankle strap. At first, I walked hesitantly but by the end of the evening, I was dancing in them. I felt not only taller, but also sexier and more confident. No one mentioned my shoes but one woman told my boyfriend, “Your girlfriend is hot.”
At the end of the party, I took off my magic slippers, releasing my foot from its arched position-- a position that mirrors the foot’s natural tensing at certain moments of bliss. Perhaps that, rather than any leg lengthening, buttock lifting, or back arching, is the real reason for the allure of high heels.
As for me, I’ll wear these again indoors for a few hours, but I’m still looking for that sexy comfortable pair, the ones with the grace and delicacy of a Manolo Blahnik, the sexiness of a Christian Louboutin, and the comfort of Pumas. Those would truly be magic slippers.
Showing posts with label fashion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fashion. Show all posts
Friday, April 9, 2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
The Lure of the Little Black Dress
“Wear more greens, blues, and purples—and less black,” reads the note I’d written in a bout of self-improvement. A former color consultant once suggested that I would feel less depressed if I wore less black. She was right. My face lights up when I wear turquoise and bright, grass green sets off my hazel eyes and brown hair. And the bright, clear colors of summer do make me happy, whether they’re on my bed, the wall or my feet. So why did I just buy another little black dress?
It’s not like I needed one; I already own several already. There’s the Nicole Miller, a classic LBD with ruched sides that I bought for my 50th birthday. There’s the dress I bought in London at the Goth-Glam chain, All Saints, that has gold threads subtly woven into its textured cotton fabric and a strappy neckline. It’s closest cousin, a shorter, more form-fitting black cotton knit that I found on sale in Berkeley, also has an unusual neckline, intricately cut out to highlight my décolletage.
Perhaps that is the theme of these dresses, as even the most demure, long-sleeved, knee-length, mock turtleneck LBD in my closet has an envelope opening between collar bone and cleavage. (I admit to being a tiny bit proud that at 53 my décolletage is still smooth and fair, the direct result of having spent my youth indoors reading rather than outdoors sunbathing.)
And then there are the two most outrageous ones: a cotton knit bandage dress and a fluttery-sleeved number with a deep scoop neckline in the front and an even deeper dip in the back, only slightly obscured by two sashes that keep the dress from falling open. (Actually the most surprising thing about this garment that I even bought a backless dress that reveals the long, faded scar from my scoliosis surgery.)
But none of this explains why I dropped more cash than I care to admit for another short, sexy, sleevelss cotton knit LBD? Was it because none of the others had this precise feeling of beachy casual? With its ropy halterneck above a keyhole opening, flattering draping, and just above the knees length, this dress is both soft and sporty—which makes sense as the boutique where I found it was inside a gym.
Was I hoping to show off arms toned (at some indefinite point in the future) by lifting weights and legs strong from stationary biking while obscuring the belly that only surgery can flatten? Or was I reacting to the fact that it was a medium rather than a large, proof that my new diet of whole grains and veggies was paying off? Was I responding to the subtle pressure of being told that it was the last one in the shop? Or was it something about the way it recalled the draped tunics of ancient Greece and Rome, of the Amazons or Diana the Huntress? All I know is that when the saleswoman held the garment up, I fell for it from across the room.
Clothing announces us to the world, whether we like it or not, whether we are even aware of it or not. There was a period when all I bought were long gowns that were perfect for the Renaissance Faire but totally out of place with my suburban housewife lifestyle. And yet those velvety creations moved and reflected something of the priestess, the artist, the time-traveler, the romantic in me. Similarly, the LBDs that I have acquired, all of which are perfect for travel and none of which are appropriate for teaching, carry a message to others and for me. Perhaps because my job is so consuming, I am unconsciously choosing to assert a different image on my own time. When I look in the mirror at the woman in the modern little black dress, I see a woman who revels in her sauciness, choosing rocker chic over rocking chair, a late-bloomer who devotes her weekends to exploring San Francisco’s alt culture scene, dancing with her boyfriend to a techno-beat.
It’s not like I needed one; I already own several already. There’s the Nicole Miller, a classic LBD with ruched sides that I bought for my 50th birthday. There’s the dress I bought in London at the Goth-Glam chain, All Saints, that has gold threads subtly woven into its textured cotton fabric and a strappy neckline. It’s closest cousin, a shorter, more form-fitting black cotton knit that I found on sale in Berkeley, also has an unusual neckline, intricately cut out to highlight my décolletage.
Perhaps that is the theme of these dresses, as even the most demure, long-sleeved, knee-length, mock turtleneck LBD in my closet has an envelope opening between collar bone and cleavage. (I admit to being a tiny bit proud that at 53 my décolletage is still smooth and fair, the direct result of having spent my youth indoors reading rather than outdoors sunbathing.)
And then there are the two most outrageous ones: a cotton knit bandage dress and a fluttery-sleeved number with a deep scoop neckline in the front and an even deeper dip in the back, only slightly obscured by two sashes that keep the dress from falling open. (Actually the most surprising thing about this garment that I even bought a backless dress that reveals the long, faded scar from my scoliosis surgery.)
But none of this explains why I dropped more cash than I care to admit for another short, sexy, sleevelss cotton knit LBD? Was it because none of the others had this precise feeling of beachy casual? With its ropy halterneck above a keyhole opening, flattering draping, and just above the knees length, this dress is both soft and sporty—which makes sense as the boutique where I found it was inside a gym.
Was I hoping to show off arms toned (at some indefinite point in the future) by lifting weights and legs strong from stationary biking while obscuring the belly that only surgery can flatten? Or was I reacting to the fact that it was a medium rather than a large, proof that my new diet of whole grains and veggies was paying off? Was I responding to the subtle pressure of being told that it was the last one in the shop? Or was it something about the way it recalled the draped tunics of ancient Greece and Rome, of the Amazons or Diana the Huntress? All I know is that when the saleswoman held the garment up, I fell for it from across the room.
Clothing announces us to the world, whether we like it or not, whether we are even aware of it or not. There was a period when all I bought were long gowns that were perfect for the Renaissance Faire but totally out of place with my suburban housewife lifestyle. And yet those velvety creations moved and reflected something of the priestess, the artist, the time-traveler, the romantic in me. Similarly, the LBDs that I have acquired, all of which are perfect for travel and none of which are appropriate for teaching, carry a message to others and for me. Perhaps because my job is so consuming, I am unconsciously choosing to assert a different image on my own time. When I look in the mirror at the woman in the modern little black dress, I see a woman who revels in her sauciness, choosing rocker chic over rocking chair, a late-bloomer who devotes her weekends to exploring San Francisco’s alt culture scene, dancing with her boyfriend to a techno-beat.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Return of the Girdle
I have vivid memories of watching my two older teenage cousins getting ready for a night out. Their hair in rollers, they took turns sitting in front of the vanity mirror in their mother’s bedroom, applying concealer, foundation, powder, blush, mascara, eyeshadow, eyeliner, and lipstick. Their bodies were encased in white nylon bras and white latex girdles, the latter extending from the waist to below the thighs, designed to hold in their voluptuous figures and hold up their nylon stockings.
By the time I was a teenager, pantyhose had superceded stockings, bras were being burned and the girdle had gone the way of the buggy whip. Not that I had much to hold in-- or up, for that matter; my figure was more Twiggy than Marilyn Monroe.
Fast forward a few decades to the return of the girdle. It started with control top stockings and then control top panties, with lycra substituting for the latex of yore. And then Spanxx came along with a well-publicized line of items to smooth and shape, targeted directly to the women of my generation. The same women who had escaped having to wear girdles at 16 were now at 36 or 46 or 56 buying the lighter-weight, more comfortable but still confining modern equivalents, a.k.a. “shapewear.”.
Certainly, there are times and places when one would want to have all of one’s “jiggly bits,” as Bridget Jones described them, smoothed and shaped, especially if being photographed is on the agenda. If you’re walking down the red carpet or down the aisle, or attending a high school reunion, then shapewear and false eyelashes make sense. But aside from these rare occasions, why would anyone want to wear tight “bike shorts” or a “long-line” undergarment that extends from just under the bust to a few inches above the knees.
A bra is one thing, providing embellishment as well as support. And a corset, while too confining for my taste, can be lovely enough to wear on its own, as seen in the recent designer fashion shows. But, really, how sensual is a layer of nylon and lycra against the skin? And how sexy is it to slip off a dress, and then have peel off the tight girdle beneath. Of course, since we live in a visual culture where image is paramount and the firm thighs, flat abs and pert buttocks of a teenage athlete are the ideal, who can blame us women for wanting at least the illusion of a Barbie body?
By the time I was a teenager, pantyhose had superceded stockings, bras were being burned and the girdle had gone the way of the buggy whip. Not that I had much to hold in-- or up, for that matter; my figure was more Twiggy than Marilyn Monroe.
Fast forward a few decades to the return of the girdle. It started with control top stockings and then control top panties, with lycra substituting for the latex of yore. And then Spanxx came along with a well-publicized line of items to smooth and shape, targeted directly to the women of my generation. The same women who had escaped having to wear girdles at 16 were now at 36 or 46 or 56 buying the lighter-weight, more comfortable but still confining modern equivalents, a.k.a. “shapewear.”.
Certainly, there are times and places when one would want to have all of one’s “jiggly bits,” as Bridget Jones described them, smoothed and shaped, especially if being photographed is on the agenda. If you’re walking down the red carpet or down the aisle, or attending a high school reunion, then shapewear and false eyelashes make sense. But aside from these rare occasions, why would anyone want to wear tight “bike shorts” or a “long-line” undergarment that extends from just under the bust to a few inches above the knees.
A bra is one thing, providing embellishment as well as support. And a corset, while too confining for my taste, can be lovely enough to wear on its own, as seen in the recent designer fashion shows. But, really, how sensual is a layer of nylon and lycra against the skin? And how sexy is it to slip off a dress, and then have peel off the tight girdle beneath. Of course, since we live in a visual culture where image is paramount and the firm thighs, flat abs and pert buttocks of a teenage athlete are the ideal, who can blame us women for wanting at least the illusion of a Barbie body?
Friday, January 23, 2009
Following the Thread
Ever since I was a girl sitting on the front porch with my best friend, the two of us making clothes for Barbie and troll dolls, I’ve nurtured a secret wish to be a fashion designer. When the opportunity came to take a step in the direction of at least exploring that childhood ambition, I went for it, signing up for a week-long course at the London College of Fashion. Doing so required me to set aside my qualms about the garment industry, fears about my finances, and an amorphous guilt over indulging in something so seemingly vacuous as fashion, to follow the thread of my own fascination, wherever it might lead.
The course began at 10 a.m. on a Monday in mid-December, on the top floor of a building near Oxford Circus. Despite the number of students enrolled in this week of short courses, the college’s heat had been off all weekend. Vanda, our teacher or tutor as the English would say, coped as best she could with the freezing conditions, giving us a tour of the ground floor (and much warmer) library, followed by an early lunch. We spent most of the afternoon back in the library, exploring possible research topics; we had to choose three by the end of the first day, which we would present to our classmates at the end of the first week.
After class, some of us walked to the fashion bookstore R.D. Franks, where I found a book about the designer I’d chosen to study, Vivienne Westwood, a Brit whose work combines Edwardian tailoring with a fondness for the outrageous. (She and her partner Malcolm McLaren, manger of the Sex Pistols, were at one point fined for “exposing to public view an indecent exhibition.”)
For someone as word-oriented as I am, whose idea of research is to read a lot, it was an interesting departure to focus on the visual, to search magazines not for articles but for images to create the mood boards, which were the jumping-off point for design development sheets that led to finished illustrations.
Day 2: I dressed as warmly as I possible, with long underwear over my tights and Ugg boots on my feet. The room was still freezing but at least I wasn’t. We spent the morning learning design development by taking an item from our bag and using its colors and shapes as inspiration for clothing and accessories. I pulled out my skeleton room key with a red trapezoidal rubber tag and eventually had a page with drawings of shoes whose edges matched that of the keys, a suitcase the same shape as the tag (“Sweet,” Vanda said approvingly), and, at the teacher’s suggestion, a red T-shirt dress with an enormous black key on the front of it. The afternoon was devoted to learning some of the basics of fashion illustration, beginning with how to quickly draw a proportional “8-head” human body from a piece of paper folded into eighths. “Give yourselves the gift of a life-drawing class,” Vanda urged us all.
In addition to reading about Vivienne Westwood, I decided to pay a visit to her boutique on Conduit Street. Despite the swarm of Japanese tourists, I was enchanted by the mix of bright-colored rubber heels and tailored plaid suits, the reproduction T-shirts from the designer’s 1970s Let It Rock shop, and the whimsical house logo, a royal orb in the middle of a flying saucer (or one of Saturn’s rings?), on everything from cufflinks to pendants. I appreciated the kindness of the clerk who said of the too-snug wrap dress I was trying on, “It’s made in Italy, so it runs small,” as he went off to fetch the next size up. If I didn’t live in 70-degree California, I would have been tempted to splurge on the purple wool knit number, with its ruffled neckline that managed to be flatteringly plunging but cut so that it didn’t need a camisole underneath. As it was, I succumbed to the charm of a pair of red jelly flats with ankle straps that took forever to put on or take off and had just a hint of fetish to them. After all, one of the subjects I was investigating was bondage’s influence on fashion.
Day 3: I woke up late, only minutes before we were supposed to meet at the Victoria and Albert museum, but managed to arrive at the Tsarist exhibit before the rest of the class. The exhibit was small but there were some intriguing military jackets that could easily be adapted to the 21st century. More poignant was the sweet little coat worn by Tsar Peter II, who died while still in his teens after ruling only three years. Called a “soul-warmer,” the coat was once scarlet but now a faded salmon hue, its removable sleeves tied to the shoulders with matching ribbons.
In an adjacent gallery was an array of couture gowns, including Westwood’s “Watteau” shot silk and taffeta evening dress in sea green with deep violet trim, one of her corset dresses with the boning inside, a style which would suit my willowy daughter very well. From there the class proceeded to another exhibit, Fashion V. Sport. Interestingly, the featured Westwood design included a felt hood that covered everything but the mouth and chin, with two vertical eye holes rimmed in copper metalwork, a reference to a 1965 Edward Mann hat in another concurrent exhibit on the Cold War. The most fantastic piece though was a sparkly extravaganza by Dior: grey tracksuit leggings topped with a fluorescent green corset and tutu embellished with sparkles, vintage white lace undergarments and a tangle of silk lacings.
While the other students took off for the shops in nearby Knightsbridge, Vanda and I had coffee in the museum dining room. Afterwards, I headed to Dover Street Market for another of our shop reports. My favorite piece of clothing in this multi-story consortium was a black taffeta skirt, which would have been rather formal if not for the two giant pairs of lips, edged in pleats, cut out through both sides of the fabric; they would like great with a red slip underneath. I also liked the market’s signature black T-shirts with their black heart-shaped appliqué of two black eyes.
The afternoon class was missing several students, presumably captivated by the post-financial collapse, pre-Christmas bargain frenzy. Vanda showed a film of a runway show by a Japanese designer whose work was inspired by the igloo at the back of the catwalk, the colors of the polar sky, and the region’s fauna. The take-home message was that anything can inspire a collection: all that is required is a fascinated imagination.
That night my daughter and I went to Selfriges, a department store chain which is somewhere between Saks and Macy’s, for another of my assignments: to choose a designer represented there and try on a piece of clothing. The street-level window had a scene featuring Alexander McQueen’s vision of winter with a ballerina dressed in snow white and blood red and another figure with a jeweled headdress and huge red cloak, so I decided to check out his ready-to-wear upstairs. What the hell, I thought as I took a crinkly scarlet ball-gown costing 2,025 GPB from the rack. The off-the-shoulder puff sleeves and empire waist flattered my decllotage, but under the voluminous (and heavy!) skirt, the rest of my body disappeared.
Day 4: Today we were all hard at work, leafing through magazines, cutting, drawing, pasting and printing things off the Internet. By 2 p.m., when I’d finally finished my third mood board, I was so light-headed that I had to stop for lunch. The next part of the process was to do a design development sheet for each mood board.
My bondage board included black and white images of strappy sandals, a Dolce and Grabbano dress with “chastity belt,” a corset and laced gloves, all cut out with tabs like paper doll clothes and mounted on a red rubbery surface. For the design development sheet, I had already sketched some pastel silk skirts and tops with corset-like lacing but Vanda pushed me to do something raw with the bondage theme. For my finished illustration, I came up with a red satin strapless, tight, bandage-style mini-dress, with overlapping layers of fabric like lacings, worn with black espadrilles.
At an inexpensive fabric store that night, I got samples of bright green and hot pink silks for my colors of India project, along with a crinkly silk sample which would work for the strapless bondage dress if it were in red rather than pink.
Day 5:. In researching the use of color in India (my third topic), I learned that while there are regional differences, Hindu culture generally equates bright colors with youth and fertility, two qualities which brides hopefully epitomize, hence the opulence of Indian bridal wear. As women age, they are expected to wear more muted colors and use less embellishments in keeping with a belief that older people should be less interested in the affairs of this world (a view which is found in other cultures as well). While my mood board included magazine images of hennaed hands and Bollywood stars, the design development sheet focused on images of the ornate, close-fitting, sleeveless or short-sleeved tops worn with saris, clipped from the pages of an South Asian wedding magazine. I had the idea of creating a line of corsets in such saturated solid colors as emerald, tumeric, lapis and magenta found in Indian bridal wear and Bollywood gowns. I added a few sketches of corsets and the fabric samples I had gotten the previous evening, but ran out of time to do a finished illustration.
The work I was proudest of was on the topic I had put the most effort into: Vivienne Westwood. For the design development sheet, I cut and pasted pictures that showed the details of her tailored clothing. But how could I take this quintessential British look and make it relate to the culture of my country? How could I show the source of my inspiration without appearing to copy? In a flash, I thought of the colors of New Mexico, where I had spent so much time: the bright blue clarity of the sky, the deep green of the forests on Taos Mountain, the blue-violet of the mountain itself, and decided to incorporate those. I also liked the sexiness of Westwood’s clothes, so I took the waterfall frill from the neck of a blouse and put it on the back of the pine green pencil skirt, to highlight the booty. For the final illustration, I created a background collage of Southwestern colors, and then added the finished sketches.
Looking back on my week in the world of fashion, it’s too early to tell whether it will lead to a career change. What I did experience was a sharpening of my observation skills, an expansion of my range as a visual artist and the encouragement which is so vital for anyone in the arts. Vanda’s enthusiasm was infectious and I started noticing and recording the little details, the fleeting moments, which might serve as future inspiration for a collage or painting, if not a dress design. The rows of star-shaped twinkling lights in fuchsia, green and clear hanging from an office window, the wall sconces reminiscent of medieval torches at a café called Sacred, the intricate cut of a gothic-black silk blouse at All Saints, my favorite British chain. I’m seeing not only cut and color, fit and fabric, but also the connections between inspiration and final product, between past and present, the invisible web of fashion as an art form, an art which each of us participates in whenever we get dressed.
The course began at 10 a.m. on a Monday in mid-December, on the top floor of a building near Oxford Circus. Despite the number of students enrolled in this week of short courses, the college’s heat had been off all weekend. Vanda, our teacher or tutor as the English would say, coped as best she could with the freezing conditions, giving us a tour of the ground floor (and much warmer) library, followed by an early lunch. We spent most of the afternoon back in the library, exploring possible research topics; we had to choose three by the end of the first day, which we would present to our classmates at the end of the first week.
After class, some of us walked to the fashion bookstore R.D. Franks, where I found a book about the designer I’d chosen to study, Vivienne Westwood, a Brit whose work combines Edwardian tailoring with a fondness for the outrageous. (She and her partner Malcolm McLaren, manger of the Sex Pistols, were at one point fined for “exposing to public view an indecent exhibition.”)
For someone as word-oriented as I am, whose idea of research is to read a lot, it was an interesting departure to focus on the visual, to search magazines not for articles but for images to create the mood boards, which were the jumping-off point for design development sheets that led to finished illustrations.
Day 2: I dressed as warmly as I possible, with long underwear over my tights and Ugg boots on my feet. The room was still freezing but at least I wasn’t. We spent the morning learning design development by taking an item from our bag and using its colors and shapes as inspiration for clothing and accessories. I pulled out my skeleton room key with a red trapezoidal rubber tag and eventually had a page with drawings of shoes whose edges matched that of the keys, a suitcase the same shape as the tag (“Sweet,” Vanda said approvingly), and, at the teacher’s suggestion, a red T-shirt dress with an enormous black key on the front of it. The afternoon was devoted to learning some of the basics of fashion illustration, beginning with how to quickly draw a proportional “8-head” human body from a piece of paper folded into eighths. “Give yourselves the gift of a life-drawing class,” Vanda urged us all.
In addition to reading about Vivienne Westwood, I decided to pay a visit to her boutique on Conduit Street. Despite the swarm of Japanese tourists, I was enchanted by the mix of bright-colored rubber heels and tailored plaid suits, the reproduction T-shirts from the designer’s 1970s Let It Rock shop, and the whimsical house logo, a royal orb in the middle of a flying saucer (or one of Saturn’s rings?), on everything from cufflinks to pendants. I appreciated the kindness of the clerk who said of the too-snug wrap dress I was trying on, “It’s made in Italy, so it runs small,” as he went off to fetch the next size up. If I didn’t live in 70-degree California, I would have been tempted to splurge on the purple wool knit number, with its ruffled neckline that managed to be flatteringly plunging but cut so that it didn’t need a camisole underneath. As it was, I succumbed to the charm of a pair of red jelly flats with ankle straps that took forever to put on or take off and had just a hint of fetish to them. After all, one of the subjects I was investigating was bondage’s influence on fashion.
Day 3: I woke up late, only minutes before we were supposed to meet at the Victoria and Albert museum, but managed to arrive at the Tsarist exhibit before the rest of the class. The exhibit was small but there were some intriguing military jackets that could easily be adapted to the 21st century. More poignant was the sweet little coat worn by Tsar Peter II, who died while still in his teens after ruling only three years. Called a “soul-warmer,” the coat was once scarlet but now a faded salmon hue, its removable sleeves tied to the shoulders with matching ribbons.
In an adjacent gallery was an array of couture gowns, including Westwood’s “Watteau” shot silk and taffeta evening dress in sea green with deep violet trim, one of her corset dresses with the boning inside, a style which would suit my willowy daughter very well. From there the class proceeded to another exhibit, Fashion V. Sport. Interestingly, the featured Westwood design included a felt hood that covered everything but the mouth and chin, with two vertical eye holes rimmed in copper metalwork, a reference to a 1965 Edward Mann hat in another concurrent exhibit on the Cold War. The most fantastic piece though was a sparkly extravaganza by Dior: grey tracksuit leggings topped with a fluorescent green corset and tutu embellished with sparkles, vintage white lace undergarments and a tangle of silk lacings.
While the other students took off for the shops in nearby Knightsbridge, Vanda and I had coffee in the museum dining room. Afterwards, I headed to Dover Street Market for another of our shop reports. My favorite piece of clothing in this multi-story consortium was a black taffeta skirt, which would have been rather formal if not for the two giant pairs of lips, edged in pleats, cut out through both sides of the fabric; they would like great with a red slip underneath. I also liked the market’s signature black T-shirts with their black heart-shaped appliqué of two black eyes.
The afternoon class was missing several students, presumably captivated by the post-financial collapse, pre-Christmas bargain frenzy. Vanda showed a film of a runway show by a Japanese designer whose work was inspired by the igloo at the back of the catwalk, the colors of the polar sky, and the region’s fauna. The take-home message was that anything can inspire a collection: all that is required is a fascinated imagination.
That night my daughter and I went to Selfriges, a department store chain which is somewhere between Saks and Macy’s, for another of my assignments: to choose a designer represented there and try on a piece of clothing. The street-level window had a scene featuring Alexander McQueen’s vision of winter with a ballerina dressed in snow white and blood red and another figure with a jeweled headdress and huge red cloak, so I decided to check out his ready-to-wear upstairs. What the hell, I thought as I took a crinkly scarlet ball-gown costing 2,025 GPB from the rack. The off-the-shoulder puff sleeves and empire waist flattered my decllotage, but under the voluminous (and heavy!) skirt, the rest of my body disappeared.
Day 4: Today we were all hard at work, leafing through magazines, cutting, drawing, pasting and printing things off the Internet. By 2 p.m., when I’d finally finished my third mood board, I was so light-headed that I had to stop for lunch. The next part of the process was to do a design development sheet for each mood board.
My bondage board included black and white images of strappy sandals, a Dolce and Grabbano dress with “chastity belt,” a corset and laced gloves, all cut out with tabs like paper doll clothes and mounted on a red rubbery surface. For the design development sheet, I had already sketched some pastel silk skirts and tops with corset-like lacing but Vanda pushed me to do something raw with the bondage theme. For my finished illustration, I came up with a red satin strapless, tight, bandage-style mini-dress, with overlapping layers of fabric like lacings, worn with black espadrilles.
At an inexpensive fabric store that night, I got samples of bright green and hot pink silks for my colors of India project, along with a crinkly silk sample which would work for the strapless bondage dress if it were in red rather than pink.
Day 5:. In researching the use of color in India (my third topic), I learned that while there are regional differences, Hindu culture generally equates bright colors with youth and fertility, two qualities which brides hopefully epitomize, hence the opulence of Indian bridal wear. As women age, they are expected to wear more muted colors and use less embellishments in keeping with a belief that older people should be less interested in the affairs of this world (a view which is found in other cultures as well). While my mood board included magazine images of hennaed hands and Bollywood stars, the design development sheet focused on images of the ornate, close-fitting, sleeveless or short-sleeved tops worn with saris, clipped from the pages of an South Asian wedding magazine. I had the idea of creating a line of corsets in such saturated solid colors as emerald, tumeric, lapis and magenta found in Indian bridal wear and Bollywood gowns. I added a few sketches of corsets and the fabric samples I had gotten the previous evening, but ran out of time to do a finished illustration.
The work I was proudest of was on the topic I had put the most effort into: Vivienne Westwood. For the design development sheet, I cut and pasted pictures that showed the details of her tailored clothing. But how could I take this quintessential British look and make it relate to the culture of my country? How could I show the source of my inspiration without appearing to copy? In a flash, I thought of the colors of New Mexico, where I had spent so much time: the bright blue clarity of the sky, the deep green of the forests on Taos Mountain, the blue-violet of the mountain itself, and decided to incorporate those. I also liked the sexiness of Westwood’s clothes, so I took the waterfall frill from the neck of a blouse and put it on the back of the pine green pencil skirt, to highlight the booty. For the final illustration, I created a background collage of Southwestern colors, and then added the finished sketches.
Looking back on my week in the world of fashion, it’s too early to tell whether it will lead to a career change. What I did experience was a sharpening of my observation skills, an expansion of my range as a visual artist and the encouragement which is so vital for anyone in the arts. Vanda’s enthusiasm was infectious and I started noticing and recording the little details, the fleeting moments, which might serve as future inspiration for a collage or painting, if not a dress design. The rows of star-shaped twinkling lights in fuchsia, green and clear hanging from an office window, the wall sconces reminiscent of medieval torches at a café called Sacred, the intricate cut of a gothic-black silk blouse at All Saints, my favorite British chain. I’m seeing not only cut and color, fit and fabric, but also the connections between inspiration and final product, between past and present, the invisible web of fashion as an art form, an art which each of us participates in whenever we get dressed.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Lingerie and Ruby Slippers
Late this summer I attended my first lingerie trade show, Curves, at the Venetian Hotel in Las Vegas. Much as I loved working the show, one of the highlights of my day at the fair had nothing to do with undergarments, although it had everything to do with sex appeal: namely my visit to the Christian LouBoutin boutique, home of the signature red-soled stilettos.
I have a passion for shoes, which I seem to have inherited from my daughter. Shoes should be either fun or beautiful or both—blue Mary Janes made from Brazilian rubber, sneakers of silver kimono fabrics, bejeweled copper sandals. Unlike my tall daughter who favors heels that put her on a par with her 6’3” brother, I’ve always insisted on shoes that I can walk in, that is, flats. But that may be changing.
I was sitting in the Double Helix bar with my assistant, Rachel, having a quick lunch of Cosmopolitans, pate on toast and mocha cake when I noticed the shoe store a few yards away. Although I had never seen even a single pair outside the pages of a magazine, I recognized the boutique, named after its French designer, at once. The prices were as high as I expected, well beyond my usual splurge, but the red-soled shoes were also more exquisite than I had imagined. Beautiful but barely functional. Although there were a few token pairs of pointy-toed flats, not even these looked comfortable. No, this was part of the beauty as torture, “no pain, no gain,” aesthetic. As a young feminist, I hadn’t seen the point. Now, with two bad knees and chronic heel pain, I didn’t dare to even try on a pair lest their gorgeousness sweep aside my common sense.
There is one pair in particular that haunts me, a pair of burgundy patent heels that seem like the couture version of Dorothy’s ruby slippers in “The Wizard of Oz.” For me, ruby slippers are a metaphor for my Kansas childhood, my fascination with the faraway, the maelstroms of life, and my belief that in the end, we come home to ourselves. In the third grade, I had my first and only starring role as the Wicked Witch of the West (she who melts away while trying to steal the magical slippers) in a neighborhood production. Now, as an adult, I keep a photograph of a pair of sparkly red high heels to remind me that I can always click my heels three times and (with a swipe of my credit card) find my way home to San Francisco.
Since coming back from Vegas, I seem to be seeing pictures of red-soled shoes everywhere. And I’ve learned that CB as well as other famous shoes designers have actually created crystal-studded ruby slippers for the upcoming 70th anniversary of the movie. Although I’m not ready to fly to Vegas just to buy a pair of shoes that I couldn’t stand in without pain and that cost nearly a month’s rent, I have realized that these lovely heels do have something in common with undergarments after all. Just as a well-fitting bra can compensate for gravity’s effects, so too can a pair of stilettos. And then there is the argument that I may not be 25 or even 38, but maybe I’m still young enough to learn how to walk in high heels, and certainly more able to now than I will be at 70.
In the meantime, in my dreams, I’m painlessly and pertly prancing down the yellow brick road in ruby stilettos, in absolutely no hurry to get anywhere.
I have a passion for shoes, which I seem to have inherited from my daughter. Shoes should be either fun or beautiful or both—blue Mary Janes made from Brazilian rubber, sneakers of silver kimono fabrics, bejeweled copper sandals. Unlike my tall daughter who favors heels that put her on a par with her 6’3” brother, I’ve always insisted on shoes that I can walk in, that is, flats. But that may be changing.
I was sitting in the Double Helix bar with my assistant, Rachel, having a quick lunch of Cosmopolitans, pate on toast and mocha cake when I noticed the shoe store a few yards away. Although I had never seen even a single pair outside the pages of a magazine, I recognized the boutique, named after its French designer, at once. The prices were as high as I expected, well beyond my usual splurge, but the red-soled shoes were also more exquisite than I had imagined. Beautiful but barely functional. Although there were a few token pairs of pointy-toed flats, not even these looked comfortable. No, this was part of the beauty as torture, “no pain, no gain,” aesthetic. As a young feminist, I hadn’t seen the point. Now, with two bad knees and chronic heel pain, I didn’t dare to even try on a pair lest their gorgeousness sweep aside my common sense.
There is one pair in particular that haunts me, a pair of burgundy patent heels that seem like the couture version of Dorothy’s ruby slippers in “The Wizard of Oz.” For me, ruby slippers are a metaphor for my Kansas childhood, my fascination with the faraway, the maelstroms of life, and my belief that in the end, we come home to ourselves. In the third grade, I had my first and only starring role as the Wicked Witch of the West (she who melts away while trying to steal the magical slippers) in a neighborhood production. Now, as an adult, I keep a photograph of a pair of sparkly red high heels to remind me that I can always click my heels three times and (with a swipe of my credit card) find my way home to San Francisco.
Since coming back from Vegas, I seem to be seeing pictures of red-soled shoes everywhere. And I’ve learned that CB as well as other famous shoes designers have actually created crystal-studded ruby slippers for the upcoming 70th anniversary of the movie. Although I’m not ready to fly to Vegas just to buy a pair of shoes that I couldn’t stand in without pain and that cost nearly a month’s rent, I have realized that these lovely heels do have something in common with undergarments after all. Just as a well-fitting bra can compensate for gravity’s effects, so too can a pair of stilettos. And then there is the argument that I may not be 25 or even 38, but maybe I’m still young enough to learn how to walk in high heels, and certainly more able to now than I will be at 70.
In the meantime, in my dreams, I’m painlessly and pertly prancing down the yellow brick road in ruby stilettos, in absolutely no hurry to get anywhere.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Freudian Slip
Seeing other women’s beauty is easy, seeing my own is hard. The reasons are both generic and specific. A culture that worships the perfection of youth. Shaming parents. The body cast that covered my torso from shoulder to hipbone my freshman year of high school. Therapy and affirmations and self-improvement have helped me to reclaim a sense of ease and appreciation for this body, but I still struggle to have the confidence that other women, including my daughter, seem to just naturally possess.
On Christmas Eve, my 20something daughter and I are in Paris, walking through the 7th arrondisment, when I notice a name on a shop sign that I recognize from decades of reading fashion magazines. That Sabbia Rosa is an upscale lingerie store is immediately evident from the lovely white satin nightgowns on the mannequins in the display windows. Since Tina is interested in fashion design, I suggest we take a peek inside.
Tina quickly finds something to try on and disappears into one of the dressing rooms, while I wander around a bit, checking out the multitude of prints and colors. On a whim, I decide to try on something. From the rack, I choose an exquisite floral slip in autumnal colors on a white background, with rust lace, and the shop girl hangs it in the other dressing room. Peeling off the winter layers of coat, scarf, and boots takes a while. Finally, it’s me and the tiny slip. Cut on the bias, this one-size-fits-all gown hugs every curve, the ones I like and the ones I’m not so fond of. The length just above the knees, shows off my legs. When I peek out from behind the curtain, my daughter (who looks gorgeous in everything) enthuses, “It looks great on you, Mom!,” The shop girl agrees, adding, “You can even wear it as a dress!”
The colors remind me of a John Donne poem about the beauty of an autumn face.
Back again in the privacy of the dressing room, I gaze at the woman in the mirror. A woman in the autumn of her life, with long, auburn hair and brown eyes with flashes of green. A woman whose skin is no longer girlishly smooth, whose belly is rounded and stretch-marked from childbearing, whose body shows the effects of gravity. Gazing into the mirror, I struggle to suspend my disbelief until I can see her as beautiful, as desirable. There, there, it is. A beauty that is not airbrushed perfection or the flawlessness of youth, but the beauty of a body that can still dance, still feel deep joy.
As I slip off the dress, I glance at the price tag. Six hundred and thirty euros, or about the cost of my transatlantic ticket. I could dip into my savings and buy this nightgown, made in France, from French silk and lace. Another dress comes to mind, a pricey little black number by French designer Azzedine Alaïa that I tried on once. It was a dress that also embraced every curve, like all of his clothes. At that time, I could have afforded it more easily than I can this one, but I totally lacked the confidence to wear it. Browsing in a bookstore here, I saw a quote by Alaiä, along the lines of why would any woman spend big money on a little skirt, if not for seduction; why else wear clothes. Indeed, the Parisian department store, Galeries Lafayette, refers to its lingerie section, which takes up an entire floor, as “seduction fashion.” However, if I buy this slip of a gown, I will not be looking to seduce another, but to please myself.
A few days later, just before leaving Paris, I return to Sabbia Rosa to try on the gown again. The shop girl remembers me. “Is everything alright?,” she calls out as I stand for a few minutes gazing again at the woman in the mirror. The gown is just as exquisite, the woman wearing it looks just as lovely as before. Resolving to remember this image in those future moments, when insecurity or Botox temptations assail me or old age overtakes me, I take a picture of her with my mental camera.
When I’m 90, I want to remember this moment.
On Christmas Eve, my 20something daughter and I are in Paris, walking through the 7th arrondisment, when I notice a name on a shop sign that I recognize from decades of reading fashion magazines. That Sabbia Rosa is an upscale lingerie store is immediately evident from the lovely white satin nightgowns on the mannequins in the display windows. Since Tina is interested in fashion design, I suggest we take a peek inside.
Tina quickly finds something to try on and disappears into one of the dressing rooms, while I wander around a bit, checking out the multitude of prints and colors. On a whim, I decide to try on something. From the rack, I choose an exquisite floral slip in autumnal colors on a white background, with rust lace, and the shop girl hangs it in the other dressing room. Peeling off the winter layers of coat, scarf, and boots takes a while. Finally, it’s me and the tiny slip. Cut on the bias, this one-size-fits-all gown hugs every curve, the ones I like and the ones I’m not so fond of. The length just above the knees, shows off my legs. When I peek out from behind the curtain, my daughter (who looks gorgeous in everything) enthuses, “It looks great on you, Mom!,” The shop girl agrees, adding, “You can even wear it as a dress!”
The colors remind me of a John Donne poem about the beauty of an autumn face.
Back again in the privacy of the dressing room, I gaze at the woman in the mirror. A woman in the autumn of her life, with long, auburn hair and brown eyes with flashes of green. A woman whose skin is no longer girlishly smooth, whose belly is rounded and stretch-marked from childbearing, whose body shows the effects of gravity. Gazing into the mirror, I struggle to suspend my disbelief until I can see her as beautiful, as desirable. There, there, it is. A beauty that is not airbrushed perfection or the flawlessness of youth, but the beauty of a body that can still dance, still feel deep joy.
As I slip off the dress, I glance at the price tag. Six hundred and thirty euros, or about the cost of my transatlantic ticket. I could dip into my savings and buy this nightgown, made in France, from French silk and lace. Another dress comes to mind, a pricey little black number by French designer Azzedine Alaïa that I tried on once. It was a dress that also embraced every curve, like all of his clothes. At that time, I could have afforded it more easily than I can this one, but I totally lacked the confidence to wear it. Browsing in a bookstore here, I saw a quote by Alaiä, along the lines of why would any woman spend big money on a little skirt, if not for seduction; why else wear clothes. Indeed, the Parisian department store, Galeries Lafayette, refers to its lingerie section, which takes up an entire floor, as “seduction fashion.” However, if I buy this slip of a gown, I will not be looking to seduce another, but to please myself.
A few days later, just before leaving Paris, I return to Sabbia Rosa to try on the gown again. The shop girl remembers me. “Is everything alright?,” she calls out as I stand for a few minutes gazing again at the woman in the mirror. The gown is just as exquisite, the woman wearing it looks just as lovely as before. Resolving to remember this image in those future moments, when insecurity or Botox temptations assail me or old age overtakes me, I take a picture of her with my mental camera.
When I’m 90, I want to remember this moment.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Beautiful Things
I love beautiful things, especially clothes, and I enjoy shopping for them. I like the process of perusing the racks for my favorite colors and running my hands over the fabric, a process that seems like a modern-day version of hunting and gathering.
Years ago, I decided to avoid polyesters in favor of all natural fabrics like cotton, thinking that I was making a more sustainable, healthier choice, as well as one that was more aesthetically pleasing. But I recently learned that cotton garments are neither sustainable nor healthy; a single garment can require up to a third of a pound of pesticide to produce. Appalled, I decided to take action—the only new clothes that I would allow myself would be those made from sustainable fibers, such as organic cotton, bamboo, soy and flax. Everything else would be vintage or gently used.
An on-line search revealed that there are a number of designers in the eco-fashion niche, with clothes that are hip, if a tad expensive (for example, a $125 T-shirt). But ordering on-line has it own costs, such as the carbon released in the delivery process, so I decided to look closer to home. After seeing the press attention to eco-fashion designers and noticing that both my local natural foods stores have a small selection of eco-clothes, I took my quest to the next level and headed for the closest mall.
I started at Lucy’s. I asked the clerk if any of the clothes were made from organic cotton, bamboo, or other sustainable fibers. She didn’t know, but asked her co-worker, who said they didn’t have anything with organic cotton, but led me to the black Tonga skirt, a long, knit garment that was made from bamboo. Fun but I have enough black in my closet. At the neighboring retailer, Lucky Brand Dungarees, the clerk answered my question by saying that most of the items were made from cotton. But he didn’t know about organic cotton. I went on to Eileen Fisher, which had two styles of dresses and two styles of tops in three different colors, six or so choices in total, made from organic cotton. None of them were my style, but I was pleased to find something nonetheless. Maybe there was hope. I went on to TSE, MaxMara, and United Colors of Bennetton, but no luck. Feeling rather discouraged, I headed for Bloomingdales. In the juniors department, the clerk I asked turned to her co-worker and asked if she knew anything about organic cotton. Her answer was “Yes, but not here.” However, as I was walking out of the department store, I sped a selection of socks in several different styles and earth colors. Each had a sustainable fiber—soy, bamboo, organic cotton, flax (a.k.a. linen)-- prominently labeled, while the other fibers (such as nylon) were listed in tiny print on the back.
My informal survey was hardly comprehensive. I know that Sephora carries a couple of lines of organic skin care products, including the locally-produecd Juicy Beauty. It is entirely possible that I missed a handful of other garments made from sustainable fibers. It is even possible that in another year or two there will be a Linda Loudermilk boutique or an eco-fashion emporium at this upscale shopping center. Although I applaud retailers who offer eco-chic clothes, solving the environmental problems generated by the garment industry is not as easy as replacing all current merchandise with garments made from organic cotton, silk, bamboo, soy, or seaweed. In other words, we can’t shop our way out.
Remember the three ecological R’s: reduce, re-use, recycle?. Most people I’ve met in the socially-progressive Bay Area are dutiful to the point of being religious about recycling. Every week they rinse out their wine bottles, soda cans, and plastic containers and put them, along with newspapers, junk mail, and used office paper, into big blue bins and haul them down to the curb. Some of them also re-use items, such as bringing their own bags to the grocery store or writing down their shopping list on an old envelope rather than a new sheet of paper.
But what about reduction? How many of us are reducing our consumption? Of course, if you’ve been laid-off or are retired or home on maternity leave, you might reduce your consumption to save money. Or you might just switch to shopping at less-expensive retailer, say, Ross instead of Nordstrom. If you were aware of the cost, not just in dollars and cents, but in natural resources extracted, in child labor and other inhumane practices, in toxic chemicals inhaled by farmers and added to the global total, and in increased landfill volume when the garment is no longer trendy or its looks have faded, would you shop differently?
Of course, there are times when you need a new garment due to changing circumstances and you might not be able to find a suitable used one. In this situation, we can turn for inspiration to those arbiters of chic, the French, who think of shopping in terms of coup de couer, to fall madly in love, with a piece of clothing. If you can let the cacophony fade, tune out those voices created by advertisers and marketers which insist that your life will not be complete without this product, and listen closely to your own heart’s desire, buying only those garments that speak to you, then you will have a closet filled not with false or fair-weather acquaintances, but with steadfast friends who, in exchange for a little care at laundry time and the occasional trip to the tailor for updating, will provide you with years of comfort and beauty.
Years ago, I decided to avoid polyesters in favor of all natural fabrics like cotton, thinking that I was making a more sustainable, healthier choice, as well as one that was more aesthetically pleasing. But I recently learned that cotton garments are neither sustainable nor healthy; a single garment can require up to a third of a pound of pesticide to produce. Appalled, I decided to take action—the only new clothes that I would allow myself would be those made from sustainable fibers, such as organic cotton, bamboo, soy and flax. Everything else would be vintage or gently used.
An on-line search revealed that there are a number of designers in the eco-fashion niche, with clothes that are hip, if a tad expensive (for example, a $125 T-shirt). But ordering on-line has it own costs, such as the carbon released in the delivery process, so I decided to look closer to home. After seeing the press attention to eco-fashion designers and noticing that both my local natural foods stores have a small selection of eco-clothes, I took my quest to the next level and headed for the closest mall.
I started at Lucy’s. I asked the clerk if any of the clothes were made from organic cotton, bamboo, or other sustainable fibers. She didn’t know, but asked her co-worker, who said they didn’t have anything with organic cotton, but led me to the black Tonga skirt, a long, knit garment that was made from bamboo. Fun but I have enough black in my closet. At the neighboring retailer, Lucky Brand Dungarees, the clerk answered my question by saying that most of the items were made from cotton. But he didn’t know about organic cotton. I went on to Eileen Fisher, which had two styles of dresses and two styles of tops in three different colors, six or so choices in total, made from organic cotton. None of them were my style, but I was pleased to find something nonetheless. Maybe there was hope. I went on to TSE, MaxMara, and United Colors of Bennetton, but no luck. Feeling rather discouraged, I headed for Bloomingdales. In the juniors department, the clerk I asked turned to her co-worker and asked if she knew anything about organic cotton. Her answer was “Yes, but not here.” However, as I was walking out of the department store, I sped a selection of socks in several different styles and earth colors. Each had a sustainable fiber—soy, bamboo, organic cotton, flax (a.k.a. linen)-- prominently labeled, while the other fibers (such as nylon) were listed in tiny print on the back.
My informal survey was hardly comprehensive. I know that Sephora carries a couple of lines of organic skin care products, including the locally-produecd Juicy Beauty. It is entirely possible that I missed a handful of other garments made from sustainable fibers. It is even possible that in another year or two there will be a Linda Loudermilk boutique or an eco-fashion emporium at this upscale shopping center. Although I applaud retailers who offer eco-chic clothes, solving the environmental problems generated by the garment industry is not as easy as replacing all current merchandise with garments made from organic cotton, silk, bamboo, soy, or seaweed. In other words, we can’t shop our way out.
Remember the three ecological R’s: reduce, re-use, recycle?. Most people I’ve met in the socially-progressive Bay Area are dutiful to the point of being religious about recycling. Every week they rinse out their wine bottles, soda cans, and plastic containers and put them, along with newspapers, junk mail, and used office paper, into big blue bins and haul them down to the curb. Some of them also re-use items, such as bringing their own bags to the grocery store or writing down their shopping list on an old envelope rather than a new sheet of paper.
But what about reduction? How many of us are reducing our consumption? Of course, if you’ve been laid-off or are retired or home on maternity leave, you might reduce your consumption to save money. Or you might just switch to shopping at less-expensive retailer, say, Ross instead of Nordstrom. If you were aware of the cost, not just in dollars and cents, but in natural resources extracted, in child labor and other inhumane practices, in toxic chemicals inhaled by farmers and added to the global total, and in increased landfill volume when the garment is no longer trendy or its looks have faded, would you shop differently?
Of course, there are times when you need a new garment due to changing circumstances and you might not be able to find a suitable used one. In this situation, we can turn for inspiration to those arbiters of chic, the French, who think of shopping in terms of coup de couer, to fall madly in love, with a piece of clothing. If you can let the cacophony fade, tune out those voices created by advertisers and marketers which insist that your life will not be complete without this product, and listen closely to your own heart’s desire, buying only those garments that speak to you, then you will have a closet filled not with false or fair-weather acquaintances, but with steadfast friends who, in exchange for a little care at laundry time and the occasional trip to the tailor for updating, will provide you with years of comfort and beauty.
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