I don’t lust after much in fashion. Even though I write about much in fashion. I’m not a fashionable shape, so I’m accustomed to viewing it all with a somewhat detached eye. As a costume curator (that what I once was) you learn to see fashion as a cultural and social swathe through society. Rather than something madly specific to your life.
But boy do I like the thinkers in fashion design. The designers who objectify drape and cut, seams and fabric, even, maybe, buttons – rather than women. Comme des Garçons, for me, have been at that since their beginnings.
I have a few Comme purses. They make me happy. They are really pretty, zingy colours, cleverly designed and practical. And they never fail to draw complements at the pay desk. But things have moved on. I have a newly minted Comme scarf which also makes me very happy. A simple big rectangle of navy wool with 5 (count them) big pom poms. One at each corner and one in the centre. It is coming in to its own in the cold weather, this scarf. The pom poms swing whilst I walk. A self-conscious, slightly dandified affectation I have to learn to accept. As I will suffer for my Comme des art.
Awkwardly, I found myself juggling a pom pom in a shop the other day. Not sure this was fashion cool. I just hope I don’t do an Isadora and get pulled up by my pom poms in a doorway sometime, somewhere. The very thought is unravelling.