Chèr M. Arnault,
You strike me as a rational person, yet a story I read today in WWD (sorry, no link as they are stingy with their internet presence) regarding the rumors involving Marc Jacobs and the House of Dior leave me wondering if I have given you too much in the doubt-benefit department. You can’t possibly be seriously thinking of handing the label over to Captain Lucky.
I believe that someone switched your morning Wheaties for a pot cookie. It’s really the only explanation I can come up with.
If I could think of the equivalent of saying that I was moving to Canada when whichever Presidential candidate I was backing lost in a landslide, then that is exactly what I will do if you let Marc Jacobs take over Dior.
Perhaps you are unfamiliar with the concept of talent? Allow me to reassure you that Mr. Jacobs possesses none. Mr. Galliano, flawed human though he may be, is a genius worthy of designing for the house of Dior. Mr. Jacobs will send me and many others with eyeballs to fashion Canada, which, come to think of it, is probably located in Canada.
So, please, I beg you. Do not hire Marc Jacobs to ruin Dior. Because you know that’s what he’ll do. He will bring in the frump and if Dior is about anything, it does not rhyme with Donald Trump.
Thanks and have a great rest of your summer.
Originally posted January 27, 2010
When I was in the eighth grade at the illustrious Congdon Campus School in the very tony Potsdam, New York, we performed a musical. I had been waiting breathlessly all year long to see what our music teacher, Mrs. Factor, would select for us—a bunch of hapless musical-theater nerds—to perform. Would it be something I deemed cool like Bye Bye Birdie or something I already knew and loved like Damn Yankees? (You can see by my choices how naive I was and what kind of standards I had for determining cool at age 13.) Anyway, fat chance. When Mrs. Factor told us we would be performing a little known Ethel Merman vehicle (and I’m sure Broadway flop) called Happy Hunting, let’s just say even I knew we were going to make the audience squirm.
As I clicked through all of the photos of John Galliano’s couture collection presented earlier in the day today (or probably yesterday—I can’t be expected to do complicated time-zone math, can I?), I realized that if only Monsieur Galliano could have done the costumes for my eighth-grade play, then I would have been in heaven, and my parents would have one less humiliation arrow in their quiver of shame.
Dior’s red riding jacket over a long windowpane-checked skirt avec bustle paired with a netted top hat and a riding crop would have been perfect for my character. The Bride of Frankenstein white streaks in the model’s FLDS-esque pompadour braids and the hot pink satin riding jacket over the white skirt would have been even better, as I played a snooty mainline matron. (Not so easy to pull off in the eighth grade if you don’t have boobs yet, I might add.)
I should pause for a second to say I am not mocking here. I am in love with every single thing that trotted down that runway. Those riding boots with the granny buttons on the side? I would cut a bitch if she tried to pry those out of my fingers. That Stephen Jones leather snood? Dang, I wish I had one of those to wear in front of the computer tomorrow. I couldn’t click through the photos fast enough. Then just when I was almost at the limit of my horsey fantasy, Galliano switched gears ever so slightly with the most confectionery lace dresses—almost Mae West, only with perfect style and a little Grace Kelly thrown in for good measure. It knocked me right off my Aeron chair.
Haute couture to me is like clothing porn, and I am apparently going to have to seek counseling for my online addiction to it.
Oh, and in case you’re wondering what Galliano wore to take his bow at the end of the show? Black riding jacket, white riding pants, knee-high riding boots, top hat and riding crop. The dandy knows how to drive the point home, you’ve got to give him that.