Burberry Prorsum (a short letter to my cousin)

Yesterday evening, my lovely cousin signed into facebook and told me — very simply — that she wasn't going to the Burberry show/after-party with this oh so handsome male model (totally drool-worthy, no joke!!). *Cue:green-eyed, suffocating gasp* I still can't decide if I'm teed off she refused a rendezvous with Mr. model,1 or the fact that this was Bur!berry! we're talking about!!
Dear Cousin,

I've a reserved love-hate relationship for Burberry. It's complicated.2

Anyhow, not only were the front rows of the modish gleaming white tent taken hostage by young Brit VIPs natch (Emma Watson, Beckham — well she's 40 or so, no? sheesh you know I live for these people), but more importantly, Christopher Bailey managed, once again, to reinvent the trench; reaffirming the meaning of the latin word Prorsum ((ever) forward) in the brand's name. The famed trench was shorter — mini length! — in a myriad of metallic-tinged nudes and shiny sherbet pastels (not so crazy about). And it was all offered up in a most admirable openwork of draped/pleated fabrics through the garment body, which, in many instances, culminated in beautiful puckerings at the shoulders.

And the back views of the pieces... Love! love! because there's nothing worse than relegating one's aesthetics to the front of a piece only, especially when it can be replicated (to some extent) at the back. (It happens quite often for some odd reason, usu. having to do with costs I imagine!)

The mere short lengths of the trenches in glimmering stiff silks is super and terribly chic; and well, a beautifully-executed marketing maneuver that will ensure that Watson and friends can't wait for a piece of the action come spring. And me too!! I mean my love for barely-there-thigh-grazing shirts and dresses sans trousers (eeeck!) knows no bounds. Now I can experiment with chic trenches too!!

If the silver tinsel that rained from heaven to crown the show a success and the end of LFW (25th anniversary, hence the silver!) wasn't enough, the after-party at the brand's HQ set up mac computer stations for b.l.o.g.g.e.r.s. and writers — ummm... everyone! — to tweet and b.l.o.g. their views about the show. Hell yeah! The trend favouring b.l.o.g.g.e.r.s. (still hate that word!) in every industry continues on the upswing. I can only imagine the ingratiating frenzy. Another genius ploy... Thumbs up B Prorsum. But seriously, imagine the sheer serendipity of standing next to Carine Roitfeld, she's pretending to stare into space while looking sideways at your blog and silently confirming or revoking your pages in her mental rolodex! Yum! She'll make or break you in a few. Dear cousin that could have been you! Okay, you don't b.l.o.g! But, Mlle Roitfeld may have asked for your fbook page or something!

Yes, this tinsel trench (poor excuse for a pic, left) will be a recurring must-have silver in all fashion mags. Wicked.

How does this work in this sleeveless trench piece? Is it a wear-over-the-head kind of dress?? The thought isn't very sexy. I'd rather a secret network of folding closures. I still love it! Pics from Burberry and Style Runway

Pretty kisses.

1. Pics of this man do him no justice. I want to lick chocolate sauce off his abs. I hate chocolate sauce.
2. Burberry, like Vuitton, Gucci... the brand everyone wants to have. The thing is I love plaid and I especially love Burberry plaid because it's beige base fabric gives it a decidedly lightness (in color, that is) that Ralph Lauren's ink blue or A. McQueen's red/black cannot have. It could be this same lightness in color, drawing attention to the wearer, that makes me so sad when I see what I imagine as wads of plaid on an individual — male or female — over a certain size. I'm sorry. NO. And actually, I'm almost certain I cannot look at a man wearing a Burberry plaid shirt.

mr orwell.

And more pleasantries. *snickers*

I've been to London to see the Queen.

Speaking of, I'll get straight to the point, the stingray Orwells from Mr Hare in London (now available at Oki-ni and Dover St. mkt. Le sigh. Dover St!). I've been dying to write about these shoes; but, as my (paternal) grandma would say, "procrastination is the theft of time, and..." I'm just getting to it.

[A moment.]
I'm at a loss for words, really, to describe — adequately — how I feel about these shoes. First, my love for men's shoes is turning out to be something insane. The smile that forms in my eyes from glimpsing a most perfect pair arises somewhere deep inside me, a most visceral pleasurable ache. Painstakingly repressed, and thankfully too, my otherwise unbridled love affair for size enormous brogues and loafers causes me to pause at the men's dept. for unduly unbecoming amounts of time.1

Mr Hare, the 'shoeist', as he calls himself — I respectfully offer a silent applaud — offers a bit of insight into his thinking when it comes to this shoe; as he does with all his pieces. Each shoe is named an alias, of sorts, so the Orwell is actually Mr. Orwell. Read it.

I wonder he didn't just name this pair (Mr.) Ordell...

"The line [When you absolutely, positively got to kill every motherfucker in the room. Accept no substitutes.] delivered by Samuel L Jackson as Ordell Robbie in the Tarrantino movie ‘Jackie Brown’ was the only sentence that came into my head every time I looked at the Orwell," he writes.
But, Orwell undoubtedly makes me think of the Animal Farm writer pen-named George Orwell, who was something of a democratic (revolutionary) socialist, if he was anything (other than a passionate writer). The possible irony. I imagine a man in these precious puppies running across a field of Lord knows what... *gasp!!*

He continues, "...Mr. Hare is of Jamaican decent and being such, my [Mr Hare's] night time shoes have always been top priority."
Of course, I'm immediately leaping to the conclusion that Jamaican men pride themselves in possessing fine pairs of dress shoes?! *slight, albeit ever reverential furrowing of the brows*
Really Mr Hare?? Forgive me, I can only imagine awful green and ochre-colored 'leathers' — and I use the word loosely — chosen — ditto! — to match the wearer's frightful summer suit! But then what do I know?! My perception stems from a rather vague recollection of scenes from "How Stella Got Her Groove Back" from another lifetime.2

But, all this is to say... I've summed it up quite nicely: All I want for Christmas to be on the arm of the man (naturally over 6'1, loves) sporting a pair of these shoes. Me in minimal clothing, naturally3, and what-would-be a revamped pair of this season's Balenciaga (slitted) booties (perhaps with the upper in matching stingray! umm yay!!) and the heel, a gleaming brownish steel materializing as part of the outer sole encasing bits of the rubber platform. I could make you a picture on illustrator and photoshop. I might try. Go over to at style.com and drool over this season's 'ciagas, I beg of you.

Double sugar kisses on each cheek and hugs.
It's been too long!!

1. Occasionally, I've become an incongruous feature at the men's shoe dept. So of course, the sales people must make an already awkward situation just a tad more painful. "Would you like any help, Miss?" "Are you looking for a gift? For your boyfriend, perhaps?" I just need said bf to materialize and make an honest woman out of me as I continue to lie to these poor souls... "Why yes! I'm looking for something for my bf, I'll let you know if I need any help, thank you" How else could I explain my presence??
2. I've become a cynical, condescending American, when I am much better suited as an international woman of mystery. I must return to London ASAP!
3. I wouldn't want to detract from the lovely awesomeness of his/our shoes!!