My favorite fashion designer is the love child of a gay Captain Hook and Peter Pan, who has been raised by a glamorous French courtesan, and endowed with a super human ability to make the weirdness of life both beautiful and luxurious.
And if you haven’t already guessed, I’m talking about John Galliano, with his delightfully naughty little moustache and his chewy caramel voice. Here’s the understated cliché of the year: the man is a genius. He turned the French revolution into a bloody haute couture spectacle in 2006 and I’ve been madly in love ever since.
Now to be true, I do enjoy the work Galliano does with the epic majesty of the Dior house. But his own work, given his own name, is free from the expectations of honoring legacy. Although this season there was a thread of genetic material running through both the couture and ready to wear Dior collections, right into his own Spring 2010 collection, I can’t deny that the latter was what really won my soul.
I first saw still images of the collection on my trusty little iPhone and I couldn’t quite discern if the floating white bubbles were glass or plastic. Then I read the review, and immediately ran to the least often used bathroom in the office where I work and covertly downloaded footage while hiding crouched in a stall next to a (thankfully) clean toilet. And my god, I don’t want to be vulgar, but his gift for the theatrical is positively intellectually aesthetically orgasmic. Floating bubbles filled with smoke, bursting on the runway, surrounding these tall chiffon swathed sirens with yet another layer of ethereal gossamer. It was delicious.
I’ve often thought if I had only a year to live, what would most certainly be at the very top of my bucket list would be to see a Galliano show live. Forgive my morbidity, but I’ve often wondered what a good sob story earns these days, if a well written letter and a multi-syllabic disease could get me a front row seat.
I am sharing the Style.com video of the show (I love that website; it’s like an endless source of free fashion pornography for couture obsessed computer monkeys, thank you Vogue). I hope it tickles your fancy as much as it tickled mine.