The show Dress Codes at New York's International Center of Photography

By user adriano

A grumpy review in the New York Times triggered my curiosity about the new show at ICP called "Dress Codes", and I wasn't disappointed. The wishy-washiness of the title allows all sorts of work losely connected to the subject of how people dress (and why) to be included. But other than the pointless "Model As A Muse", the marking stone for the dramatic downfall of the Fashion Institute at the Metropolitan Museum earlier this year, the curators put together a deliciously ecclectic show with a lot of breathtaking, smart and concise works.

"Tagged", a video installation by Julika Rudelius from 2003 shows young men from Arab countries who live in Holland. They are filmed in a frugal hotel room taking off and putting on their clothes and talking about their shopping habits. It's a very sexy work but also a cooly observation of male vanity, cultural gaps and stylistic confusion. And like most of Rudelius' brilliant work, it's radically entertaining and witty.

Obviously, it's difficult not to admire Cindy Sherman; it seemed hard to imagine where she could take her work after the creepy clown images. A series of photos she did for French Vogue prove that the seemingly more superficial route can lead straight to artistic enlightenment. Posing as fashion critic and as aging socialite who seems to have had a couple of drinks too many, she manages to look utterly hilarious despite the fact that she is wearing the highbrow couture of Nicolas Ghesquiere - the mastermind at Balenciaga. The fashion world seems to be an easy target for Cindy Shermans acidic humor; but underneath the supposedly silly imagery, there is compassion and understanding for girls who just want to be pretty - even if they try too hard.

There are also amazing still lifes called "Undergarments and Armors" by Tanya Marcuse, which evoke the classic still lifes of plants by Karl Blossfeldt; mindblowing portraits of black woman by Mickalene Thomas; and, one of my favorites, the series "Bulletproof" by Milagros de la Torre. The photos show four surprisingly boring looking wardrobe pieces. Only the attentive observer (or the eager reader of the captions) notices that these clothes are in fact armored. Dress codes are more than just the rules of attraction - they can be matters of life and death.

Submitted by adriano

By user evvaa

Chris Rock's candid documentary "Good Hair" about the business of keeping up appearances - hair-wise - of black women in the US is a revelation on many levels. For starters: all parties in this documentary agree that there are only two ways to go if you are a black female with Afro hair. You either "relax" (perm straighten) your frizz with a cream containing super-poisonous chemicals like potassium hydroxide, lithium hydroxide or sodium hydroxide or you weave in strands of straight shiny hair shaved off the heads of Indian women in religious rites. The "perm" sets you back just a couple of bucks if you ask a friend to do it, but Rock demonstrates under the supervision of a lab-coat clad chemist wearing protective goggles that even small amounts of the potions eat through a piece of chicken in just a couple of minutes and even have a soda can disintegrate within an hour. The scientist, unaware of what the study is all about warns that breathing the fumes will render your lungs to a state worse than that of a chain smoker. The procedure is apparently more painful as waxing your private parts, confesses Ice-T, who has undergone the procedure once and never again. This does however not prevent Afro-Americans from applying the procedure on their girls from as early as three years old. The weave is much healthier to your skin (and underlying brain), but it comes at a different kind of cost: the hair pieces brought to the US by dubious Indian hair dealers range from $ 1,000 up to $15,000 for a full do. Yes, correct. The intricate weaving and stitching of the hairpieces every couple of months takes something like seven hours and has to be done by professionals. Sounds like insanity. According to the testimonies of weave addicts, once you have weaved you won't go back. Therefore the procedure is widely known as the "weave-crack". A single hit has you hooked for life. Women prefer not to pay their rent and rather go hungry as long as their hair looks fab. Somehow it comes as no surprise that the people profiting from this big buck industry are all white or yellow. The climax of the film comes when black men discuss that it is impossible to touch a black woman's hair, no matter if your black or white. "When you're having sex you better hold on to the sheets". The audience screamed and laughed at their own expense, Chris Rock's naive demeanor, masked the absurd insanity for fun. When my friend and I left the packed theatre on Times Square, the lady with a complicated weave chirped at us: "What are you two doing in a film like this?"

Submitted by evvaa

By user evvaa

Broadway was ablaze with sunshine, when the editorial gang of Ilikemystyle Quarterly went for a reconnaissance trip through New York. Squinting through vintage shades we saw a line of 300 people queuing up. Tickets for a theatre play featuring Austrian basterd Christoph Waltz? The concert for Thom Yorke's yet unnamed band "??????"? Petition signing for Roman Polanski?

The mix of people of every age and ethnic background standing patiently in the line did not give any clues to what this was all about. "+J collection just came out," shrugged the big bouncer at the red velvet rope to the entrance. We went half a mile to the back of the line and stood there patiently. I am advocate of the Abolish Waiting policy. Nevertheless I stood there fascinated as throngs of tourists equally puzzled at the queue asked in all languages what this orderly accumulation of people was all about. The wait turned out to be an amusing field study in accents: "Joel Sunder Kullektion!" "Gio Sanda!" "Joe Sunna!" and lots of Japanese "Kawai!" echoed down the avenue.


Inside we were rewarded with the simple, striking cuts and intelligent details Jil Sander is known for. The German designer translated her understated basics into something powerfully seductive. Her pieces sneer at plunging necklines, tight crotches and baroque decoration. Her ingenious cuts breathe a stern sexiness, one that is tantalized by a foreplay in the deep south of the mind, counting buttons of a perfectly ironed shirt. Jil Sander's comeback turns the fashion hierarchy upside down: mass market collection for the ultimate fashion snob.

The hardest part was to make a choice. Navy-blue three buttoned woolen coat or snug jacket in black? Both? The shirts for a mere 39 Dollars screamed to be possessed in all colors, stripes, checks, cuffs and collar variations possible. In order to get through the collection efficiently we split, for quick trials just to get the sizes for different pieces of clothing right and then to chose the variations. Two hours, 300 Dollars (for an entire new wardrobe each) and three queues later (one to the dressing room another at the cashier) we left the temple of Japanese-Teutonic bliss.


Submitted by evvaa

So silly it makes you cry. The New York, LA, Tokyo based superstore Opening Ceremony offers a vast range of coats, shirts and jewelry inspired by Maurice Sendak's book and Spike Jonze's upcoming movie "Where The Wild Things Are". At the same time an in-your-face-merchandising-effort as well as a parody of movie-themed products, some of the stuff is completely irresistible. I am seriously considering the Carol ring with one monster claw on it. Can't wait to see hipsters in Max-costumes at Halloween shouting: "Now let the wild rumpus start."

The exquisite avantgarde designer Damir Doma presented his new collection during Fashion Week New York

Michelangelo once said that he considers visual a higher form of communication than verbal. His reason was that words or letters are creation of men: a learned, third medium; whereas visual is direct and universal to anyone (unless you are blind..), a truer and more honest communication, the impacts more intrinsic. Last Thursday Damir Doma's presentation at the SoHo Grand Hotel confirmed again the master's wisdom (I am a believer). The designer showed parts of his Spring/Summer 2010 collection. It was a vision and clothes so evocative - it had to be seen and felt. Words fail inadequately somehow to capture an aesthetic so atmospheric, ethereal, almost fleeting. It is like reading Pushkin in Ukrainian: get the facts but somehow missing the poetry. But I will try my best.

In an evocative setting that recalls a decadent 15th century mansion in decay, his poetic clothes are displayed on headless mannequins set off by dramatically low lit lights. Croatia born Domar is from the Belgium school and counts Raf Simons, Ann Demeulemester and Dirk Schoenberger as former bosses and mentors. His design inherits that familiar modernity especially endemic to the Belgium avant-garde. Yet his is somehow more human, less nihilistic or grudge: a brand of non-aggressive, warmer to the touch, quieter romance. In fact, I find his aesthetic to be very Japanese in essence, in particular accord to the concept of Wabi-Sabi: an appreciation of the transience, impermanence, and the beauty of decay (clothes and fabrics that appear to be in a constant stage of flux, in this case engineered of course); an intense focus on what's basic and the perfecting of them (the clothes' elemental appearance); an aversion to campy ostentation (their pure materiality). His clothes exemplifies the essence of clothes making: forms and shapes, materials, textures, colors, their interplay all orchestrated with a careful, loving human touch. The end results rendered are at once avant-garde and completely Zen, both in essence as in appearance.

To wit: a tank top with twisted straps releasing itself into a film of gauzy body. Lavishly draped trousers cut on circle belie interesting volumes. A leather jacket that strikes the perfect balance between tailoring and natural forms (in material). One can easily trace both the craftsmanship and the material's origin, like a beautiful tree house that blends seamlessly into its wild surroundings. Except it is the tribes of elfin and fairy who reside in it that's the point here. In his hands, sheer and airy fabrics, now his signature, spring to life: gathering, twisting, falling, trailing, fluttering, like a spring stream running through a creek that is the human body. At times, these artfully cut pieces defy usual categories with their unusual shape, inherent androgyny and intentional ambiguity. Only their relative position on the body provides a point of reference. But if that sounds very challenging, his cloths are not: his minimal, pure outerwear, though no less spectacular in their execution, anchor the entire look. They shroud the body with dramatic proportion and volume, done up in interestingly engineered fabrics. The overall effect is part bedouin, part vampire, but its wearability never eludes.

Unlike most designers who design with changing themes, casting overt references as baits to reel their audience into their narratives, Damir eschews any obvious tell-tale signs. His influences can only be loosely generalized as "emotions, nature, and art". Of emotions, a string of run-on adjectives appear themselves: mysterious; a little reclusive; romantic; poetic; outer-worldly; pensive. Cerebral for it is a more introspective, intrinsic connection, a feeling, that he is jolting from his audiences, not pandering them with another theme park story, nor another feel-good bygone era. Never loudly seizing with dictates or gimmicks, only quietly affecting, naturally conjuring a twilight-like serenity and beauty. It is definitely an acquired taste, but one that is steadily developing a cult.
Posted by Bucnam