N.B. In honor of the Manolo’s six years of shoeblogging, the Manolo has decided to repost this week some of his favorite pieces.
Here are two pieces in which the Manolo celebrated the fashion industry of the Islamic Republic of Iran. The first is from July 24th, 2006.
Manolo says, Ayyyyy! It is the fashion week in Iran!
High production values!
Very figure flattering, that.
She has got the Bette Davis eyes!
Manolo says, your mission, Ms. Vionnet, should you decide to accept it, is to embarrass the middle aged starlet using only the dinner napkin and the plastic bin liner.
Manolo says, like the shoe-shaped Bat Signal, the plaintive cry went out from deep within the blogosphere, “Manolo, please explain to us this picture of Sarah Jessica Parker, as it has vexed us mightily.”
Although the Manolo’s good friend Linda Grant would likely refer to this picture as “mutton dressed as lamb,” the Manolo would prefer to call it “The Rose in Autumn…Late Autumn.”
On the one of the hands, Sarah Jessica Parker looks as good as she possibly can: fit, happy, perhaps the too much eye makeup, and the too little powder, but otherwise vibrantly alive and shining with mature femininity.
On the other of the hands, this Vivienne Westwood dress is the decade too young for her. It is the lighthearted Englishy pattern with the handkerchief hem, more suitable for the milkmaid on the springtime bender in the city, than the worldly sophisticate at the movie premiere.
Perhaps it is meant to be in character for the fictional Carrie Bradshaw, who is the definition of over-the-top-ness, although, sadly, this dress does little good for the real Sarah Jessica Parker. (It should be noted that the whole point of Vivienne Westwood is over-the-top-ness, and to chose her is to go down the bright and flowery, gold-belted, spangly path to perdition.)
The second, and more perplexing matter, is the Charlotte Olypmia platform pumps, of which the Manolo’s friends have inquired “How? Why?”
Manolo says, the peoples of Shanghai, they have surpassed the Americans in the race to ultimate in slovenly casualness..
ONE hundred thousand fireworks lighted the sky over Shanghai on April 30, marking the grand opening of the 2010 World Expo. For the city’s many pajama wearers, it also signified the start of a nightmare.
After pumping $58 billion into staging this mega-event, which is expected to attract more than 70 million visitors over the next six months, city authorities started a campaign to suppress one of Shanghai’s most distinctive customs: wearing pajamas in public. Just as Beijing discouraged men from going shirtless during the Olympics, Shanghai wants everyone to wear “proper attire” for the Expo.
Catchy red signs reading “Pajamas don’t go out of the door; be a civilized resident for the Expo” are posted throughout the city. Volunteer “pajama policemen” patrol the neighborhoods, telling pajama wearers to go home and change. Celebrities and socialites appear on TV to promote the idea that sleepwear in public is “backward” and “uncivilized.”
Finally, the perfect explanation for this…
Manolo says, as if more proof is needed that the loathsome poncho is coming back into the fashion…
Do not be Kim Kardashian. Do not wear the poncho.
Manolo says, this morning, the Manolo’s twitter feed is alive with the sound of horror, as various internet friends complain about the return of the fashion poncho.
How soon the world forgets!
Here, from March 9th, 2005 is the Manolo’s No Poncho Pledge…
Manolo says, it looks like something the carefully groomed, pedigreed siamese had dragged in.
Manolo says, the Manolo he thought he had buried the poncho this most unattractive of the fashions. But now, thanks to the Martha, it is again rising from the grave!
Formerly, the Manolo he had regarded the poncho as merely the benign if ridiculous fashion trend.
Now, the Manolo he realizes that the poncho it is the evil incarnate.
It is the loathsome seducer of the womens. It calls in the sweet voice, “I am the poncho, if you wear me I will help you conceal your flaws. I promise, your hips, they will disappear under my protective cover of man-made fibers. Look, darling, you can even make me yourself for $1.49 in the material. Choose the aqua yarn. It is pretty no?”
And so you go with the poncho, and you wear it out to the business meeting, on the hot date, or to the social of the church, and all it seems well.
Then, one morning, you wake up hung over, and the bank account it is empty, and there are twenty-seven ponchos of various ridiculous colors and patterns in the closet.
In that instant you realize that your life it has been wasted on this loser of the fashion. Worse, thanks to the ubiquity of the digital cameras, for the next twenty years you will have to look at the family photos in which you appear to be the over-stuffed sofa covered with the homemade afghan.
Do not have this happen to you. Do not be seduced by the poncho.
You can help the Manolo put the stake into the heart of this hideous vampire by taking the Manolo No-Poncho Pledge.
The Manolo No-Poncho Pledge
“I (insert the name here) swear on the head and/or the grave of my sainted granny to never wear, buy, knit, crochet, or fashion from the old throw rug, the poncho. And if the poncho it is given to me as the gift, I will graciously thank the giver and then, when she has left, put the poncho into the dog’s bed and/or the trash as the case she may be. Only by doing these things faithfully can I help end for the good of the humanity the scourge that is the poncho. So help me Manolo.”
Manolo says, it is indeed sad that is has come to this point.
Do not be the fashion victim. Do not wear the poncho.
Manolo says, frankly, the latest crop of Russian super models leaves something to be desired.
P.S. What sort of designer would think this is the good idea?
Manolo says, some things work on almost anyone. Some things only work on the skinny models. Some things work on no one.
Manolo asks, when did Kate Hudson turn into the hardened, 53-year-old divorcée?
N.B. Guest post by Steven Cojocaru. Read more at Cojo’s blog CojoStyle.
Jessica: no, no, no, no, no!!! Forget Ken Paves, I’m the one who tosses and turns in my California King bed all night thinking about how to ‘save’ you from yourself. You know my family once tried to ‘change me’ and sent me to Outer Mongolia to live with monks. I turned quite a few monks over to my fab team, but that’s a different story. I have found some adorable gay monks who will take you in and burn that ill-fitting boob-spilling, optical illusion dress. That dress shouldn’t be worn hon, it should be framed. Much love, Cojo