Fashion Underground

In the hey day of my career in fashion I made many outstanding purchases; Armani, Chanel, Dolce & Gabbana, Jean-Paul Gaultier, the list goes on and on. Like any respectable fashion retail insider, I did things like hiding merchandise in offices and backrooms until it went on sale so that along with my discount, I could afford it. I have always made it my business to know where, when and how to shop, vintage being my speciality. My lay-off has downsized these opportunities and I have begun to look at my cache in a different way, cherishing each and every item as if it were the last piece of gold on earth, because the truth is, my gold mining days are over. Apparently, the rich and famous have deemed it inappropriate, given the times we are in, to flaunt their wealth in front of us. How polite and politically correct of them. The leisure-class has dained to do the fashion dumb-down, re-inventing themselves as "recessionistas" instead of "fashionistas", which just goes to prove how dumb they really think we commoners are.Yes, I said commoners. I am the common fashionista. My love of fashion does not stem from the fact that I can afford to buy the"it" items and hap-hazardly slap them on my back, but rather an appreciation for the art and creativity of it. I have a keen eye for color, shape, texture and placement. Why should I go underground with my wares? Having worked long and hard to acquire my stash of gold bouillon, I will be damned if I do the fashion dumb-down. Whenever I have the chance (which isn't that often given my present circumstance) I vow to pull out all the stops. So what if I go to a friends' birthday party carrying my salmon pink Chanel 2.5 lambskin, or to a movie sporting my vintage Oscar de la Renta blouse, Donna Karan jacket and designer jeans. So what if I want to run my errands in my Dolce & Gabbana black zip front hoodie and matching silver hardware pouch....so sue me! Fashion, in all its' excess, is a many splendored thing. So, since I don't have as many splendid chances to flaunt my love for fashion, I have come to the conclusion that it is my duty, yes my right of fashion to dress as I please no matter what the political or social climate. Besides, don't think that the aforementioned leisure-class is doing this because they are embarrassed about what their money can buy. They are only doing it to make themselves believe that they actually still live on planet earth, still human. They are simply using fashion to make a statement. Of course we know they are human, but when your existence is being played out like a production of "Imitation of Life", one begins to believe the drivel. Just take a look at Us Weekly's segment, "Stars-They're Just Like Us!", and witness how dumb they think we are. They still eat at expensive restaurants, wear expensive jewelry, pose in front of the camera on the red carpet wearing this designer or that, attend expensive parties and galas, financially recover from expensive divorces, live in multi-million dollar homes, drive pricey cars and, oh yes, how could we forget the travel to foreign lands to adopt foreign children. Never mind the endless supply of unwanted babies on our own soil, but that's another story altogether. They manage to do all this with their make-up artists, stylists, nutritionists, manicurists, facialists, nannies and Dali Lamas in tow. Let us not be fooled. One day they're in the latest from Lanvin and the next in commoner gear from the Gap deemed worthy enough to grab a quick bite in, and voila! They're just like us? So, if any of you commoner fashionistas are feeling guilty for your own stash of gold and are contemplating going underground, please don't. Wear what you want, how you want, wherever you want. When you haven't gained your riches through a trust fund, feeding on the oppressions of others, or cranking out utter crap to put on the big screen, or the little screen for that matter, you don't have to feel guilty about flaunting your fashion. If using fashion to make false social and political statements makes one selfless, instead of selfish, then someone please hand me my Chanel bag, while I run from the paparazzi. copyright 2008 Perlouez

Fashion Aspirin

Since 1959 I have been engulfed in the world of fashion. Because of my mother, I was born to be a fashion maverick. She was a Jackie Onasis/Doris Duke hybrid. Everything about her oozed extreme chic to me. When she lit her cigarette with the large round orange ceramic table liter and dipped her ashes into the matching extra large tray perching on the edge of a mid-century modern coffee table - instant chic. When she cooked at the stove donning black silk shantung cigarette pants and a bright yellow cashmere v-neck sweater, organza apron in tow - instant chic. I could go on and on, but you get the picture. I moved through my life in a series of fashionable clicks. Those perfectly detailed pictures that I had always watched my mother create, had for me begun to slow down. Click...click.....click.......stop. With the economic failure of the country, went the slick and sleek tasks of my days. In June of 2008, I was handed my pink slip, my walking papers. But where was I walking to? Over time, tea and cigarettes became wine and cigarettes. For me, the job market had become almost non existent. No one wanted to hire a 40 something fashion retail burn-out. I tried to spice up my resume using "customer service" as the ageless salt and pepper. Working every angle I could to make myself seem full of fresh young ideas became pointless. Soon I was digging into my inheritance. The money once reserved for me upon my fathers death was now my lifeline. He was not dead, but I had begun to feel as though I were. With my unemployment exhausted, my oldest son in college, my middle son in prison and my youngest son sampling the trials and tribulations of manhood, the pictures of my fashionable life were becoming smaller and smaller, until one day I couldn't see them anymore. What had become of my life? The downward spiral had become too much to take. I had been reduced to drinking cheap wine out of crystal glasses. The libation that these glasses held were a symbol of what I had become, and the glasses themselves, a remnant of what I used to be. My mother died in 1995 of lung cancer and I stupidly smoke cigarettes each day. With each puff of smoke, I see the "fashion maverick" dissipating into thin air. My home has become the cell walls I imagine my son in. Now I don cashmere sweats and hoodies once reserved for fashionable winter outings, only to make myself remember what I once was, what I once had. They disgust me now in their pilling. They have taken the downward spiral along with me. As I look around my one bedroom apartment that I share with my youngest son, I am reminded that, yes, I am surviving. But just surviving is not living. I am also reminded that fashion, for all of its' theories, is a mirror of what we are going through in our lives. It reflects back to us what we were, what we are, and what we can still become. Perhaps if I shave those pills off of my cashmere, put them in the dryer to fluff them up and refresh them, things won't seem so bad when I look in the mirror. After all, you never know what a new day can bring. These days I hold on to those cliched thoughts, and I wonder if I am holding onto hope or just taking a fashion aspirin to ease the pain of the truth revealed. copyright 2008 Perlouez