Another example of Carson Pirie Scott's ineptitude

OK, so this is the first display a shopper will see as they enter Circle Centre Mall from the Washington Street Carson's entrance. Now, there is a wrinkly plaid shirt and a wrinkly (ugly) sweater vest (size large, on a skinny model) on separate mannequins beside one another.

Maybe I'm just old fashioned, but in my day, we wore sweater vests over shirts, if we had the guts to wear sweater vests at all. Obviously the over-qualified floor manager didn't have the imagination to put the ugly sweater over the ugly shirt and instead insisted they stand side-by-side in all their wrinkled glory.

"Well it's just a headless mannequin," the floor manager thought, "he can proudly where a vest that's too big for him with no shirt beneath it because he doesn't have to worry about anyone being grossed out by his underarm hair or odor. And I'm just gonna go ahead and leave the size sticker on the front of this hideous thing because I like stickers. They remind me of going to the dentist. I like the dentist."

ARGH.

Richard Avedon was "the man," it would seem

It seems rather useless to come up with something interesting to say about Richard Avedon, since after seeing the exhibit at the Detroit Institute of Arts of Monday, it appears all those things have already been said. But here goes.

He's in the league of those VERY few photographers who've achieved household name-hood, like Ansel Adams or Annie Leibovitz. Anyone can take a picture, right? That's why it's so tough to stand out. And he began his journey at just 21 years old when he was first published in Harper's Bazaar, which is the sort of trivia that tends to confirm all my fears that I am, indeed, a late bloomer.

I know nothing about photography--save what I learned from the dirty old British man who taught the only photography class of my life while I was in Spain--but I'd imagine the fashion variety is among the most ambitious. Yes, put the word "fashion" in front of anything and it sounds more fun, but really it's an arduous task. Instead of spending all day lighting a mountain just so, an object that hasn't moved for an age and won't for another, try arranging a living, very antsy model into a pose that is flattering not only to her but also to the clothing. And then there's the attention to detail. Can the reader tell the black skirt is pleated, or that the lace is covered in metallic ribbon instead of sequins? I can't imagine. But when it's done well, and yes, Leibovitz does a bang-up job herself, the result is irresistible. A beautiful photo of a beautiful woman wearing beautiful clothes, is, afterall, the reason why fashion mags turn a profit.

Avedon wasn't fickle about what he found beautiful. He stayed faithful to a handful of models throughout most of his career. In fact, as the exhibit progresses you can see Suzy Parker's youth start to fade as her crow's feet become more prominent. Never, though, does he fail to make her look like the epitome of grace and timelessness.

Needless to say, I was taken with the exhibit. It feels like an honor to wander among the prints this master had touched and scribbled on.

On the way out of course, I had to stop in the Rivera Court, the fresco-covered room where Edsel Ford had commissioned Diego Rivera to paint the controversial Detroit Industry murals.

If you have the opportunity to pass through my fair city, you must see the Avedon works. And while you're at it, pick me up the book in the gift shop. It's only $100.

Rant: Dear thief, I'd like my doormat back, please

During last night's bout of insomnia I stumbled across two straight hours of "Sex in the City." In one of the four episodes (I was up very late) someone steals a pair of Carrie's Manolos and she's beside herself. "Are they really just, gone?" she asks her comrades around the breakfast table the following morning. "They are just shoes," everyone keeps telling her.

Well, damn it, I get it.
A few weeks ago I came home to find my doormat missing. Before you laugh, it wasn't just any doormat. It was a beautiful, asymmetrical burlap mat I purchased at Anthropologie when I moved into my first grown-up apartment. Granted, the $50 I spent on it doesn't compare to the $485 Carrie spent on her silver stilettos, but still, it took me a good two weeks to get used to coming home to a door without it. In fact, I'm still pretty sore about the whole thing. Why is it so hard to let go of something that should mean so little? I used it for stepping on for Pete's sake, and scraping things on that I didn't want in my house.

I know I'm not alone in my doormat sorrow because this girl has suffered the same tragedy and felt compelled to blog about it.

For the week after the heist I kept hoping the thief would be overcome with guilt and return my dear doormat. Delusional, I know, but I really loved that thing.
Now I'm on the prowl for a new one, but I'm terribly skeptical about the search. How will I find one that special a second time?

If you've seen any fab doormats lately, please, post them below.

The IMA has some new clothes.

By now everyone should have their 2010 calendars, assuming the person in charge of ordering your office supplies is as on it as I am. (Yeah, that's part of my job) My DayMinder is already equipped with all the Happy Hour at the Symphony dates and the birthdays of those I can remember. If you know what's good for ya you'll flip to April and circle the 10th, cuz that's when "Body Unbound: Contemporary Couture from the IMA’s Collection" opens at the Indianapolis Museum of Art.

Yes, I'm partially so excited about this because one of my besties co-organized the thing but also, there's gonna be some seriously cool pieces involved. During a year when the museum saw both its endowment and staff shrink considerably, those in the fashion/textiles department were able to fundraise their butts off enough to make new acquisitions.

The exhibition will focus on the avant-garde with newly acquired pieces by Rudi Gernreich, Issey Miyake, Junya Watanabe, Thierry Mugler, Jean-Paul Gaultier, Gianni Versace and others.

I personally think Issey Miyake's aesthetic is so much like oragami it's virtually unwearable but that's kinda the point; the structure of clothing doesn't have to be dictated by the structure of the body. Earlier-mentioned besty will probably slap my wrist for that comment.

The photo of this green thing is the only one I could get my hands on right away, but I'll post more if/when I receive them.

Photo (hi-jacked from IMA Web site): Rudi Gernreich, American, (1922-1985), dress, 1968 wool, vinyl. E. Hardey Adriance Fine Arts Acquisition Fund in memory of Marguerite Hardey Adriance. 2008.211


Update: Just received a few more images from the IMA, which are posted haphazardly below because I haven't figured out how to make a clean html slideshow. Hint, to anyone with Web expertise. I want to learn!

From Haute in the Heartland

From Haute in the Heartland

From Haute in the Heartland

Some of Rodarte for Target is in Indianapolis

Only the most anticipated of clothing items had a chance at getting me out of bed yesterday, far away from the heating pad that was busy soothing my back side (I fell down, hard). The Ribcage Dress from the Rodarte for Target line (which debuted yesterday) is one such piece, but alas, it was not to be found. Instead I had to settle for the mustard yellow lace skirt with the pleated mesh overlay. Still pretty, to be sure, but not as show stopping as the sequin skeleton motif.

Annoyed that I'd dislodged myself from my Sunday bed-ridden tradition for no reason I sought the dress out online, where it was missing!!! Argh. Seriously, argh.
I had a lot riding on that damn sheath, enough to go to 4 different Targets. I was going to pair it with yellow tights and wear it to the family Christmas, and I was going to buy one for Petra as a Christmas gift. But nooooooo, now I'll have to go to family Christmas naked and Petra remains gift-less.

Turns out it's sold out, like, everywhere. It's being sold on eBay for $100 starting bid. Here's the link, if anyone still needs to get my xmas gift. Wink.

Perhaps I should have arrived at Target when they opened the doors yesterday morning, but that's not really an option for me when I've worked until 4 a.m. and don't really have to be anywhere. Plus, I figured no one around here, besides those who read this blog, really knows who Rodarte is, even though they dominated this year's CFDA awards. Bravo, Indianapolis, you've proven to be infinitely more fashion conscious than I thought. I'm sorry this lesson has cost me that stupid dress.

If anyone has seen this dress, in sizes small and medium, please email me at gposhadlo@gmail.com.

Thank you.

Barbie: The Fashion Experience is awesome. Go there.

This morning Lou Harry (IBJ A&E editor) and I attended the media preview of the Children's Museum Barbie exhibit. The photo at left shows one of the many freakin' great elements of the show: the Barbie decoder sunglasses.

Lou was kind of Scroogie about the whole thing but I was in paradise. There's a runway where girls can put dress-up clothes on backstage then do their hair and makeup. When they walk out on the runway, there's music playing and they can even have their picture taken. It was so hard not to grab the sequin fedora from the pile and jaunt out there myself.

There's a place to write down your Barbie memories, a wall of career Barbie's that span from Pan-Am stweardess in 1965 to hot pink astronaut in 1985 to Firewoman in 1994.

Plus, there are pieces from the Barbie fashion show that took place this year at Fashion Week. Yes, that means Betsy Johnson's green sequin get-up and Rachel Roy's jeweled trench.

There's also the typical vignettes using Barbie accessories through the ages. The really old cardboard furniture, the plastic dream house, the pink corvette (of course). Fabulous, girls, and please don't let anyone tell you different.

Oh, and I almost forgot. You can read witty commentary about the exhibit between Lou and myself starting Saturday morning here.

From Haute in the Heartland

From Haute in the Heartland

It's Christmas time in the city

I spent the better part of a day at a gay bar, and the rest of it decorating a Christmas tree. Here's how it happened:

When I woke up yesterday I was very sad.
Out of all the emotions in the world, sadness is the one I like having the least, especially during Christmas time.

So instead of moping around the apartment all day, (from couch to bed, and bed to couch, shower, make macaroni and cheese, etc.) I called my friend Ben and asked if he'd help me pick out a Christmas tree.

He agreed and we picked up a darling 5-footer (pictured). I'm normally of the larger-the-better school when it comes to Christmas trees but since I have a dinky living space these days I restrained myself.

How does this have anything to do with style, you ask? You mean, other than my new felt hat and vintage dress form in the photo's background?

Well, that part happened after the tree decking. After all, what does one do on a Sunday afternoon after stringing lights on an evergreen? Why, enjoy a merry cocktail, of course.

The Varsity seemed like a fitting choice, since the sign features festive streamers and it takes about 1.6 seconds to drive there from my house. At 2 p.m. the place was reasonably busy, or unreasonably, depending on how you wanna look at it. I was the only female.

Ben and I began talking about Christmas, beer, work and reasons why I woke up sad, and all of a sudden shots of Hot Damn started appearing. Neither of us had enjoyed the cinnamon liqueur since high school but we gladly accepted the little red gifts from our new friends gathered around the end of the bar. We watched one of them stumble over to a booth and pass out, then wake up later and start drinking again. Then another came over to tell us about his apartment superintendent position. By the time we left at 8 p.m. (don't judge) our tab totaled less than $30.

Now, had I not woken up sad I don't think I would have ended up at a bar that smells of old grease and boasts weekly karaoke. But I did. And I have a new favorite watering hole because of it. The place isn't stylish in the traditional sense, or any sense really other than the one I'm about to make up, but go there anyway. The people are genuine and wonderful, and the Hot Damn flows like wine. Oh, and drinks (all drinks) are served in stemware. Take that, Scholars Inn.

Underground fashion in a Detroit suburb

The holiday season is upon us and with it will come my annual pilgrimage to the old "Day-twah" to eat, drink, and be merry with those whom I love fiercely.

And like any occasion when my mom and I are left alone together, there will no doubt be lots and lots of shopping going on. My plan is to be there for four days so that should be enough time to hit downtown Royal Oak, Birmingham, the outlet mall in Auburn Hills and finally, the little basement treasure trove which shall remain nameless. We'll call it, er, The Speakeasy.

I've refrained from blogging about this gem in the past for fear of outing the dear women who run the cash-only clothing store out of a residential basement in an affluent Detroit suburb.
But I think as long as I assign them aliases it'll be fine. And besides, I just can't keep the secret anymore.

It all began when a friend of my Aunt Carol--not a very stylish friend, mind you, I once witnessed her play the acoustic and sing Kumbaya around a campfire...true story--enticed said aunt (who is impossibly thrifty) to join her on a trip to this "store." Aunt Carol was skeptical, but she returned from the covert op with so many stories and new outfits my mom just had to try it, too. And then my mom told me about it and my aunt told her daughters and on and on.

So I was skeptical, too, with good reason people. We arrived (by appointment) a couple of months ago at this huge 70's-style ranch and this wildly eccentric woman--think gold lame scrunchy and over-the-knee boots--answered the door with all the enthusiasm of a long-lost relative. We'll call her Betty. After instructing us to leave our shoes by the door and our purses with her, Betty led us down to her basement, the door to which stood ominously shut.

After all the stories mom and aunt Carol had told me I imagined what awaited me beyond; a sort of clothing El Dorado perhaps, with gleaming shelves and perfumed dressing rooms and maybe even a pony. But when the door squeaked open I saw only a musty basement. There were clothes hanging everywhere mind you, but it was a musty basement. I gathered all the faith I have in my mom's taste and soldiered on into the gently-used designer abyss.

...and had a FRIGGING blast.

Oh, it's odd, but also awesome. There are no dressing rooms, so when you pull something off the rack you'd like to try on, you just strip. Right there. In front of anyone else who may be shopping at the time. And when it's time to make your purchases, like say, a Chanel belt for $100, you hand Betty the cash and she hands you your purchase is a discreet brown paper bag.

Seriously, if you're going to be in the Detroit area, send me an email and I'll give you the (real) deets on this place. You'll feel kinda bad while you're in that little hole of retail sin, but you'll also feel very, very good.

Why winter sucks and how to make the most of it

Upon arrival to the office this morning my dear co-worker and cube mate Terri twirled around in her chair and gave me a suspicious look.

"Why the hell are you wearing makeup?" she asked.

A little background about this question:

I rarely wear makeup. I hate the stuff. I hate how it clogs my pores (I have really difficult skin in the first place), I hate how eye shadow gathers in the creases of my eyelids and most of all, I hate that I can't frigging rub my eye or scratch my cheek or put my chin in my fist in deep thought or touch my face at all really for fear of marring my delicately placed mask. So typically a full face of makeup is reserved for special occasions or when I have a blemish that's just too hanus for pride to overcome. I buy all the best stuff mind you, no drug store cosmetics for this girl; I can afford Dior lip gloss because I only have to buy it once every decade. My specialty is clothing, therefore I rely on my outfit construction as the perfered outlet for my inner beauty. Of course, when I do actually make the effort I have to muster every bit of self-esteem lurking in this 24-year-old body to shrug off all the "Gabrielle, you look nicer than usual"s and my mother can barely stand it. "Gabe, honey, you're so much prettier when you put your face on."

Anywho, back to why winter sucks.

So while I do have an engagement to attend directly after work (the dear Ben Langebartels' art opening on Mass Ave., you should go, too), the real reason for my made-up face has less to do with my social calendar than it does the weather.

When I awoke this morning I did my normal grumble and stumble to the bathroom and my reflection was scarier than usual. Aside from expected bed head and a trail of dried drool I had not only a small breakout, but also dry patches and red blotches. (Sorry, I don't mean to gross you out.) Begrudgingly, I swathed on a five-minute face atop a daily moisturizer and prayed my skin wouldn't punish me for it later. I mean, who can go into public with Frankenstein skin?

And I know it will be the same tomorrow, because winter sucks.
I suppose I'll dub January through March my "makeup months."

So I come back to my specialty, clothing. What never fails to make me feel better about such natural forces over which I have no control is picking out a great ensemble in the morning. Milling about my apartment (which is really just a very big closet) in my kimono and plucking up the accouterments of a great outfit makes all beauty woes flutter out my balcony doors at least until the next time I look in the mirror.

Today it's a pair of herringbone Diane Von Furstenberg wool pants paired with a simple boat neck top from the Gap and this campy little knitted vest from Pitaya. I did have on the wool flower headband I covet so much but decided it was too much whimsy for the office. So many people would be asking me about the makeup that I decided I couldn't handle inquiries about the headband as well.

I sit here writing this, glimpsing every so often at my autumn-hued, herringbone-clad lap and I find myself smiling inside. Clothes make me so, so happy.

And so here is my advice to you: Wear something that makes you happy, whether that be a purple necktie or a pair of rain galoshes or a dog collar with spikes on it. Adorning yourself in items you love has so much power that Father Winter doesn't have a chance at getting you down.