Remembrance of Yves Past

A Saint Laurent opening has always been a red-letter day in French high fashion. Hedi Slimane’s premiere Saint Laurent collection, shown last night, was no exception. It was the hottest ticket of the entire spring/summer 2013 season. The show will no doubt please YSL purists; but, as a fashion statement, it had nothing new to say. It was rather like a greatest hits parade of the beloved couturier’s most iconic collections, namely Saint Laurent’s eponymous “Ballets Russes” collection of 1976 and the Spanish gypsies of 1977, thrown in with see-through blouses culled from 1968 for shock value. (Slimane need not have bothered showing them, for they no longer have any shock value left. Monsieur Saint Laurent’s controversial and often plagiarized sheer blouses seemed shocking back in 1968 when he first showed them with Bermuda shorts, but for 2013 they look merely vulgar.)

The bulk of Slimane’s “Saint Laurent Paris” show—as he has chosen to call the brand, eradicating the elegant “Yves”—consisted of slim capri (if they can be called that) pants worn with a multitude of suede vests and jackets that, at first glance, remind one of Tom Ford’s mid-'90s shows for Gucci, when that designer found it useful to borrow ideas from Saint Laurent’s illustrious repertoire years before he became creative director of YSL. Slimane, a former Dior Homme designer based in L.A., has had no previous experience in womenswear. It showed. The whole collection had the look of a design student's graduation show, laboring to assert his style. Though Slimane emphasized Saint Laurent’s fascination with folkloric dressing, he ignored one major aspect of his vocabulary: color. Slimane’s somber palette was limited to black, brown, and beige. The evening ensembles reeked of nostalgia, and not the most flattering of aromas, either. Worn with floppy fedoras that have seen better days, the finale consisted of swirling capes and flowing dresses that evoked both Saint Laurent muse Talitha Getty and his passion for Moroccan garb. What's missing in Slimane’s rendition was Saint Laurent’s seemingly effortless mastery of draping. Slimane’s shapeless frocks appeared sloppy even on the most anoretically thin of models. Though this was a spring show, a dark, autumnal air seemed to permeate the Grand Palais where the show was held. Viewing the collection online, one can sense that the venue had no ambiance or mood to complement the clothes. The models had none of the womanly elegance that Saint Laurent mannequins such as Mounia and Kirat exemplified to perfection in the 1980s. 

Three designers have already tackled the demanding Saint Laurent mantle—Lanvin’s Alber Elbaz had a brief stint in 1999, followed by Ford in 2000, preceeded by Stefano Pilati in 2004, each of whom had a modicum of success that was hardly spectacular—only to be dismissed when their vision for the brand fizzled or failed to excite Saint Laurent aficionados. Slimane is the fourth designer to be given the job. Judging from the merits of this show, he has plenty of magic to perform if he intends to have the sacred house of Saint Laurent—essentially a twentieth-century establishment—prosper and flourish in the twenty-first.

Perfect Symmetry

Fashion is a vicious cycle. The clothes that came down the runways in New York, where the collections originated, and those that marched down the catwalks in Milan, destined to be worn next spring, seem light years away, now that the Paris collections are in full swing. The clothes that the French are currently offering fashion editors, buyers, and celebrities alike will, in about six months’ time, be a distant memory once the cycle begins again. Only a handful of these collections will remain etched in the minds of those who follow fashion as religiously as one might follow the presidential election on TV. I think it’s safe to say that Raf Simons’ début ready-to-wear défilé for Christian Dior is one of those rare collections that will have a lasting impact, one that would mature and perhaps even endure in the collective consciousness.

The Belgium-born Simons, Maison Dior’s newly-appointed creative director, replacing the disgraced John Galliano, sent out a 53-piece collection that seemed fresh and young, innovative yet unpretentious, unburdened by the weight of history as baffling as the frilly eighteenth-century and the anything-goes chic of the 1920s that Dior’s former designer advocated season after season. The clothes that Simons showed are quite simple: not deceptively but genuinely. They require no further inspection other than the knowledge that they are lovely to look at. A belted cocktail dress looked arrestingly modern as is, but the designer attached an overlay of pink organza shaped like a triangle, an obvious nod to Dior’s famous “A-line” silhouette that took the world by storm in 1955, a look that will certainly be reinterpreted in myriad ways in 2013. The perennial tuxedo jacket was given star billing in the show: hourglass-shaped blazers that did not scream YSL circa 1966 but, instead, recalled a leggy, tuxedo-clad Judy Garland in the finale of Summer Stock, belting out the feel-good ditty “Get Happy.” Eveningwear echoed the pared down attitude of the daytime pieces, which included a black long-sleeved jersey sweater paired with an ankle-grazing iridescent ballskirt printed with large 3D roses in pastel shades: a post-modern homage to Dior’s penchant for extravagant ballgowns. The opening ensemble—a slim tuxedo pantsuit—set the tone brilliantly, but it was the airy dresses that succinctly encapsulated the message Simons so elegantly imparts: freedom. A standout evening dress of sequined midnight-blue with a tent-like overlay of tulle was an outright tribute to Dior’s 1958 “Trapeze” collection designed by a child prodigy with the name of Yves Saint Laurent.  

No one was more miscast than Monsieur Dior in the role of fashion revolutionary; he looked more like a country bumpkin or, to be charitable, a middle-aged provincial doctor. But, as those in fashion only know too well, looks are deceiving. Simons, a forty-something straight man who resembles a Sorbonne professor, will have more opportunities to prove his worth at Dior. But, as he has shown in this highly promising collection, he is one of the chosen few who will point fashion in the right direction.

Ah, Give Me Paris in the Springtime

Paris Fashion Week 2013 (yes, for those who don't know, high fashion is always six months ahead) is being unveiled this very minute in the City of Light. This morning, two standout collections will have fashionista tongues wagging: Balmain and Balenciaga. The former, designed by Olivier Rousteing, left photo, seems to have been inspired by the oeuvre of Claude Montana: big, Joan Crawford shoulders with cropped hemlines worn with wide-legged 1940s-style trousers in bold, eye-catching prints. The painstaking detail of Rousteing's clothes almost raises the level of their craftmanship to couture. Nicolas Ghesquière's Balenciaga collection for spring/summer 2013 was all about tailoring, as it always is: edgy, cool, precise, modern. Ghesquière seems to have raided the stellar Balenciaga archives for inspiration and was overwhelmed by what he saw: marvel at his flirty black and white flamenco skirt, right photo, and cropped origami top in glacial white. Other noteworthy pieces in the show include graphic dresses emblazoned with barbed wire motifs; an off-white peacoat cut with the freedom that only a kimono sans obi can give; a post-modern take on the sports bra paired with tuxedo pants, which opened the show; a pristine white lace shirtjacket over what appears to be a tweed miniskirt borrowed from the closet of Mademoiselle Chanel. Ghesquière further elaborated on the Chanel reference by sending out a half-dozen skirtsuits in heavy flecks of black and white tweed that make one wonder if they are at all conducive to wear in ninety-degree climates. Both shows are triumphs of construction. It's interesting to see as to who will have the guts to wear them come spring.

Pensée du jour

"Time has reduced her to an essence: as a grape can become a raisin, roses an attar."

Truman Capote on Out of Africa author, Isak Dinesen.

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Isak Dinesen:
"Love, with very young people, is a heartless business. We drink at that age from thirst, or to get drunk; it is only later in life that we occupy ourselves with the individuality of our wine. A young man in love is essentially enraptured by the forces within himself."

Damian Lewis!

Diana Vreeland:

"All Englishmen are born actors, and there are very few actors in the world today who aren't English."

The Belter

Look who's blogging again! After a four-month hiatus, a new post: Patti LuPone, circa 1980, as photographed by the iconic German photographer, Chris Von Wagenheim, as seen in US Vogue.

La Gheorghiu Enchants D.C.

My friend T., who worships cara Angela unconditionally and who could do no wrong in his calculation, files his report below of the unsinkable diva's D.C. recital début. If unabashed superlatives make you cringe, I urge you to stop reading now. Otherwise, read on!

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Angela Gheorghiu, goddess among us mere mortals, gave a stunning recital Saturday night at Washington National Opera, her first at the house, to a spellbound audience voraciously hungry for heavy dollops of old-school diva glamour. Ms. Gheorghiu, not one to disappoint, certainly offered a banquet in terms of style, and how! Appearing regal in a ravishing iridescent taffeta gown draped at the waist à la Dior in a beguiling shade of apricot tinged with pale gold rather like the colors of Venice at twilight, Ms. Gheorghiu showed who's boss and commenced with her signature Handel opener, "Ombra mai fu," at a slightly brisk pace that she felt suited her best but of which the conductor, veteran Eugene Kohn, felt otherwise. No matter, the soprano refused to let a minor flaw, in this case something as insignificant as tempo, blemish her performance. Ms. Gheorghiu has more talent than she knows what to do with, and so proceeding confidently into Mozart's lovely "Giunse al fin momento...," she went from strength to strength that once again showcased her prodigious gifts. One of those gifts is her ability to spin long arching lines that never seem to end, as evinced in her ethereal reading of Massenet's "Vive amour," which was preceded by yet another glorious example of this innate gift in a knock-'em-dead rendition of Dvorak's classic weepie, "Song to the Moon," which concluded the first act. (In between these quartet of arias, the orchestra provided fillers in the form of overtures.) The overture from "Le Corsaire" was a most wonderful entr'acte played with Gallic style by the band, as if Berlioz's triumphant score were written specifically to herald the soprano's entrée deuxième. It very well may have been, for the soprano looked like a vision straight out of Singer Sargent: black sequins seem to have been invented with Ms. Gheorghiu in mind. Perhaps sensing that she had the audience at the palm of her hand and on her side, and not the conductor's, she gave an arrestingly beautiful "Adieu notre petite table," as well as a supremely confident "Pleurez mes yeux". Spontini's rarely-performed "O nume tutelar" and La Wally's often-performed tragic soliloquy ended the program proper with aplomb. Encores galore flowed like champagne, from the frothy "I Could Have Danced All Night" to the showstopper "Granada," all the way to the sentimental "All The Things You Are," which sparkled like the diva's sequined gold gown (her third of the evening, mind), and of which the audience awarded with plenty of love. A glittery night was had by all, no more so than the diva herself, at the not-so-glittery Washington National Opera.

La Gheorgheous

Aida On A Winter's Night

Sondra Radvanovsky's Aida was unveiled Saturday night at Lyric Opera of Chicago amid Biblically-epic sets that were more Bollywood than Egypt. The entire production had the chaotic ambiance of a Cecil B. DeMille set, complete with dozens of extras in preposterous get-ups that screamed tacky Las Vegas instead of Cairo chic. I found the costumes for the principals lacking in style. An azure jersey column for Aida was lovely but unimaginatively designed. Remember Aprile Millo's Nile-green costume dangling with tribal beads from circa 1988? Now that was a frock fit for a love-sick Ethiopian princess. But never mind, the uninspired costuming is beside the point.

None of the vulgar pageantry that transpired on stage would have remotely annoyed me had Radvanovsky gave a searing or, at the very least, committed performance of this touchstone role. While the soprano showed considerable power over chorus and orchestra in the unforgiving Triumphal Scene, effortlessly riding the Tsunami-like wave of sound from stage and pit, I thought she gave a frustratingly lackluster Aida, so decidedly devoid of intimacy and pathos, particularly in moments that required intimacy and pathos. Her "Ritorna vincitor!" was bereft of any real hint of agitation or urgency. "O patria mia," though competently sung, was bland and lifeless. Her diction—lazy, slurred beyond recognition—did not help her either. Like a figure skater faced with the daunting task of mastering a quadruple flip at the Olympics, Radvanovsky attacked the dreaded high C with palpable trepidation; the effect was hardly earth-shattering—the pyramids were unharmed. Her showdown with the crude, underpowered Amneris of mezzo Jill Grove also proved disappointing. Vocally, the soprano was in top form, exhibiting impressive agility and power to burn, but dramatically it was not the nasty cat-fight, claws and all, between two bitter rivals. Both singers lacked the fierceness and nastiness required to set this scene on fire. So, naturally, her confrontation with the impassioned Amonasro of baritone Gordon Hawkins was also a let-down. When the time came for the gorgeous "O terra, addio"—ditto. On what should have been the most suitable time for this Aida to redeem herself by delivering a gut-wrenching, Millo-like farewell to life, the soprano once again succumbed to her customary "safe approach," inducing nary a single tear from my eyes. With the rise and fall of the vocal line written to evoke the soul leaving the body, the duet is one of Verdi's most heartfelt melodies, yet both Aida and Radames (a nasal-sounding Marcello Giordani) squandered the golden moment by refusing to give a part of themselves. Opening night nerves? Was the soprano battling a cold? The mere fact that it is January in Chicago? Or is it perhaps because Aida is simply too gigantic a role for this promising Verdian soprano to tackle this early on in her career?

A Pair of Fashion Victims

Dmitri and Renée, taking their bows at a "special recital" held Saturday night at Lyric, an event staged in honor of ex-manager William Mason. While both singers exhibited vocal élan and admirable musicianship in daring arias and riveting duets as disparate as Tchaikovsky's Eugene Onegin and Massenet's Thais, which soprano and baritone either sang solo or in tandem, their appearances, however, were hard to fathom. Dressed in a black longsleeved top sprinkled with dusts of sequins that morphed into a ballerina's bouffant tulle skirt, Fleming looked like a middle-aged debutante positively giddy at the prospect of receiving her first kiss. Her paramour, meanwhile, had his own fashion statement to make, albeit one that should not have come out of the closet. Hvorostovsky may have been an imposing presence—I half-expected this playboy to grab Renée by the arms and ravish her body—but his swashbuckling costume of black Nehru-inspired silk shirt and skin-tight trousers was as flamboyantly outré as his vocal projection. I'm surprised that this Siberian Fabio did not consider donning a highwayman's cape to go with his Errol Flynn get-up.

The Art of British Restraint

I offer you this 1969 TV adaptation of Wilde's An Ideal Husband, starring two of my favourite English actor/actress from that long-ago time: the exquisite Margaret Leighton and the magnificent Jeremy Brett. Two thoroughly enchanting performances that are masterclasses in understated elegance and the inimitable art of British refinement and restraint. Enjoy!

2012!

Angie, Darling, There's Only One Maria: "Moi"

The day I learned that EMI was putting out a disc with my name on it came hardly as a surprise: they do it all the time. What came as a surprise, however, was the knowledge that my name was going to be placed underneath someone else's. I never imagined such an outright violation of "decency" laws would occur in my other life. I, who topbilled every opera I ever appeared in, was not going to take this one sitting down! What's worse, the name that hovers directly above mine is the very name that has shamelessly capitalized on my fame more than any other soprano, living or dead. The impostor's name is none other than the so-called "definitive diva of the 21st-century": Angela Gheorghiu. A pretty enough name, yes, but you have to admit it lacks the familiar ring and alluring nuance of mine. Further, it's not even her own name: it's her ex-husband's. No, dear, not the fellow who stormed off the stage, but her first husband's name. Really, I have no problem at all with her name or in her dubious choice of men. The one thing that sent my blood pressure rising into the rafters was when I actually received the CD in the mail the other day.

While I'm flattered beyond words to be hyped and celebrated in such a way, what burns me is that Gheorghiu does it horrendously. From the first track to the last, she is downright imitating my style, my voice, my personality in the worst possible manner. It isn't even campy: it's worse than mere camp. It's one thing to do an "homage," it's another story entirely when someone does an utterly tasteless imitation of the person one is giving an homage to. I must admit that she does an admirable job of selling herself—her breasts appear to get bigger and BIGGER every time I see her on T.V.—but she is not an artist in the truest sense of that frequently misused and misapplied of words. For one, true artists never imitate. They may, on occasion, show up late for rehearsals or not show up at all, but they never—and I include myself among this elite group of artists—imitate someone else's vocal style or mannerisms. As for her choice of repertoire: well, it seems to me that when choosing prospective arias to include on the CD, she simply roamed around my vastly opulent garden of a discography and plucked the ones she liked without examining the roots to see if they had anything whatsoever to do with me. I mean, hello, I never even sang Dalila on stage, nor have I made something out of Carmen. I sang Adriana, Mimi, and La Wally on record (and a few times on stage) but these roles never became my signature roles. "Homage" my foot! What was she thinking?! To be perfectly blunt, her voice in the atrocious "Carmen" track, the one where she "duets" with me, is just about the single worst thing I've ever heard in my entire life—and believe me, I've heard my share of atrocities over the years. Listening to it gave me nightmares for several nights. Whoever had the idea of merging our voices into an incohesive duet ought to be fired immediately. (A trusted source tells me that it was not one of those stuffy British EMI executives as I had originally suspected but Gheorghiu herself who broached the monstrous idea.) Pairing our voices together was a proposition as disastrous and ill-advised as Mrs. Kennedy's Grecian nuptials! It just made me sick in disgust. Oh, don't get my blood pressure rising again by mentioning her absolute train wreck of a "Sempre libera". I thought it would never end: all that screeching and howling and barking. She sounds as if her Violetta is about ready to expire right then and there, doing so without fornicating with the sexy Alfredo of one James Valenti. Oh, the sheer horror of it all. Don't get La Divina wrong, I think Gheorghiu a fine artist, but only when she becomes herself. Her silly little tribute to my artistic legacy is nothing more than a clever plot to further her career by selling a few million records. Nothing less, nothing more. But then what can one expect from a self-centered, self-righteous, and self-promoting diva that is Angela Gheorghiu?

Pensée II

khalil gibran: "Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror."

Pensée

albert einstein: "Joy in looking and comprehending is nature's most beautiful gift."