julia restoin-roitfeld x kiki de montparnasse

There’s no inkling of doubt that I adore Julia Restoin-Roitfeld (aside from the fact that she has one fierce, Alaïa-wearing mama). Her entire aura simply oozes the best of both worlds, where French je ne sais quoi meets New Yorker sleek, sexiness. We’re talking the ultimate coquette of coquettes, sex kittens of sex kittens. Those curves! That wardrobe! Her style and beauty philosophy mimics mine – it’s hardly a surprise you’ll find her making numerous appearances both here and on the moodboards plastered across my bedroom walls.

It’s only more the reason why I can’t help but swoon over Mademoiselle Roitfeld’s collaboration with cult-favorite lingerie label Kiki de Montparnasse, to be debuted Wednesday, December 14. And as expected, its elegant, it’s provocative, it’s feminine. Nothing garish or ostentatious – just understated yet undeniable sex appeal for the woman - but everything classic and timeless as can be.

Julia explains the design process in an interview with ELLE:

“I had quite a strong idea of what I wanted to achieve, but had absolutely no knowledge of lingerie design. Lingerie design is very specific – it’s not about looking good, it’s really about the fit and every detail counts. I had many meetings with the team at Kiki, submitted my sketches, and then it was about seeing what was doable, the fabrics we could play with, etc. I knew what I wanted, but I couldn’t have done it so well without their expertise.”

If only I could parade around in just those pieces and not a thing more. It’s quite the pity that we must succumb to what is socially permissible and resist the temptation…

Who would I wear these sexy little things for, you ask? Me. Of course. Who else?

.   .   .

x

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claudie pierlot is a perfect example of why french things are that much better

I’d be a terrible fashion editor.

This is the proof: I couldn’t narrow down my favorites from the entire Claudie Pierlot Printempts-Eté 2011 lookbook. I loved everything. Picking would be torturous. Unfair. So I figured in my state of indecisiveness, I’d skip the whole waffling and just post them all.

Did you enjoy the little strips of sartorial sweetness?

.   .   .

xx

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christophe josse to debut first prêt-à-porter collection

In January 2011, French designer Christophe Josse was awarded the official haute couture seal by the Chambre Syndicale de la Haute Couture Française, French fashion’s governing body. From guest member to the status of permanent member, Josse (the brand) has been graced with the honor to bear a “haute couture” label.

Ambition was not lacking. A mere six months later, he launched his first ready-to-wear collection – it was only fitting that the preview for the Pre-Spring Collection, a prelude to his Haute Couture show on July 4, was held in Paris for buyers.

And already Josse has hinted that he is flirting with a prestigious American (!) department store, to which he said:

“Being a couturier puts me in a different position and gives my ready-to-wear collection a different credibility”.

The full prêt-à-porter collection is to be shown officially next fall in October, made entirely in France. His venture into RTW may have been a move out of pragmatism given the  speculated slow, gradual death of haute couture has already begun. Still, Josse ensures he has no intention to leave Haute Couture – imagine the irony having just been upgraded by the Chambre Syndicale with an official seal:

“It’s a fight on a daily basis. For this reason, ready-to-wear is important for a serene future and for my professional growth.”

Stability it is, then.

Now the prospect of a haute couture designer — un couturier — venturing into what is essentially an entirely different world is renders equal parts excitement and skepticism. It’s like a shoe designer dabbling in dressmaking, a ballerina going into breakdance and street hip-hop – an interesting change, but strange.

Most of the time it’s a bit of a flop: I’m a firm believer in sticking to what you (know you) do best. The couturier designs — no, dreams up — clothing for a character. Art come to life draped across a breathing, lithe little thing, made mainly to be admired. Prêt-à-Porter is made to be worn. Literally, ready to wear. Ready to be thrown on if need be, to be lived in. Admiration preferable, but not necessary.

But press images from the first RTW collection is evidence that Josse is more than capable of bouncing between both worlds. He can conjure French fairytales in the same breath as creating a more practical version of his masterpieces. And while I adore the idea of a femme fatale/Bond girl wardrobe, Josse’s spring collection sings to my feminine, girly, Francophile side. Maybe I’ve been reading too many novels of ex-pats in Paris. But can you imagine? A baguette poking out from a market bag under the arm, steaming the inside of the canvas and perfuming the both the streets and the sides of her Josse dress? Every well-dressed French girl needs a fresh dose of carbs before doing whatever fabulous thing she has on her agenda. It comes with the territory, this carb addiction.

Point is: the utter Frenchness of Josse, the brand, is indisputable. Ready-to-Wear it may be, but the slightest hint of true haute couture permeates into and exudes from the clothing. It reminds me of Chanel but less androgynous: younger, girlier and very, very feminine. It’s less urban Parisian and more French country – there’s a certain charm of innocent insouciance about it all…

.   .   .

xx

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madame g.

Reading all these stories and blogs of ex-pats in Paris have me yearning to return for an extended holiday and nostalgic with my own beginning into Francophilia.

Not my French teacher, but if she had replaced Madame G., I’m sure the boys would not have protested. I googled “French teacher” knowing well the “XXX” rated potentials – the things I risk for this blog! – and came across this: Daphnée, Your French Teacher. An app I would purchase if I had an iPhone…

Grade six (junior high) was the first time I was given the freedom of choosing which foreign language I wanted to take; Spanish was mandatory all through elementary school, and the possibility of learning what I believed to be one of the most sophisticated and beautiful and romantic languages there was had me tingly with excitement. French! I’d soon be able to say more than “Voulez-vous couchez avec moi, ce soir?” and “Oh là là!” and perhaps get a taste of French culture. Even if it meant from a textbook. The summer before that September I eagerly bubbled in French as my first (and only choice).

Fast forward to the first day of school. No French class. I was disappointed — I hated block scheduling — but on the second day, after (successfully!) finding my way through a myriad of crooked hallways and into the Social Studies corridor in which the French classroom haphazardly subsided. I took my seat; the bell rang shortly after.

She was tiny, Madame G., the G pronounced “jay.” The very definition of a petite European woman (I don’t remember if she was actually French or simply married a Frenchman, but she entranced me nonetheless). Short, choppy pixie cut – highlighted and low-lighted in a very edgy yet chic, 90s way. Black plastic framed glasses sat atop a perfect nose, a beaded chain dripping from both arms of those lenses. Tanned (which I now realize is standard of French people), toned and tiny. She wore all black (and only wore black – little blazers and tailored jackets, I remember little else).

I wouldn’t say my eagerness was pervasive in that other students would have labeled me as a teacher’s pet of sort. Perhaps I imagined it, but she seemed to perceive my excitement and enthusiasm and singled me out on that first day (well, second day of school, technically). Day one of la classe de français was typical of every other foreign class: translating your name to that respective language.

“…You are Kimberly, oui?”

“Yes… oui… but just Kim’s fine.”

“‘Just Kim?’ But Kimberly is such a beautiful name! It’s a pity we don’t have a French equivalent…”

I never really found my name particularly interesting or pretty. It was just there. But for a minute of her going on about how much she loved it made me feel special. Did I just make you laugh? I’m aware of how very cheesy I can be.

She toyed around with a few options that began with the letter “K,” French names that might’ve sounded similar to my English nom. I loved the way French sounded. She didn’t like the names, they didn’t “fit me.”

“A middle name, perhaps?”

I hesitated. Throughout grade school I wanted something plain. Something so very traditionally American, like Alexandra, or Sarah, or Ashley (one of the most popular baby names of my generation). Pearl was weird, foreign to me and 20 other fourth/fifth graders at the time.

“Pearl.”

“Quoi?“

I was a little nervous at this point.

“… Pearl.”

Petites hands clapped together, well-lined lips pursed together into a smile. “Pearl! Even more beautiful! And so unique to… I would just call you Pearl if I could! Pearl!” I was a little embarrassed at her excitement over this middle name I once kept to myself, but secretly I was proud.

It was silly. But it was Madame G. who made me believe and appreciate my middle name. It wasn’t just that, though, it was letting go of some inherent, 6th-grade desire to assimilate into a crop of girls experimenting with black eyeliner, who carried Coach purses and wore Abercrombie and Fitch head to tote.

And it Madame G. who would unknowingly and unwittingly launch this lifetime of Francophilia…

.   .   .

une bise sur chaque joue x

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i’d wear this in a heartbeat

Down to every last detail, gold rings, red nail polish and all. Carine Roitfeld, Barneys New York, are we on the same page? If I could encapsulate my wardrobe into one ensemble, it too would consist of rings, red nails, a black turtleneck and body-con (leather) pencil skirt. And classic pumps, of course.

Wasn’t there a saying along the lines of “great minds think alike?”

.   .   .

xx

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