Posts Tagged ‘italy’
If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then clearly I have free rein to equate Giannini’s Spring ’14 collection to a fluffy, pink flamingo. Sure, the birds are missing some sequins and swag, but all in all the association is uncanny. It’s one of those moments when an ink blot of the pink flamingo would prompt the fashion victim to blurt out, “Why doc, that’s easy. Gucci Spring 2014. What do I win, what do I win??!!”
No victims here, though, as Giannini continues to explore the boudoir where she left off in Spring 2012 (perhaps a pregnancy suffices to explain the temporary departure from sexiness in between yesterday and tomorrow; I said flamingo, not stork). These roaring 20s inspired silhouettes have me picturing Kay Francis swathed in flouncy sleeves and pearls, trying to light a cigarette with one of those oversized lighters that dubbed as a paperweight held in both hands. So, flamingos, Kay Francis and Gucci. Someone diagnose me, please. I have a severe case of FABULOUS.
This photograph plus a flashback during yoga this morning whilst trying to find my drishti, transported me to a moment in time that I hold dearly. I’m 18 years old, it’s 2003 and my two best friends and I have rented a villetta in Ravello – arguably the most enchanting place on earth. It’s July. We didn’t go to the beach that day because we had to do our laundry, something we had been avoiding for the past two weeks, accumulating a mountain of soiled Abercrombie t-shirts and short shorts on our kitchen table.
Our villa has an oversized terrace that looks out onto a valley; we’re really high up. It seems as if in paradise. Stretching the entire length of the terracotta tiles, a blue water swimming pool nestled on one end, a clothesline on the other, we hang our entire summer wardrobe to dry with the Mediterranean sun. As we wait, we take to three lounge chairs by the pool. I look up at the sky. Earbuds in place and press play. So begins the Real Ibiza V compilation I purchased earlier on a drunken night in Lipari after sucking back a B52 through a straw – while it was on fire. Apparently, that’s how they do it in Italy; turned out to be heaven-sent. The music, the sunshine and my precocious youth. I think I became a better version of myself that afternoon, in the hour and a half it took for our laundry to dry.
I think if you stand too close to Anna dello Russo you begin to morph into her not-so-quite replica. Such has been the fate of her assistant, Carlotta Oddi. Not quite Anna, but still quite Eurotrash.
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I don’t know who this girl is but this is perhaps one of the most Eurotrash photos I’ve seen in a long time. She reminds me of my Florentine muse, the girl who kickstarted my lifelong commitment to defining what exactly it means to be Eurotrash, and embodying that definition. Making a place for this aesthetic way of life in the fashion canon hasn’t been easy, but it’s photographs like this that remind me I’m neither alone nor misguided. Vive la Eurotrash!
You’ll need: a piazza, a tan, high heels, ripped jean shorts, something vintage, something gold, faceshields (sunglasses) and an accent.
Every Thursday the cock crows at 7am. The merchants, artisans and charlatans gather in the streets of Sora with their bancarelle. An outdoor market unfolds where one can buy anything from a spool of wool to fresh scallops from the sea. I’m not much of a haggler but watching my mom and aunt work the mercato is like watching a foreign artform in it’s splendor. If there’s one thing I learned, once the seller counteroffers your asking price, act like their offer is too high, or you don’t need the item, and walk away – they’ll come after you sheepishly agreeing to meet your demands. Works every time, like a charm. Like a boss. I bought nothing, obviously, and went directly towards the most expensive boutique in town and spent all my money on Mr. Eurotrash. Hope he likes his haggle-free gift!
Shopping in Italy, or on holiday in general, always lends me a certain figment of wealth. All of a sudden 100 euros becomes the yardstick for all purchases. Those green bills go marching one by one; hoorah, hoorah. Today’s style pilgrimage lead us to Stefanel in Sora, (FR). Italian, simple luxury brand that specializes in cashmere and knitwear, and a favourite of The Blonde Salad (see her post celebrating Fashion’s Night Out at their Florence store). I almost bought the cardigan dress she’s wearing in the pics but opted for a houndstooth boyfriend pant with matching grey hoodie. It’s sporty luxe love all over again! Definitely a fashion week outfit I plan on pairing with my Sauvage ankle boots and red, red lips!
Arrived in Italy just a few days ago. OK, not doing the cosmopolitan Milano trip that you’d expect, but hanging with my family in mezzo alle fratte. We’re in Vicalvi, a small town on a mountain in the middle of the Ciociaria, what the general area is named, after our traditional footwear (think Aladdin). Me, on the other hand, I’m wearing my new leather Soles boots from Sauvage on Queen St. They are moving from pop-up to permanent next week. You can find them at 644 Queen Street West from then on.
L’Uomo Vogue, W Magazine, Dolce & Gabbana, dating a Roitfeld and a permanent fixture of The Sartorialist street fashion roster. Giovanna Battaglia. She could be Cleopatra in a casting call, as evinced by the Eddie Borgo campaign, of which she is the face. If you follow her on twitter, she’s always hanging with Stefano Gabbana (I actually follow both of them for a complete tete-a-tete). Her style is high luxe with a tendency to keep it classy. She’s not as crazy as ADR, and perhaps more feminine. Attends fashion shows with the utmost piety, and finds her way onto style.com almost weekly. Want to learn more about this Eurotrash lady, check out the quasi-stalker blog about her: I want to be a Battaglia - but then again, who doesn’t!
“Ospiti, ma quali ospiti?” – The Nightfox, Ocean’s 12.
Vincent Cassel plays Eurotrash playboy with nothing better to do but Thomas Crown hard, every day. I love watching Ocean’s 12 just for his European cockiness that only decadence can afford. James Bond type.
Danny Ocean visits the Nightfox a few times in the film at his gargantuan villa in Lake Como. The location exists in real life. The 15th century Villa Erba, once vacation home of Luchino Visconti, has made my ‘Eurotrash Places’ list. If Europe is any better than North America for one thing, it’s the prevalence of villas. No Malibu estate comes close. No real housewife of Jersey can beat a Duchess. Private vineyards that have been around for centuries – you can’t put a price on antiquity.
image via colorsmagazine.com
Colors magazine was the first magazine I ever read. I must’ve been around 10 years old. I remember the issue, too. It included a story about a vending machine in Japan that sold women’s dirty panties in a neat little package. I’m not even lying. As you can see, the issue scarred me for life. A recent visit proved nothing has changed at this magazine – their latest quarterly issue is dedicated to shit. I love this photograph, though, taken for the feature on Mongolian transvestites who brace the morning dawn after a drunken vigil, adorned in traditional Mongolian folk costumes.