Milan Menswear shows Day II

Blogging is ridiculous if you have proper job. Fact. Mood dips as I always get depressed by whole fashion mechanism about now. Viewing clothes for no one to wear or afford feels futile.  At Bottega Veneta a dozen identically dressed freezing boys lining a path to their showroom, who shivered in synchronicity. Pure luxury, eh?

Music saved the moment.

“How do you like me now?” asked James Brown 125 times before 10am.

Screaming Jay Hawkins also shored morale.

B.V. (as my Asian colleague calls it) was good.

Bottega Veneta

 

 

Cinched action cabans with matching pants looked special forces or lux shell suits and, in a good way.  I love a good shell suit.

Also  Edwardian ‘Drapes’ exhibit  new length of evening stance jacket, complete with ‘Nowhere Boy’ quiffs.

Nice one. Get it. 

 

TOD'S.

Next met Deigo Della Valle at his Tods gaff. An extraordinarily grand place. He was suitable pleasant too, and it was interesting to note his unfastened oxford button down collar close up. Spezzatura I believe its called: Affected nonchalance. 

 

                                                          

Salvatore Ferragamo      

Salvatore Ferragamo, the Florentine scourge of rodents and reptiles presented us with Gaucho style verve.  Haight Ashbury sheerings and sheepskins with riding boots and massive scarves functioned in almost ‘ The Good The Bad and The Ugly’ manner.

Scarves so thick they were demi ponchos.

Oddly mine got delivered via Ferragamo’s PR. She owed be a flavour, and as I forgot to collect it in London she obliged.  Is having a poncho delivered by plane excessive?

It’s Hermes. It has tassels.  

Still unsure whether to drop the fully blown riding look in Milan, but Ferragamo is tipping the balance.

Love Ferragamo, bringing fashion back in favour. 

 

Vivienne Westood.

VW is a proper mentalist. A cardboard city runway and  a collection of dishevelled, homeless aristo’s met Dexy’s Midnight Runners in a theatrical shambles, culminating in Viv being wheeled down the runway on a trolley to kiss all the models. An invigorating spectacle.

 

Prada.

Prada’s concrete bunker at Via.Fogazaro is where it unravelled a bit. Morrrissey’s ‘I know its going to happen’, a solo fav’, set the scene, while two martini’s before the show put a slide in motion.

Some vintage flavoured men’s prada was shown. Camel and navy knits and tailoring in that thick suiting fabrication that only they do.

 

Odd women’s exits punctuated the show, and peculiar shrunken cardies on boys, looking like what you’d put an eight year old girl in. I smoked cigars on way home and made a note to rebel.

  

 

I couldn’t do the fashion dinner and drinks process tonight.

Too dislocated both emotionally and geographically.

I missed the hotel kitchen due to fruitless writing, so walked to Porto Genoa, by the canal. Went to a normal gaff for Tagliatta ‘ poco vecchio’. The radio played Angie by the Stones. Bit sad, in a good way.

Home across a railway bridge through unlikely thick dramatic fog back to the orange and Perspex vista of ‘The Nhow’. The canal district and bridge is stylish, and works well with Ferragamo tassel loafers. It's empty. This  ‘style’ hotel is in the middle of an industrial area,  thin on substance and big on pointless furniture.  

Just like fashion.

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