Homage to Azzedine Alaia

Legendary designer Azzedine Alaia passed away Saturday in Paris at the age of 77. His diminutive size belied an outsized imagination as well as an unwavering insistence to show his collections according to his own creative rhythms rather than those dictated by industry calendars and expectations.

Born in Tunisia to wheat farmers, Alaia left for Paris at the age of 17 to work for Dior however the Algerian war and incorrect immigration papers derailed those plans within just 5 days of his arrival. He eventually found his way to train in the ateliers of Guy Laroche and Thierry Mugler and in the late 1970's set-up his own studio catering to a wealthy, private clientele. He launched his first ready-to-wear collection in 1980 to unanimous critical acclaim and over the years cemented his reputation as a diviner of both the sensual and the erotic.

Alaia's meticulous manipulation of materials allowed him to create silhouettes which had the unique ability to make women look not only powerful but pretty. Drawing upon his early studies in sculpture, Alaia could mold leather into soft, undulating tulip shapes and with geometric precision he fully-fashioned knits to pleat, tuck, and fold giving them structure and volume without sacrificing the comfort and ease expected of knitwear.

Known as "The King of Cling" for his curve-enhancing creations, his work gave rise to an entirely new visual vocabulary in knitwear. Alaia proposed intricate stitch structures and textures and retooled machinery to accommodate his elaborate ideas and proportions. As the originator of the bandage dress, which both smoothed and accentuated every inch of a woman's body, he inspired a million knock-offs and secured his place in fashion infamy.

Regarded as a "designer's designer," Alaia was universally respected among his peers and dressed everyone from Michelle Obama to Madonna. His celebration of the female form, his discipline and respect for craft are anathema in today's culture of disposable, fast-fashion and the industry mourns the loss of yet another irreplaceable visionary.

NY Times March 2013

The Edit Magazine January 2017

Photographed by Tommy Tom

Stephanie Seymour NYC Ballet 2012

Fall 2007 Lookbook

Harper's Bazaar Korea March 2013

NY Times T Magazine February 2013

with Naomi Cambell

with Elle MacPherson photographed by Gilles Bensimon

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Fashion Icon | Remembering Prince

Any fashion critic will tell you this: style can't be bought.  You're either born with an inherent "something-something" or you're not.  Style has nothing to do with runways or the windows of Barney's and it can't be found between the pages of a fat March issue of Vogue.  Style isn't necessarily current or copyable and it may only be cool on the person who owns it but damn, if we don't all wish we possessed that deep, all-knowing sense of self necessary to harness it.  I mean, you've gotta be dialed-in to some elite frequency to not only make ass-less pants look really good but to make people say, "Huh...maybe I should try that."

Prince loved sequins and lace.  He loved feather boas, velvet, and richly textured brocades.  His guitar straps were leopard and to quote Robin Givhan of The Washington Post, "He wore heels. High heels. And yes, they boosted his diminutive stature, but he also seemed aware that heels change the wearer’s posture. They make the tush more prominent..."

Prince embraced all colors but he owned Purple (with a capital P) like Ralph and Tommy own Red, White, and Blue.  If only Prince had a chance to come to Scarsdale, NY and see the house in which I grew-up; resplendent in all it's deeply hued glory with its purple shutters and purple front door.  With its leopard linoleum tiled kitchen and leopard upholstered chairs. The mystique of Purple "rained" supreme at the house shadowed by lavender wisteria trees from the paint on the walls to the carpets on the floor to the veins that ran through the marble in the bathroom.  Prince and my mother, the master behind this kooky homage to the color of royalty, were unlikely compatriots on many levels perhaps, but shared an inexplicable, other-wordly fascination for the color Purple.  If only he had known.

When I was young I used to wish we had a house with black shutters like everyone else.  At times I would ask to be dropped off at the top of the street so people wouldn't see it.  But "The Purple House" was a legend, known to all far and wide, enjoying a life of infamy beyond the family who inhabited it.  My childhood home was one-of-kind; impossible for someone else to recreate because it was so personally composed.  And while not for everyone, it had style.  It was authentic...just like Prince.  And ultimately, authenticity is the prism through which true style is filtered.

R.I.P Prince.  We will miss you!

Oh...and as a side note: my father is color blind.  He thought most things in the house were just shades of blue!

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Prince...he was just like us.  Courtside at a b-ball game decked out in head-to-toe purple.

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