Other recent additions to the dining options at the mall include the only Five Guys in the country that serves beer, wine and seltzer and German Doner Kebab. Yard House will be in Court A within the massive mall, which includes a Nickelodeon Universe theme park, a DreamWorks water park, an ice rink and a Big SNOW ski slope. Even if they could afford it, real artists wouldn’t wear such redundancies, any more than raccoons would buy themselves $75 T-shirts that say RACCOON.Yard House's Rib Eye & Shrimp features a 12-ounce steak with spinach mashed potatoes, broccolini and house-made steak sauce. But wearing a $75 T-shirt that says ARTIST suggests that the most artistic thing about the wearer is the T-shirt itself, much as you know that anyone who actually uses the word “classy” probably isn’t. It might say JANITOR, or IDIOT, or possibly HOOKER. Now, any artist I know who’s worth his salt would print the shirt himself if it cost more than $22 and it would never say ARTIST. One $75 T-shirt bore the word ARTIST across the chest in a bold glitter font. “Air it out to remove smells and let this natural living fiber rest.” The cashmeres here demand prima-donna-level attentions from the buyer: “Cashmere yarn is fragile (little goat hair),” explains the wash tag.
I was starting to wonder if the bouquets were made of jimson weed. “I was looking for the KEITH sweaters, but I guess they’re in the hospital,” I announced to a salesman, who burst into giggles.
ELVIS, declared the studs on a viscose sweater-vest ($190). Many garments bore words vital to self-determination: a cotton T-dress identified the wearer as a HIPPIE ($185). To the staff’s great credit, they laughed. “Maybe you guys should wash these slightly less beforehand, so they can withstand use,” I offered. Alternately, if you prefer chain-store shopping to drugs or peace, there is a presoftened T-shirt that says merely SOHO, in a distressed font. If hemp isn’t your issue, there is a sweater bearing the peace logo ($220). The cashmeres are petulant and rebellious a purple sweater-vest has a marijuana leaf outlined on the back in what looks like malachite studs ($265). I call the look Haute Liberal Arts Dormitory. Thierry Gillier, the founder of Zadig & Voltaire (and a Frenchman of fine fashion pedigree: his father was a founder of Lacoste), has established this line with the explicit purpose of creating items that, according to its Web site, “look like street fashion at first glance.” T-shirts, skinny jeans, long ultrathin sweaters, made only of luxury fabrics: silk, cashmere and a specially developed cotton jersey. She is now playful, tomboyish, smart and wryly gifted at playing both sheet music and musical sheets with Mick and Warren and Sweet Baby James. She is flower-power frilly in post-hippie hues evoking the clothesline-bleached quality of ’70s film stock, with just enough dusty mauve leather to invoke decaffeinated lite-rock hits. She is effortless pleasure in shredded jeans, butterfly tops and birth control pills. The new role-goddess seems to be Carly Simon, circa 1972, in a haze of hemp and freshly liberated sexual delirium.
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She is now her own vulnerable summer of sexual awakening, wobbling on tall wooden heels, trying to figure out how to use powers she forgot, or never knew she had. Frail Rosemary has given birth to her new self. Clothing, in a symbiotic reflection of the times, told us that the men were to have their way.īut the guard has changed, and sunshine is slowly being let back into women’s wear again. Men’s wear, in the meantime, flew its most ruthless semiotic pirate flags: pinstripes and camouflage merciless prints altogether deaf to feminine pleading and blind to the suffering of tots. Child-women were bowed and baby-dolled up to resemble decorative Easter eggs: newly and uptightly pregnant (a paragon of marital fidelity), half-crippled by feminine weakness and excess luxury, declawed and wholly dominated by the unstoppable twin libidos of war and Wall Street. Fashionwise, the prevailing goddess has been voted out and replaced by a new one.ĭuring the Dark Side years, I believe women’s fashion rotated around a particular unmoved mover: Mia Farrow in “Rosemary’s Baby.” Retail inventories seemed to come right out of Sunday school, in tiptoe-quiet ballet shoes and little pastel smocks. It was quite clear in the meatpacking district last week.
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IT was clear as early as November from the windows at Barneys.
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