H&M x Marni

Since the announcement last November, the fashion sect has been drooling over the H&M collaboration with Marni for spring 2012. Hard-hitting news journals and blogs alike post the same pre-packaged quotes praising the brand for its print mixing, construction, and color blocking skills. Consuelo Castiglioni and her team produce quality work and they do possess such skills. However, I wouldn't call Marni an "Italian powerhouse" nor would I liken the brand to "one of the hottest tickets at Milan fashion week". That title would go to Missoni or Prada, certainly not Marni. Somebody at H&M must owe someone at Marni a favor - a saved child or rescued pet at the very least - because the matching doesn't make sense.

I'm not impressed. H&M could have (and should have) found a better act to follow Versace, a collection I found irresistible. I swooned over the palm tree print sweater, leggings, and button downs and even paid the inflammatory eBay prices for two pieces. The Versace collection was successful because for the first time in H&M history, they chose a partner who put a great deal of creativity into their womenswear as well as their menswear. 

In a perfect world, H&M would be able choose any partner. But unfortunately, the world we live in isn't perfect. Brands have to protect their identities, designers have egos, and a certain level of exclusivity has to be maintained. So, while I'm not holding my breath for that H&M x Dior collection, I still think there's a great deal of design talent out there that could bring a lot to the mass market audience of H&M.

H&M x Christopher Kane:
No stranger to retail mash-ups, Christopher Kane has worked with Topshop in the past and recently designed a capsule collection for J Brand. The collaboration with the denim brand doesn't showcase his true talent, though. Anyone can make neon denim, but not everyone can do what Christopher Kane does.

I love his printed short sets. The digital prints are mesmerizing and look amazing when paired together. I think H&M's male consumers would really respond to them. The gel clutch from Fall 201 was perhaps one of the most beautiful things I've ever laid eyes on. It could have easily been elementary school gone wrong; like ridiculously expensive Lisa Frank. Needless to say, it went very right. His womenswear is smart and truly fashion-forward. I know a lot designers claim to be at forefront of design, but he really is. I promise.

I bought a Christoper Kane dress at a Barneys warehouse sale a few years back. I never wear it because I don't exactly attend galas or other highbrow events and that's pretty much the only acceptable venue for such a special piece. I saw it and had to have it, like I could not continue life without it.

H&M x Raf Simons:
Raf Simons is the unsung hero of the fashion world - the Peter Parker, the Clark Kent - as evidenced by his superhuman designs. He did great work for Jil Sander and continues to take his namesake label to new heights. He's one of few designers that create thought provoking menswear and womenswear. 

For men, his innovation lies more so in details rather than the overall design. Color choice is another one of his strengths. I'm still lusting after his Spring 2011 collection with all the color blocking, scouring eBay for any leftovers. For women, Simons is responsible for the resurgence of peplum into mainstream fashion. Once he sent them down the runway, they became unavoidable. Everyone was doing it and still continue to do it. Most designer collections are either completely masculine hardcore or freaking harlequin romance novels. Simons carefully rations out the drama and balances aspects of both worlds, which makes for collections that always tell an interesting story.

H&M x Givenchy:
Were this collaboration ever to come to fruition it would be a game changer, plain and simple. Givenchy's edgy dark horse sensibility is something H&M tries to do but somehow always falls short, probably for lack of funds or resources. Mass market retailers aren't exactly known for their well-funded couturiers.

Riccardo Tisci's couture is the stuff of dreams. Often drawing inspiration from unlikely sources like samurai and human anatomy, his couture work is always breathtaking, provocative, and insightful. Something similar at a lower price point would be a welcome change to the basic leggings and mini skirts currently filling the racks of H&M. Tisci would be able to really bring couture elements to the designer collaboration world, something that's never been done before. Ever. He would be able to create something special and beautiful without the consumer having to sell their first born child.

The dinosaur tooth necklaces from Spring 2012 were incredible. It was like, "Let's take this cheesy thing from childhood, make it high fashion, and watch everyone fight over it". Just an example of the adaptation of primitive elements that sets Givenchy apart. A prehistoric object that somehow manages to be futuristic.

In the world of Givenchy menswear, there's no room for delicate sensibilities. It's masculine. It's muscle. It exudes a sort of intellectual aggression, perfect for men who want to test the waters of fashion without drowning. The clothing isn't all bruises and bar fights, though. Tisci often uses elements of womenswear in his mens and makes a look so natural you don't even notice. The Givenchy man will kick your ass and he'll do it in a skirt, making no apologies.

Next time, maybe H&M will approach a brand whose menswear and womenswear come together to form a cohesive aesthetic. The menswear should reflect and contain elements of the womenswear and vice versa. That's what makes a good collaborative effort, something for everybody. Nobody should be bored. Now is the time for mass market to be exciting. Our purchasing options have become way too safe. Yes, safe makes money. Safe keeps the business afloat and people employed. Safe is also what keeps Americans in Mom Jeans. Retailers like H&M should start working to get middle America to be more comfortable with making unconventional choices when it comes to their wardrobe. Everything they own may be from Costco, but their money is green too. Show them what they could have not just what you think they already want. In order to avoid becoming Aeropostale, H&M needs to decide whether it's utilitarian or aspirational. Are they in the business of selling clothing or selling dreams?

Ladyboy Realness

Ladies and Ladyboys, I give you Andrej Pejic. The fashion world is all aflutter with news of this androgyne. He's walked for menswear and couture and has campaigns lined up out the ass.   Everyone is so amazed that he's a boy that looks like a girl as if it's some anomaly that occurs once every 75,000 years. While the fashion crowd my fawn, I say get in line. The Tranny Train has long since left the station. As someone who is often mistaken for a female, I don't understand what the big deal is. Of course, he looks like a girl and ends up becoming an international fashion model. I look like a girl and become bait for drunken homeless men.

Weeks before a surgery, I had to have a consultation with my doctor. Because I have yet to remaster the art of walking long distances, my father had to push me to the waiting area in a wheelchair. As he was maneuvering me into a parked position, a woman elbow deep in a bag of potato chips turned her attention away from her lunch to me.

I pretended not to notice her. Instead, I fumbled with the Safari app on my iPhone, trying to find a website that would make me look like I was doing something important (they should make an app for that). It used to be that when you buried your head in your cell phone people left you alone - a Do Not Disturb sign for the technological age. Now, people just don't care. So much for social graces.

And so the waiting room banter began. "I just love Dr. P. I've been seeing her since July". In between open-mouthed chews she asked what I was there for. Before I could answer, she interjected with "Oh, are you here for -", while gesturing towards her chest and mouthing the words "your breasts?" I guess she figured discretion was necessary being that my father was the only male in the area and women, even when seated in the waiting room of a plastic surgeon's office, need to maintain an air of mystery.

Taken aback and embarrassed in my father's presence I emphatically replied "No, no, no! I'm here for my leg!" and began pointing at it as if her x-ray vision could see what was wrong. She skeptically gave me a sideways glance and returned to her chips. I should have said "I'm here for my leg and I have a penis", but even then she would probably assume I'm a hermaphrodite instead of just going with the easier "Maybe he's a boy".

Another time, while at the bank, I gave the teller my ID with my given name on it - a name that is quite obviously masculine - and she took one look at me and said "Wow. Joseph. I never met a girl with that name before. That's unique". I just took my deposit slip and smiled. Although, in her defense, I was carrying a gold Chanel bag so that was probably just her Midwestern mind trying to make sense of the situation.

Among the many gender reclassification stories I could tell, my favorite has to be the time I was asked if I still menstruate. Apparently, I not only look like a woman. I look like a cast member of Golden Girls.

As awkward as the situation is, it's even more awkward to have to openly declare your gender; so I just continue the charade until I can politely excuse myself. I love that even on my worst days someone will address me as she, miss, or ma'am. It almost gives me a sense of pride. For me, fashion is largely about creating characters or an exaggerated version of self; a way of bringing a little fantasy into my reality. And the fact that I can pass as female means I can create more characters, which means I can justify buying that much more clothes.

D.V.

I've been stuck in this medical purgatory for the past month. My days are filled with rest interrupted by antsy doctors, NSA's with a need to check blood pressure every 20 minutes, tube feeds, and therapists trying to evaluate me through my purchases e.g. "Why the green bag?"). My nights are pretty much the same thing, with even less sleep and my early mornings are met with blood work. That, and they're constantly telling me I can't eat for reasons I swear they make up minutes before. For months we've been trying to get me just look at food. Now, I want to do more than look. I want to ravish it. I want to gorge on it and they tell me I can't eat, dangling food in front of me on a string. Cut to me hoarding chicken wings, cheeseburgers, and fries in my room. And mild sauce! Mild sauce makes everything worlds better.

They keep offering me ice chips to compensate. Like flecks of frozen water could ever take the place of an extra large corned beef sandwich with peppers. Needless to say, I don't want any freaking ice chips!!! Too bad this isn't a blog about uncontrollable gluttony. It does however have a point, which I promise I'm getting to.

The point is: This ordeal has become somewhat bearable because of D.V. by Diana Vreeland, the memoir of former editrix in chief of American VOGUE.

It's a memoir, so it's validity is questionable but for conversation's sake (and my fanatical dreams) let's just say every word on every page is true. And in assuming this, one would find that Diana Vreeland led one of the most charmed lives. Born in Paris with addresses in London and New York, vacations in places like Tunisia, Morocco, Spain, Budapest, Russia, Wyoming even. I sincerely doubt there is a patch of earth that hasn't been touched by the soles of her shoes. Friends with Coco Chanel. An advisor to Jack Nicholson. Dinners with the most extraordinary people of her time - Cole Porter, Josephine Baker.

My life right now isn't nearly as glamorous as hers. But who's to say that, with a lot of work and passport stamps, it will be. I see myself succeeding her one day. I want it all. The Times Square office. The positively "medical" looking chair. 

You really should read it. It's written as if she's sitting across from you so a lot of things are described like "as tall as you are" and "out to here", which I find truly endearing because It reads as if the two of us are sipping tea or sharing a meal (although, fun fact, she despised business lunches).

I will say this: women like DV aren't be taught, they just are. You could live your life to every detail and it wouldn't be a quarter graceful, smart, or charming. Because of that allure, she provides a sense of escapism for me. As I read, I imagine myself sauntering through speakeasies, being held at the mercy of a flock of peacocks - embodying the true tenacious spirit of Ms. D.V.

Hospital Gowns, Hospital Frowns

Due to circumstances way beyond my control, I'm back in the hospital. Every prison sentencing hospital visit has a common thread: I never wear any hospital attire unless it is explicitly unavoidable. Nor will I ever, that is, unless Mademoiselle Coco Chanel rises from the grave to design an exclusive line of medical issue hospital gowns.

The doctors and nurses just don't get it. Sure, it convenient for them, but those gowns are ugly. I'm already depressed that I have to be here, inhaling the fumes of cleaning agents and pre-packaged medical supplies. I shouldn't be made to feel worse by having to spend my days in a cotton smock.

The dresses pictured above would make perfectly reasonable replacements. Stylish, but not constricting. Comfortable without looking like a slob. The oversized mohair sweater dress does have a burlap sack look to it, but I'm willing to overlook that if only for the fact that it's childlike cut is endearing. It doesn't just hang off the body, it envelops the body; like a grown-up security blanket. And in a place as uncertain as a hospital, it's nice to have that protection.

The white multi-layered shirt dress is pure fantasy. A fairytale piece. Soft, delicate. Everything you want to feel while waiting for test results. And look, there's snaps, which automatically make it utilitarian too!

**Street style photos courtesy of JAK AND JIL and STREETFSN

Winter Brights

As the leaves begin to fall, so begins the search for the perfect cold weather coat. And in Chicago, where the winter is eternal, a coat is mandatory. Hell, for Chicago winter a fully insulated, thermal body suit is mandatory, but I'll settle for a coat. Gray, black, and navy usually dominate this time of year. But with electric blues, lime greens, and bright oranges, this winter is all about color. It's as if the CFDA took a bribe from the Crayola corporation. Many designers took the Brighter is Better approach. At Burberry, a veritable rainbow of coats were sent down the runway, but Raf Simons designed the best of them all - a classic knee-length purple coat - for his own label.

 I never imagined I would want a purple coat, especially one that could potentially get me mistaken for Barney the Friendly Dinosaur, but the heart wants what the heart wants. The cut is so regal, so debonair; the definition of class. And the saturated, unconventional color choice makes it a refreshing take on a winter classic.

If The Shirt Fits

A plague has fallen upon the male gender. No, not male pattern baldness, but the arguably more serious inability to identify, purchase, and wear clothes that actually fit. Generations of males are subjected to ill-fitting clothes, completely unaware of their sartorial salvation. I honestly don't understand the fear. Do men believe a pair of pants that actually covers their ass will render them unattractive (or unattracted) to the opposite sex? Fitted clothes don't make you gay fellas. (That intimate kiss you shared with your "buddy" probably does, but "No homo", right?) If that were the case, then conversely, wearing baggy clothing would make you straight. And that just ain't true.

When I was younger, my mother bought my clothes. I remember she would always get size 34 pants, Large t-shirts, size 40 suit jackets. I eventually came to think these were my real measurements - a 12 year-old with the body proportions of Quasimodo.

I never questioned the clothing. Everyone seemed to dress the same way so I just assumed this was how boys dressed on their way to becoming men, but looking back on old photos, I didn't look more like a man. I looked more like a mess. My pants never fit me right. They would bunch awkwardly at the front, sliding further and further to the side as I moved. By the end of the day, my belt buckle was headed towards my hips. Thankfully, no one saw it, due to the tents I wore as t-shirts. My collars slouched sloppily to one side, making it impossible to layer properly, and the bottoms of button ups poofed out creating an extreme muffin top.

When I began to buy my own clothes, I found fashion and discovered that fitted pants didn't bring on the apocalypse. It seems ridiculous that even now tight clothes are considered feminine. Fitted clothes are considered too tight. I firmly believe men (and women) shouldn't wear clothes that are too tight. Thread and fabric can only stretch so far.

There's nothing like a man in clothes that fit. When worn properly, they can accentuate the curvature of his body in the most flattering way - perfectly wrapping around his arms, proudly accentuating his chest. In baggy clothes, you just look lost.

Tragically, there are tons of men out there who are still afflicted, cluelessly wondering the Men's Warehouses and Big & Tall stores of the world, wearing jackets that could shelter a small family. I can no longer allow this disease to ravage them. I encourage, no beg, the men of this world to wear clothes that actually fit. Know your actual measurements, not the ones your Mama gave you. Clothing is designed to flatter the body, not consume it.

Prescription Picc #002

Somewhere deep in the remote jungles of Africa lives is a tribe of Glamazons called Proenza Schouler. Instead of fighting with hand-crafted spears, they use high heels. They live in huts that bear a striking resemblance to Manhattan studio apartments. Tribe Proenza live on a diet of coffee beans (non fat) and their tribal makeup is washed off and reapplied every morning, not to mention retouched throughout the day.

Finding pendants that ward off evil spirits or increase fertility to be useless, the Proenza have created these necklaces to ensure a fruitful fashion week and to actually increase infertility. There's no way they would be able to squeeze into those one-of-a-kind grass skirts with baby weight.

From watching National Geographic, I've learned that spirituality is important to isolated tribes like this. While most are polytheistic, the Proenza pray to only one deity - the one they call Anna Wintour. They do not mingle with other tribes, but instead travel in cliques wearing the jewelry pictured above.

Luckily, you don't have to book a flight and rent a jeep to get a taste of their wares. Thanks to the information age, you can go on over to the Proenza Schouler online shop and place an order for either necklace. At a starting price of $450 each, I wish I could prescribe some kind of discount.

Fear not, H&M offers their slightly more nautical, greatly more affordable version (pictured below) for the Summer 2011 season:

  
I renamed this series Prescription Piccs after the PICC line I had painfully implanted (Seriously, I've never heard a doctor say "Oops, messed up. Just give me one more chance" before); which soon started to malfunction and was later removed. A PICC (peripherally inserted central catheter) line is basically an implanted tube that runs under the skin, up the arm, and empties into the main vein of the heart. It's called a PICC. These pieces are picked. See the wordplay at work here?