Paris Fashion Week
By Connie Marshall
For
those of us who might struggle somewhat to speak eloquently about the fall of a
hemline or the expert cut of a sleeve, Fashion week is essentially about being
seen at the shows, wearing the clothes – n’est-ce
pas? It’s a perfect excuse to deck oneself out in ludicrously decadent
attire, fling an authoritative- looking lanyard round one’s neck and set out,
with a twinkle in one’s eye, as if to say, “Well, we all know where I’m going.” (We also all know it’s
equally about the delightful goody-bags and sumptuous after-parties, but that’s
for another day.) So, with our own Oxford Fashion Week on the horizon, what
better opportunity to saunter along Rue de Rivoli in sunglasses, pretending to
be someone of consequence, compiling the various ways in which to stay chic and
sleek on the streets for Fashion week. By Connie Marshall
As it happened, Paris Fashion Week coincided with my first week as a horribly-confused Erasmus student at the Sorbonne. Unfortunately, my first day as an “étudiante parisienne” did not run as smoothly as I had initially hoped it might. The first two hours, spent in a (fragrant) lecture hall learning about medieval Italian poetry, were challenging to say the least. And that was before I’d undergone the further two hours of dictation in the same (now even more fragrant) lecture hall, learning about medieval Italian poetry…in Italian. (My grasp of Italian stretches about as far as “ciao bello”). In short, once I had emerged, slightly dazed, from the doors of this great institution, I was ready for a change of scenery.
I surfaced from the metro, and eagerly scanned the area around the famous Tuilleries. I realised it was time to put old-school Britney on pause, swiftly remove headphones from ears and set to work. Everywhere, all manner of exotically-clad creatures seemed to have sprung from the side-streets. Towering models strutted to and from their various shows, clad in their “day gear”, and seemed surprisingly taken-aback upon my asking them to pose “pour mon blog”: “what, wearing this? But it’s not even couture.”
Nevertheless, my groundbreaking photographic research seems to indicate that one need only select a few, curiously eclectic accessories to complement one’s ensemble and effortlessly convince passers-by of one’s status as pioneering style icon…well, naturally. In fact, whether it be a black trilby or an oversized bow-tie, anything worn with a strut and a pout appears to work a treat.
Additionally, one must never shy away from the prospect of coupling animal print with plush green velvet shorts and tassels. It may sound peculiar but flash a smile, work that casual leg pop, and you’re away…
Furthermore, were one to wake up to find one’s luscious locks looking a tad frazzled, peu importe. This devilish diva scrapes it back and lets a feverishly hairy collar take center stage.
Achieve her look by adding a seductively sultry gaze, a lot of confidence and a little hip action…
And whoever said that the vraie parisienne always sticks to dainty ballet flats evidently had not spied this pair of heels strutting their way around Place du Marché Saint-Honoré…
Indeed, this elegant specimen turned out to be a designer at Fashion Week, and passed on her business card, having patiently smiled as I recited the “Excusez-moi Madame, mais je m’appelle Constantine de Mareshelle et j’écris un blog de la mode parisienne” speech. Rest assured, I scouted out her showroom. But unfortunately, the “Constantine de Mareshelle” speech didn’t work quite as effectively when it came to attempting to sneak stealthily past the stern lady with the clipboard, patrolling at the entrance: “Uh, Mademoiselle - pardon, mais euh…vous êtes qui?” Apparently, showrooms such as these are strictly off-limits to civilians posing as socialites and/or members of the French nobility.
After a further half an hour of snapping models off-duty, I had started to feel a faint inferiority complex coming on. (Unfortunately, my legs only come up to my waist.) My mood soon lifted, however, once I had made friends with the charming man playing acoustic versions of Lady Gaga on the Metro, and subsequently resurfaced in the Marais. In this quirky quartier, it seems the spirit of “Paris à la Mode” is present at every street corner, wafting in and out of stylish boutiques, casually sipping cocktails at ten in the morning (well, after all, it’s past twelve o’clock somewhere).
It was not long before I exuberantly approached this feisty female while she waited, elegantly poised on the steps of a rustic church, for her Italian lover to arrive and escort her to her favourite art gallery.
Perhaps, had he arrived, he might have been able to shed some light on the ongoing issue of this incomprehensible, Italian verse I ought to be analyzing….
Photography by Gordon Shishodia
Let's Be BCBG
By Connie Marshall
Photography by Gordon Shishodia
“Bon chic, bon genre”: a glorious, French
expression used to designate the eternally glossy, upper echelons of the
Parisian bourgeoisie. It also conveniently stands for “bon Connie, bon Gordon”
- a delightful coincidence, which obviously authorizes me - and internationally
celebrated photographer, Gordon - to judge this exciting style phenomenon.
***
Our
BCBG journey began one sultry Sunday afternoon as the early September sun
blazed through our windows and heated our already-sweltering apartment. We’d
run out of ice, our fan was faltering (to say the least), and we’d munched our
way through our last box of Haagen-Dazs cookies and cream. It was time to get
out.
So,
we arranged an impromptu rendezvous with expert Parisian style connoisseur,
Manuela, and trotted down to our nearby park, Les Jardins Luxembourg, for some
fresh air and open space. Apparently, all of Paris had struck upon the same
idea…
Once
we’d tiptoed our way through the maze of arms/ legs/ picnic blankets and found
a spot to sit down, it occurred to me that our very own Manuela perfectly
encapsulated what it is to be BCBG.
With
her look as our trusty guide, we can tailor the style down to three golden
rules:
1)
Keep
it to beige/ black/ blue/ bright white
2)
Bring
out the bling (and make it bold)
3)
Work
the bag (in other words, a Louis Vuitton –
well, quite frankly, why would a girl dream
of purchasing anything else?)
Equipped
with these three BCBG must-haves, anyone can flaunt it, whether that be down
Cornmarket street, or in and around the twisting, turning streets of Le Marais-
our next stop, whereupon we met up-and-coming fashion designer, Rosalind. Here,
we flounced around with Gordon’s state-of-the-art camera and took daringly
artistic pictures of fellow BCBG advocates. Most were more than happy to pose
“casually” for our pictures. After all, any experienced BCBG will tell you that
posing comes hand-in-hand with the job…
Thoroughly
pleased with our day’s progress, we headed home via the Rue du Rivoli,
whereupon we came across the ultimate BCBG accessory – how we had hitherto
failed to remark upon it, totally escapes me.
Our
fourth golden rule:
1)
The
bike
A
white Vespa is our preferred vehicle of choice. If you can get your hands on
one, do. If you spy one on the street, pose next to it. If you see one speeding
by, wink at the handsome driver and hope he gives you a quick spin…followed by
lunch.
Failing
all else, purchase a yellow “velo” and learn to hop on and off like a pro. (You
could even ride it from time to time, looking both chic and purposeful on your
way to a tutorial – oh yeah, those things…)
So,
my dear fellow fashionistas, remember your four
“Bs” and you’re well on your way to the sumptuous world of BCBG. And don’t
forget the attitude to match, for one will never be “bon chic” unless one is
also “bon genre”…
Until
next time,
Bisous!
Paris, French Connection & Me
On the 1st July, I arrived – appallingly bedraggled – at Paris Nord train station, with two thirty-ton Costco suitcases weighing me down physically, emotionally and spiritually. Let us not discuss the traumatic metro journey that delivered me to my new residence in the center of Paris: the sweat, swearing and sobs that ensued do little to promote my facade as effortlessly elegant Parisian fashionista.
In short, upon arriving at my new flat and exuberantly greeting my new
“co-locataire” – conveniently renowned fashion photographer, Gordon
Shishodia – we decided a drink(s) were in order…Well, naturally. We squeezed ourselves into two seats outside an impossibly crowded café; we attempted to order our drinks in French; the waiter replied in English (a pattern to which we would soon become accustomed); our neighbour puffed casually on his cigarette; and I remained the only one for a mile around without a cigarette. We keenly observed the Parisian passers-by, and with each fresh round of drinks, we brainstormed with ever-greater ingenuity.
And so, the French Connection brainchild was born. Indeed, why not call upon those so-called “analytical skills” we (err) so often apply to our studies in Oxford, and combine them with my shamelessly honed predilection for people watching? Why not wander the streets of Paris in a romantic reverie – arrondissement by arrondissement – and ascertain just what it is that constitutes Parisian chic? Why not use my astounding facility to empathize with my Oxford peers to enter the minds of these Parisian pedestrians, to understand why they dress the way they do? Why not publish my inspired findings on the hip, up-and-coming Oxford Fashion Society blog, transporting “Parisian Chic” to Oxford and while I’m at it influence the world and the generations to come?
Really, it’s
a wonder nobody’s thought of it before…
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