Fashionistas and fashion mistas everywhere, your time to shine has finally come. For the foreseeable future, you will not be asked to stuff your meaty legs into the denim casing of a skinny jean in order to make regrettable fashion sausage. Finally, a Chinese investor has invested cash into the believed-to-be-dead JNCO Jeans operation.
Let's, for one minute, forget that Kanye West is a platinum-selling, chart-topping music artist who has released six highly regarded solo albums in the last decade (to say nothing of his recording broship with Jay Z, production work on various rap and R&B albums, and outsized influence on popular culture). I want to talk about Kanye West, Fashion Designer of Dope Shit™. I've previously considered Kanye's multitudes and his import as a public figure on Gawker—he's "helped to unsettle this idea of how a black man should act or talk or love when others are watching"—but the New York Fashion Week debut of Yeezy Season 1, his first Adidas Originals collection, warrants examination once again, of both the designs and the designer.
Perhaps you've had occasion to browse a newsstand recently (why) and you've noticed something odd. Take that first "d" and replace it with an "l" and you're well on your way to understanding a thrilling new trend in photos of notable women. No, that isn't softskinned Kentucky beauty queen Jennifer Lawrence on the cover of the latest issue of What's the Deal, Ladies magazine. Nor do those tap shoes with a Pilgrim buckle sit on the ankles of the nubile Scarlett Johansson as she poses like Venus on the Babes For Real bi-monthly. That woman you see, well, she is a woman of a certain age.
The New York Times Magazine has a fantastic story up today about a male model named Brad Kroenig, who has been a muse and (platonic) companion to legendary fashion designer Karl Lagerfeld for over a decade. The story follows Kroenig, pictured above, and Lagerfeld to a runway show in Dubai, and provides us with utterly incredible Lagerfeld quotes and anecdotes along the way.
Every November, media types, ourselves included, trot out the trope that spending time with family during Thanksgiving is necessarily a difficult thing. Your sister is hateful, your uncles are racist, your nana's candied yams are a brutal, sunset-hued chore to be endured. Today, we meet the saddest victim of these holiday communication breakdowns: a poor soul whose excellent taste in footwear left him unable to bond with the people he cherished most.
Just across town from a shady, possibly Russian-funded photo exhibit in Chelsea sits "Peacemaker Putin," a shady, possibly Russian-funded t-shirt shop in Gramercy, hawking shirts with slogans like "From Russia with Love" and "Make Peace Not War." Julius Kacinskis, the American-born owner, insists he's just mad about Vlad.
Fashionable style robots Kanye West and Kim Kardashian have been escorting their painfully precious baby North West around Paris for Fashion Week and with every photo that emerges, North's grimace deepens. Is it pain over the constant photographers' flashes? Is it the dismal reality that the life of a human is finite? Or is it those leather leggings that are chafing her diapered bum?
Contrary to popular belief, journalists take couture very seriously. In journalism school,* young journalistos and journalistas are educated on appropriate fashion choices—garments they can move and be comfortable in, in case they have to run from a cop, attend a lengthy court hearing, or sit and blog for nine hours.**