COLUMNISTS The Costume Institute gala at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the annual black tie fundraiser also known as “the party of the year” in New York, is good for many things: ogling movie stars (“Hi, I’m George,” quoth co-host George Clooney in the receiving line, a statement of such astounding obviousness it left many a guest speechless); checking out the fashion/power nexus (Ron Perelman sitting with Barry Diller, aka Mr Diane von Furstenberg; Rupert Murdoch deep in conversation with Shelby Bryan, Anna Wintour’s significant other); and getting wardrobe ideas from red carpet-goers, most of whom were sporting autumn/winter gowns not yet available in stores. What it is generally not known for, however, is answering a question that has been preying on my mind lately: once you hit what is commonly termed middle-life, what does it mean to dress your age?
All this started because of an irate e-mail from a reader fed up with fashion (me included). She was in her 60s, launching a business, needed to look “convincing” to venture capitalists, and didn’t think anything in the catwalk reports would work – not the painterly chiffon trend, the hippie chic trend, or the chunky knit trend. Even the “return of the jacket”, courtesy of YSL’s strong-shouldered separates, wasn’t talking her talk – probably because of the banana-trousered bottoms involved.
Now, to an extent a little eye-rolling is allowed here, for it is true that even the most ego-bound designer would not suggest that a runway look be swallowed, shoe-to-blunt-bob, by consumers. The point, of course, is to take the jacket and use it atop your own black trousers/staple pencil skirt etc. You know that fashion cliché: make it your own! But at the same time, I understood why this reader was upset. Runway looks are often extreme in order to prove a point (strong women are back), but that extremity can be so overwhelming it’s hard to think of the components any other way. Better, really, to abandon efforts to understand the show styles and look instead to role models; other women who can do the translating for you. But who?
Female politicians historically have not been particularly good style exemplars since they spend most of their time trying to avoid calling any attention at all to their clothes. I have hopes this may be changing courtesy of the new French and Spanish cabinets, but it’s too soon to tell how much influence Sarkozy sirens Christine Lagarde and Rachida Dati may have, for example. Female chief executives might be a better option – Lynn Forester, the ex-telecommunications entrepreneur and current wife of Sir Evelyn de Rothschild, was a famously stylish couture-buyer – but it’s hard to know, because most of them tend to stay out of the public eye.
On the other hand, a brief glance at the local newsstand, whose glossy research tomes are available to all, yielded up no possible icon except Madonna on Vanity Fair, promoting her new album and clad in an Alaia belt, corset, and not much else. At 50 she looked in unquestionably great – if also air-brushed – shape, but the ultimate effect wasn’t of fabulousness but rather déjà vu. After all, we’ve been there, seen that, and the first time around she was in her 30s. Then she seemed to be showing the way forward for some segment of her generation, flaunting her sexuality and owning it in an underwear-as-outerwear sort of way that filtered into the rest of the camisole-owning population, but now it feels like nostalgia. Truth is, no woman should dress the same way for multiple decades, even if her body is nearly as sculpted and taut as it ever was. Clothes need to show growth, just like the minds they contain.
So by the time I made my way up the steps at the Metropolitan Museum last week there hadn’t been much progress, and because the red carpet is generally about the young and leggy and Michelle Monaghan-famous, expectations were low. Besides, the summer exhibit’s theme was “Superheroes”, and gala guests are encouraged to dress according to the theme; a slightly scary idea. Aside from Christina Ricci (pictured), however, who appeared in a sheer shell pink chiffon bias cut dress just veiling a red Wonder Woman-type maillot made for her by Givenchy’s Riccardo Tisci, and the occasional caped crusaderess, most of the attendees seemed to have interpreted the main idea as “shine”, and the trend of the night was generally long-sleeved silver dresses by Armani, the evening’s sponsor.
One of the few exceptions, however, was a silver-haired, as opposed to silver-clad, woman in my e-mail correspondent’s target age group, who wore a strapless navy gown by Derek Lam, corseted inside and caught up in a balloon pouf at the knee before billowing out again.
She looked great and even more promisingly, turned out to be the wife of Domenico De Sole, the man who, along with Tom Ford, turned Gucci into a global brand. If anyone could solve the “age appropriate” problem, she looked like the kind of woman who could. “Oh,” she shrugged when I asked. “I just really like navy.”
It’s a start.
