Last night, Christian Dior concluded its world tour of sorts at Maxfield in L.A., celebrating but again Raf Simons’ first ready-to-wear collection for the brand. I was there to witness the celebration and made a point to take mental notes characterizing the caliber of customer mingling in shop. This included well-kept women dressed either in iterations of the clothes on display, denoting a sense of team spirit, or on the opposite end of the spectrum in some form of denim and silk, casually but successfully indicating a note of an informed understanding of fashion–or current trends, at very least. Up against these women was the ground under which they stood, boasting a far more adventurous-than-personally-anticipated selection of the Christian Dior collection on display.
Why hadn’t I seen the ivory blazer that could easily double as a dress and that full, ankle length skirt featuring metallic rosettes anywhere else? Where was the celebration of that pleat work and those sublime acidic greens and yellows and the artistry of the cotton blouses prior to this point? Not in L.A., apparently. But why?
With favorable climatic conditions not only allowing for more interesting, innovative, and suggestive dressing techniques but also eliciting a deeper hunger to experiment, it seems that New York’s landscape suffers in matters of experimentation until our temperatures start rising. After that point, though, I don’t know, it’s time for a reassessment. But I think in coming to L.A. to experience the event (and subsequently learning about our shared propensity for almond milk and that sense of urgency indigenous to our cities but not necessarily swinging across the same sides of our respective pendulums), I may have actually started to figure out this whole L.A./N.Y. dichotomy. And though I’m certainly no Joan Didion, could it be that our violent defensiveness against one another is purely a function of how damn similar we are?
I’m going with yes. Refuting welcome.