LJ Idol Exhibit B: "Freak Du Chic"
Freak Du Chic
LJ Idol Exhibit B | Week three | 700 words
I wake up strange (an intersection with porn_this_way, whose hilarious take on this is here ).
x-x-x-x-x
It is after eleven when I tear off my sleep mask to begin the day, because Antoine Solange does not do ordinary and he does not do mornings, either.
The birds are singing in the trees outside my fabulous apartment. Dreadful creatures, quite possibly diseased and most certainly vain. Still, they've inspired some of my most frightening creations-headdresses modeled after deranged ravens, and shaggy, moth-eaten skirts with all the charm of a molting emu.
I prepare an espresso in the kitchen and ready myself for another day of drafting new ideas. There are only two months before Paris, and my portfolio is hardly half-filled. What new so-called brilliance can I inflict upon the fashion world this year?
With the wedding season coming up, ladies of the British elite will be clamoring again for large hats. Surely there must be something…
I take stock of the leftover dishes in the kitchen, the clutter near the sofa.
Perhaps a brim shaped like a limp pizza, with… a stack of book-sized rectangles rising from the crown? Make it black, with a tidy white ribbon circling the bottom of the stack. Oh, yes! And another… bowleresque but feminine, with a unique flair-like those twigs in the dining room flower arrangement. Perfection! In aubergine, perhaps, or claret.
I do feel something lacking, though. One could go bigger. A chapeau sized to rival a sofa cushion, but more elegantly shaped. A swoop and a curve, with a contrasting bow… no, no, too restrained. Ah-a gigantic white potato chip mounted on a cluster of flowers, in fuschia or coral! Très enorme!
I make a few rough sketches for later, but there is still the question of this year's runway. Henri will of course produce the usual anorexic assortment of stunning girls to parade my creations. The models' coat-hanger builds display my work to its best advantage, and no matter how ridiculous the look might be, those girls will wear it with conviction. The clothing lines we actually sell won't be quite as startling, and certainly won't fit the actual populace terribly well, but regular women are shaped so unpredictably. I can't be bound by their bourgeois limitations.
I wander around the apartment looking for ideas. A true artiste must draw on everything around him. Rewatching old movies one weekend, I got the most brilliant footwear idea from The Wizard of Oz. Not the ruby slippers, of course-done to death! No, I envisioned an entire shift over to the witchy chic of an exaggerated pointy-toed pump. The style was perfect! Aggressive and new, such a departure that women the world over would have to replace all the shoes they already owned so as not to appear hopelessly dated. It was a marvelous fashion coup-every shoe store, every street corner was filled with them, the whole movement guaranteed to become utterly passé in just two years. Of course, by then I'd brought platform heels back into vogue, a style so incompatible with the previous that women were forced to buy new shoes all over again.
Out the window, an urban hausfrau and a little boy with a ray gun march down the street. That was where I got my start, you know: one moment I was watching a rerun of the Jetsons, and the next I'd launched an entire fashion line based on retro-futurism. Genius, if I do say so myself.
But what to do for this year? It isn't enough to shock the masses, though it is considered something of a requirement. One must also think of the coming year's financial payoff, and of course there's the sheer thrill of massive ego fulfillment at being one of the season's hottest designers.
Oh, I simply must start a new trend this spring-it's been ages since all the housewives and schoolgirls made themselves dizzy rushing out to buy knockoffs of one of my creations. What shall it be? Something different, something atrocious…
The revival of the faux-fur pimp coat? No, too one-note. I need an idea I can extend to all manner of clothing, even trousers, purses and footwear. Ooh, I've got it!
How about an epic explosion of massive quantities of super-long fringe?
If you liked this story, you can vote for it along with many other fine entries here. This being an intersection week, the success of our partner's piece also counts in the voting.
LJ Idol Exhibit B | Week three | 700 words
I wake up strange (an intersection with porn_this_way, whose hilarious take on this is here ).
x-x-x-x-x
It is after eleven when I tear off my sleep mask to begin the day, because Antoine Solange does not do ordinary and he does not do mornings, either.
The birds are singing in the trees outside my fabulous apartment. Dreadful creatures, quite possibly diseased and most certainly vain. Still, they've inspired some of my most frightening creations-headdresses modeled after deranged ravens, and shaggy, moth-eaten skirts with all the charm of a molting emu.
I prepare an espresso in the kitchen and ready myself for another day of drafting new ideas. There are only two months before Paris, and my portfolio is hardly half-filled. What new so-called brilliance can I inflict upon the fashion world this year?
With the wedding season coming up, ladies of the British elite will be clamoring again for large hats. Surely there must be something…
I take stock of the leftover dishes in the kitchen, the clutter near the sofa.
Perhaps a brim shaped like a limp pizza, with… a stack of book-sized rectangles rising from the crown? Make it black, with a tidy white ribbon circling the bottom of the stack. Oh, yes! And another… bowleresque but feminine, with a unique flair-like those twigs in the dining room flower arrangement. Perfection! In aubergine, perhaps, or claret.
I do feel something lacking, though. One could go bigger. A chapeau sized to rival a sofa cushion, but more elegantly shaped. A swoop and a curve, with a contrasting bow… no, no, too restrained. Ah-a gigantic white potato chip mounted on a cluster of flowers, in fuschia or coral! Très enorme!
I make a few rough sketches for later, but there is still the question of this year's runway. Henri will of course produce the usual anorexic assortment of stunning girls to parade my creations. The models' coat-hanger builds display my work to its best advantage, and no matter how ridiculous the look might be, those girls will wear it with conviction. The clothing lines we actually sell won't be quite as startling, and certainly won't fit the actual populace terribly well, but regular women are shaped so unpredictably. I can't be bound by their bourgeois limitations.
I wander around the apartment looking for ideas. A true artiste must draw on everything around him. Rewatching old movies one weekend, I got the most brilliant footwear idea from The Wizard of Oz. Not the ruby slippers, of course-done to death! No, I envisioned an entire shift over to the witchy chic of an exaggerated pointy-toed pump. The style was perfect! Aggressive and new, such a departure that women the world over would have to replace all the shoes they already owned so as not to appear hopelessly dated. It was a marvelous fashion coup-every shoe store, every street corner was filled with them, the whole movement guaranteed to become utterly passé in just two years. Of course, by then I'd brought platform heels back into vogue, a style so incompatible with the previous that women were forced to buy new shoes all over again.
Out the window, an urban hausfrau and a little boy with a ray gun march down the street. That was where I got my start, you know: one moment I was watching a rerun of the Jetsons, and the next I'd launched an entire fashion line based on retro-futurism. Genius, if I do say so myself.
But what to do for this year? It isn't enough to shock the masses, though it is considered something of a requirement. One must also think of the coming year's financial payoff, and of course there's the sheer thrill of massive ego fulfillment at being one of the season's hottest designers.
Oh, I simply must start a new trend this spring-it's been ages since all the housewives and schoolgirls made themselves dizzy rushing out to buy knockoffs of one of my creations. What shall it be? Something different, something atrocious…
The revival of the faux-fur pimp coat? No, too one-note. I need an idea I can extend to all manner of clothing, even trousers, purses and footwear. Ooh, I've got it!
How about an epic explosion of massive quantities of super-long fringe?
If you liked this story, you can vote for it along with many other fine entries here. This being an intersection week, the success of our partner's piece also counts in the voting.