ZANDRA RHODES. A HYMN TO LIFE.

Beyond the color. Beyond the conformism of the British fashion industry. The main characteristic of Zandra Rodhes' art is definitely the combination of these two elements. Thanks to her creativity, she already in the mid-sixties gained a privileged position within the new generation of original designers. Her attention is always focused on the garments and her approach to fabrics always has a great dialectical impact. The bright colors and the vivid patterns are like a surreal déjà-vu, with ethnic inspirations and a great theatrical impression. The hand-painted clothes made of chiffon, with flowing sleeves and wide necklines, refer to the Eastern tradition while overflowing with incredible sensuality. The safety pins displayed in her dresses take inspiration from the punk culture and earned her the nick name Princess of Punk. On the other hand, the golden swirls on the straps from “The Renaissance Gold Collection” (1981) refer to the Italian sixteenth-century taste, that were also so well beloved by Bill Gibb. Zandra Rodhes has designed for clients as diverse as Princess Diana, Jackie Onassis, Elizabeth Taylor and Freddie Mercury. She keeps designing for the rich and famous around the world, from royalties to rockstars, always with a spontaneous and natural approach to garments and colors. After so many years, she still works up to 14 hours a day. An incredible source of vitality and glee, from inside the materials. A hymn to life.

BILL GIBB, AN ECLECTIC DESIGNER

An obsession and a rare gift. The artistic contribution to fashion of the eclectic designer Bill Gibb could be summed up in these two words. He came from New Pitsligo, a small village in the north of Scotland, and he moved to London at the age of 19, exactly in 1963. His career was fulminating. It took him just a few years to have his own fashion house and make clothes for celebrities such as Liz Taylor and Twiggy. By 1975 he was in retail. His entire poetry revolved around an incredible inclination to the romantic style and the traditional garments of the close Eastern Europe. Drapery with classical references and wide sleeves with references to the Italian Renaissance are just some of the main elements of his artistic production. The innovative use of many different patterns - from floral designs and geometric patterns through to checked tartans - within a single dress helped creating “the Gibb style” and consecrate him as master of decoration. Incapable of understanding the logic of business, he always refused to make serial productions of his clothes. Designing clothes and seeing them worn on elegant women gave him the greatest pleasure. A dreamer, a free spirit, a poet of the fabric. He died very young, leaving a huge gap in the fashion industry.

THERE IS NO LIMIT TO IMAGINATION

The making of textiles is a form of art. There is almost no limit to the variety of effects which may be produced by combining different kinds of thread and structure. The design of the textiles is obviously influenced by the nature of the fibres and by the weaving  processes. It may vary from the simple twist of weave and warp of an elegant piece of  taffetà, to the intricate and  elaborate threads of brocade.

The fusion of different patterns and the addition of colour can improve creativity. During the years famous designers from all around the world have proved that. Fashion has gone through an endless series of tests. It has experienced the medieval romanticism of shapes, fabrics and colors of Bill Gibb. It has suffered the deconstruction of the buried clothes of Hussein Chalayan. It has witnessed the incredible and colorful sensitivity of Zandra Rodhes. It has been seduced by the plastic revenge and the sexual empowerment of Paco Rabanne. There is no limit to imagination.

I simply adore these four designers and I would like to introduce you all to them. So I’ve decided to write a post about each of them that will be online in the following weeks. I hope you will enjoy!

CATS: AN IMMENSE POETRY

Dedicated to Lupe: silent and delicate playmate, little wonder with big green eyes.

Small footprints made of dust. Staring eyes . Long spider licorice legs. Continuous vibrations and subtle whispers. Cats always inspire immense poetry.

They are beings from other worlds and they simply exist to teach us the value of silence and respect. The incredible importance of small things. The discovery of the sun as a force capable of bringing you back to life. The revelation of small secrets made of wind and a scent of rain.

I was born in a family of cat lovers. My grandfather was one. My father is one. My mother has become one. I was only two days old when the family cat slid into my bassinet. No scratches, just a gentle warmth. She kept me warm until my parents found her, and yet they didn’t have heart to push her away. I owe my imprinting, the most sensitive part, to her. She was called Pallina and she was the mother and grandmother of generations of cats in the family garden. After her, I loved, collected and attended to hundreds of cats. I have wonderful memories of all of them. Funny, genuine laughter that only clumsy movements and poorly organized ambushes can give you. I grew up with the cat smell. To me that smell takes me back home, to the warmth of my first blankets, to the games in the shade of the pear tree. In any part of the world I am.

IT'S SUCH A NEW LOOK!

Debris and renewal. The fashion in the post war period started again from a simple act of catharsis. The austerity that characterized the years of the war had to be forgotten. The burst of optimism, the new aesthetic dimension took the start in that very discouraged and, years earlier, occupied France. An authentic style and a soft elegance would take the place of the boxy military uniforms. Light skirts, wasp waists and a delicate prosperity would for the next 10 years be the rules that fashion would respect. The author of this revolution was a French designer, Christian Dior.  Exactly the 12th of February 1947 at 10.30 am in the halls of the Maison on avenue Montaigne number 30, he presented his new idea of the woman with a spring-summer collection of 90 models. Carmel Snow, editor-in-chief of Harper's Bazaar, would later name this the New Look. The Maison was flooded with orders from famous international customers from Rita Hayworth to Evita Peron. Dior also began to sell the exclusive rights for the individual models, thus creating a precedent which became later very common, and ensuring that the New Look could be produced all over the world as a international trademark. A new style was born and with it a different concept of fashion came to life.

HEADS. THOUGHTS. MEMORIES.

A head and a thousand thoughts. A head and a thousand hats. Because when you collect them, when you are really passionate about them, it is hard to decide which one to use and on what occasion. My grandmother used to have a lot of hats and she told me she lost them all during the war. Too little time to evacuate and too much pain to think about vanity. She often told me how much she cared about them and she often spoke of the one she wore on her wedding day. It was small, made of felt and with a light gray veil. Her cousins, ​who lived in Florence, had given it to her for the occasion and she always told me that she felt like a diva wearing that hat. Unfortunately she didn’t wear it ever again. She didn’t have the chance, and when the war broke out, the only thing she could save was herself and her child.

I've always found hats very mysterious and I've always loved to wear them without thinking much about how, when and why. I've never had a favorite hat, I always love every single one unconditionally. I always carry them with love. I always display them with great pride.

In front of the old mirror of my grandmother, looking at my little reflection, I feel like a diva too.

ETERNITY

I touched eternity. It was made of colored smoke and distant shadows. Lively laughs, mine. Full of smiles of strangers met by chance.

So small in front of the deep helpless eyes of a 5 meter tall boy. In red glares, smooth as oil, slipping on dark columns.

Fast clouds, noise of leaves, mirrors of mirrors of mirrors of mirrors. Reflected souls.

Smell of coffee, surprised looks, American Indians look from above. Rooms with heavy curtains to cover noise and pain.

A rainbow sky, it is a blessing. The perspective becomes moody. The rain and the wind precede the frames of mind. Staring big eyes, somehow they’re also yours.

Out of the darkness, we decide to live.

BRICKS

A boy runs away from war and finds his first love in Copenhagen.

A little girl of six years goes on a journey from the capital to the north of her country.

Two 20 year old girls get married in a month.

A man chooses a colorful dress for her daughter who turns 15 next Sunday.

A girl who lives in China asks where she can cut hair for an honest price.

A young mother hugs her daughter in front of my eyes.

An old lady touches one of my dresses and smiles at me.

Young women look at my husband, but I don’t mind.

I have a bitter coffee and I think in the end I can get used to that too.

I look above. Beyond the wall, huge green trees are abandoned to the wind and to the memories of their loved ones who are buried there. But on my side of the wall there is still so much life. And here's where I stand, while the dreams of people run fast and let you catch them.

A LITTLE WORLD ON MY OWN

Women handbags are small worlds where all the laws of nature cease to exist. Small bags for great thoughts. Large bags for great passions. Notebooks and lip liners united by a single destiny. Perfumes, hair bands, sheets written in a stream of consciousness. Cinema tickets and dried flowers. Sand, shells and candy wrappers. Capless pens and coins. Books with pages wrinkled by the wind. Pictures of your mother when she was young. A letter that your sister has stuck in your wallet just before taking a plane. And then there's your back, who would not want to carry all that weight. And what of those things you can not do without.
My passion for big bags has a long history. My grandmother Rosa gave me my very first one and it was exactly half my height. I could barely carry it and I had to place it on my knee if I wanted walk. I proceeded lame. It was one of those doctor models, with an opening snap. An intense dark brown. The interior was velvety. The shoulder strap was short, perfect to wear on the shoulder. I put everything inside. My father made me a notebook with a deep blue cover. My aunt Giulia, a teacher by profession, gave me pencils and markers. I could barely write my name. I wrote mostly incomprehensible multicolored hieroglyphics. I felt already very grown up, though I had been in this world for only 4 years. In the garden there still was the apple tree, a successful graft of my grandfather Francesco. Stones and some leeves. One of my mother's old bras. The Wild Swans by Andersen. A shirt and a pair of shorts. A slice of cake. A little world of my own. I never learned how to make good use of the space. I have always used big bags and I always filled them up with curious things. In case they could be useful.

PARADISE

I would love to know if there is a paradise for unpaired earrings. People I meet often find it interesting that I always use earrings different from each other. The truth is, that it's not exactly something I want. They do not know that behind what they consider an original outfit, there is instead a profound tragedy of loss. They do not imagine the frantic search that precedes the last few minutes before going out. The acceptance, once again. The disapperance and the hope of a fortuitous discovery are the following mechanical reactions. Furthermore there are the epiphanies, in form of nocturnal intuition, incredibly sharp. In the dreamlike vortex, I know exactly where to look for the other half lost. I can even touch them. Together again, in perfect combination. The awakening sadly doesn’t leave any clue. Oblivion takes over.

Unfortunately I have never found any of the earrings that I lost, but I can say I had a chance to lose at least two in every country in the world (almost). I've lost one, red and triangular, on the promenade that leads to Notre-Dame. I've lost another one, silver and aquamarine, at Park Güell, while I was enjoying the sun reflecting on the glass animals, I guess. I've lost one going to college in Tartu, without doubt due to a snow storm. I've also lost one in Vietnam, in the tangle of the markets, maybe. I do not remember the many that I lost in Germany. I can only make a rough estimate of those lost during the whole course of my life. I like to think that they were found by someone who then wore them at the same time as me. Loved in spite of everything. I like to think that at the time of the discovery, someone said "I wonder what happened to your mate.".