More brushes with the rich, famous and fabulous:

Since working on Anglomania, my celeb-spotting rate has been increased by an infinitesimal amount. Just this morning, Johnny Rotten of the Sex Pistols popped in to have a look at the setup, and to check over the costumes he lent for the exhibit. As my co-worker Jessica says,"I can't believe he just said 'Peace mate!'" Very un-punk indeed.

Then there was the Costume Institute's Annual Benefit aka the Met's Party of the Year. Needless to say, this being a Vogue fashion party, there were giraffe-like models, outlandishly decked designers and air-kissing a-plenty. We saw:

* Vivienne Westwood, the Reigning Queen of Punk in signature orange hair, diamonte devil horns, Union Jack deconstructed ballgown and patent metallic red lace-up platforms, with spouse and co-designer Andreas Kronthaler;
* Naomi Campbell - in white embroidered bolero jacket and dress;
* Tommy Hilfiger - in tuxedo with Rolling Stones' tongue in diamonte on the back, indiscreetly cannoodling with a nameless blonde;
* Drew Barrymore - in a black lacey corsetted number and bright red lipstick, laughing her head off;
* John Galliano - in Victorian top hat and pearly-queen style sequined Beefeater jacket, covered from head to toe in polka dot patterned sequins;
* Sienna Miller - in a short and sweet Twiggy-esque gold sequinced mini-dress;
* Jonathan Rhys-Meyers - looked like he's aged quite a bit since the days of Bend it like Beckham;
* Josh Harnett;
* Simon Le Bon of Duran Duran, with 90's-supermodel wife Yasmin;
* Philip Treacy, milliner extrordinaire who single-handedly revived Britain's hatmaking legacy, donning a fabulous El Diablo type black masque with devil horns;
* Kate Moss, who looks comparatively tiny when next to all the other giraffe types;
* Liz Hurley (starting to look a bit wrinkley) ;
* Linda Evangelista, in a pink frilly number and looking like she has a bun in the oven;
* Supermodels best mates Amber Valetta and Shalom Harlow;
* Ex-Gucci face Georgina Grenville;
* Lenny Kravitz (who used to live in a 5 billion mansion right opposite the Met);
* Russel Simmons, of Def Jam records and Mos Def's Def Poetry fame.

From my observations, I have concluded that:
a) Models are mutants. They all looked like they'd readily snap in half if bumped into. People should never be that skinny.
b) Models, in fact, have wrinkles. *Phew*
c) Society types are very plastic. All socialites look the same: fake bake, twig-thin, with disproportinately bouffant hair to match meringe dresses. Most cannot dance to save their lives, or won't to save face.

So all in all, it was fun to dip into this uberwarped reality. And I'm still rather chuffed about not having to pay $5000 to dress up and party like a rock star =)

Couldn't snap any celeb pics, as was crashing the party. To see what everyone wore, go here.

In the presence of fashion greatness:

Seeing Natalie Portman, Woody Allen, Hilary Clinton and Michael Bloomberg at MoMA and at the Met was already a high for my teeny-bopper self, so I didn't think I could top my celeb-spotting any further. That is, until I stood right next to Anna Wintour, editor of US Vogue, aka the High Priestess of Fashion / the alleged monster-boss from "The Devil wears Prada".

The legend herself was inspecting installation progress for the Met's new Vogue-sponsored show, Anglomania - and get this: without her signature giant shades! In public! *gasp*
Wintour's as tall as me, but has the width of a toothpick. Her bird like frame could not have been bigger than an Italian size 32, which probably translates to a -2 in US sizing. Her waist might be the same size as my thigh. @_@ (Probably why I'd never make it to Conde Nast)

Was amazed that she donned a creamy white cashmere suit (looked like Chanel), with ruffley scarf, matt black tights and dainty Prada strappy sandals, in what was essentially a construction site. How do VIPs remain gleaming, when my black pants are covered in dust?? It must be the mythic aura that repels dirt a la Gandalf in Lord of the Rings III.

My personality as an Abstract Expressionist pic:

Faithful Artist

For the lack of interesting updates to write about, I bring you the PersonalDNA test. A colorful, fun and actually useful variation of the Myer-Briggs palaver.

Surprise surprise, I'm a faithful artist.

Qui etes-vous, Polly Maggoo?

... was a strange movie. Was motivated to see it, only because I've had a postcard of this still since I was 16, and had no idea what or where it was from. Typical of the French New Wave, it's deconstructed, hard to follow, lots of neurotic self-examination. But its visual richness sets it apart: full of wacky whimsical visuals, and the panache of it all!

It's a total recall of my love for all things space-age: dresses made out of steel, Courreges, Paco Rabanne, Cardin, Twiggy, crazy beehive hairdo's, and Grayson Hall as out-of-this-world fashion editor (who goes "Beep beep!" non-stop when describing the Rocket look she wants) is golden. The fashion world hasn't changed much since 1966, and it's still as fantastically out of touch with reality as it was then. Sami Frey as the dashing Prince Igor is very yummy-liscious indeed, as if to compensate for the utter lack of plot.

Happy New Year everyone!!!

Golly. 2006 used to be a number far, far away in the future. As in, post-apocalypse if you, like me, used to believe in Nostradamus' predictions. Alas the world hasn't quite ended yet, so life must go on.

New Year's Eve saw me dressed as a half-hearted, eye-patch-less, wooden-leg-less pirate. There was plenty of bad disco dancing to Abba and the Bee Gees from my uncle and my dad, just the way such festivities should be. Even my grandparents got up to bogie, which was rather sweet, for an 89 and an 86 year old :)