Dior

Today's entry feels as though it should require a deep breath, like going to visit one's royal grandmother, and taking time to recall the difference between a tiara and a diadem. A friend of mine got us tickets to the Christian Dior exhibition at the V&A. I don't care about clothes but she's wondrous, and besides, it's fashion history. I was bound to like something. It never occurred to me that I might love everything... well, OK with a few reservations here and there:


Erm...


This was art and story, the story of how to walk in to any room anywhere knowing that you are the most beautiful being in the world. The light show was excellent, no sequin left unsparkled, no mood left untouched by music. It was so delicate and fierce and lovely... It was also completely insane, because hey fashion. But these were clothes made for no reason other than pure perfect expression, with no sense of practicality or expense. They were magical.

Often dresses frustrate me. I need to move around, and I hate the idea of someone loving my dress so much that my face looks like a calico canvas above it. Left to my own devices, I will dress in black and expect our features to be the real pictures. But this was different, beauty for the sake of it, a world of exquisites. And here's the real nuisance of Dreamwidth, the sheer ball-ache of adding photos. Not that mine can really capture the enchantment of the event so instead of wasting lots of time, I'll just link to my FB.
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10158469663241754&set=pcb.10158469665671754&type=3&theater

The next day I tripped over my palazzo pants, turning the air blue while grazing my knees, banging my shins, twisting one foot and bending my toes on the other in a very nasty way. Now I'm hobbling around like an abuela. Let's face it, I would have been a disaster on the catwalk.