Clothing, in a symbiotic reflection of the times, told us that the men were to have their way.īut the guard has changed, and sunshine is slowly being let back into women’s wear again. Men’s wear, in the meantime, flew its most ruthless semiotic pirate flags: pinstripes and camouflage merciless prints altogether deaf to feminine pleading and blind to the suffering of tots. Child-women were bowed and baby-dolled up to resemble decorative Easter eggs: newly and uptightly pregnant (a paragon of marital fidelity), half-crippled by feminine weakness and excess luxury, declawed and wholly dominated by the unstoppable twin libidos of war and Wall Street. Fashionwise, the prevailing goddess has been voted out and replaced by a new one.ĭuring the Dark Side years, I believe women’s fashion rotated around a particular unmoved mover: Mia Farrow in “Rosemary’s Baby.” Retail inventories seemed to come right out of Sunday school, in tiptoe-quiet ballet shoes and little pastel smocks. It was quite clear in the meatpacking district last week. IT was clear as early as November from the windows at Barneys.
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