I’d like to draw your attention to the past two days, which have mostly revolved around finding a nonexistant minature black top hat.
Oh, the hat exists — if you count “in my imagination” as quantifying existance.
Several stylists and designers have been called in for questioning, me on one side of a thick aluminum meat locker table, shining a single hanging lamp into their eyes and demanding to know of its wherabouts. They shiver and profess innocence and no, no, absolutely no knowledge of my elusive headpiece. A likely story. I fume, petulant and dissatisfied while producing amateur designs on these delusions of miniature which accompany me then, to my meeting with my designer.
Jane is very understanding of my need to posess things that don’t exist, which is why she continues making me these insane bondage-equestrian-tea-party-from-the-future-type costumes. Patiently she re-draws my horrible stick figure into FashionPlates-looking amazingness, and I feel a bit like Karl Lagerfeld looking over something at Chanel and not adding anything to the process, instead making demanding directive nonsequitors like “Thinner!” “No florals!” “Pockets!” The drawing looks up at us, modestly hopeful and yet seductive, self-assured of having won Best In Show but caught seemingly off-guard, as if to say “What? Me!? You want…Me?” You knew it all along, you filthy bitch.
We take the drawing to the fabric store, which overwhelms my faculties entirely. I do not come readily equipped with the ingenious advantage of being able to look at a bolt of fabric and picture it as a dress. Perhaps a sleeve. One. Big. Sleeve. My only attempts at homemade clothing resulted in tens of hours hours spent in awkward perfectionistic yogic poses with pins in my mouth trying to duplicate a tube top, then having the hideous and unfortunate lack of underconfidence to wear it out of the house. Hindsight is 20/20.
Jane is queen of the pattern jungle picking up bits of fabric I make faces at while contemplating the all-season horribleness of marabou. Maybe I’ll take it back one day, but it seriously makes me want to kill myself. Oh CRISIS. I just imagined suicide with a noose of fluffy yellow marabou and practically fainted. Someone get the smelling salts ready, I just might get cast as Auntie Mame on off-off-off-off Broadway one day.
Anyway, here’s where we stand. Several bolts of spandex, some plastic, some velcro and a pair of stacked platform boots to the knee should stand in for an actual outfit, right?
Because I still haven’t found the fucking hat.
Come to the show August 12th and see if it makes an appearance — and I swear to all that is holy and fashionable.. If you DON’T see one… I want Emperor’s New Clothes -style reactions, telling me how Gorgeous and Stunning and Completely Avant Garde, Darling it truly is.