Postcards from Madame V: Crozon-Morgat

July 27, 2007
"Hello Elizabeth, How are you? My holidays are very good! It's always happyness [sic] to come in Brittany for me. Bon courage a vous, et a bientot. Bises, Viviane."
One of a series of fishing villages on the Crozon peninsula, Morgat is a veritable paradise for artists and nature lovers, hikers and bikers, history buffs and explorers.
Regarded as one of the most beautiful beaches in the world, the Ile Vierge offers spectacular sunsets and inspiring studies for photographers and painters. The wonders of the Morgat caves were praised by Gustave Flaubert in 1847, and the Maison des Minereaux offers geological specimens of the region on exhibit.
A UNESCO biosphere reserve, the Parc naturel regional d'Armorique, is home to otters, beavers, and birds of prey. Hike the rugged coastline on the GR34 Trail, but be sure to take a raincoat and hat as intermittent showers are the norm.
The Pointe des Espagnols is the site of a 16th century Spanish fortress, and of a battle that was a turning point in the French Wars of Religion and Anglo-Spanish war, the Siege of El Leon.
Kicking off the vacation season at the beginning of August is the annual Festival du Bout du Monde, or "Lands End" music festival, featuring artists from many different genres.
Of course, fresh fish is the specialty of the region, and who can prepare fish better than a Breton?
With something for everyone, Crozon-Morgat is not to be missed by those suffering from wanderlust. 
                                                                                                                                       

Upon Reflection

Five years ago I embarked upon a dream of a lifetime, to live in Paris, the City of Lights. Her history, her monuments magnificently lit at night, her enigmatic personality beckons one with all the seductive charm of the most formidable femme fatale. And it is with great sorrow that I must leave her as she is now part of me - in my blood, in my heart, and always on my mind. As I prepare for departure I move about the city drinking in the sights and sounds I have begun to take for granted in the normal course of daily living. Often surrealistic, I feel as a phantome, a spectre that passes unnoticed through the hustle bustle of rush hour on the metro. Her parfum penetrates my nostrils, a mélange of humidity, tobacco, frommage, and duck fat. Her song fills my senses, the rythym kept time by the trains on the track, the horn section composed of angry, impatient drivers, the chanteuse gay laughter of young girls flirting with boys. There is no place like Paris and I am the luckiest girl in the world to have lived here. As I reflect I realize just how full my life has been! I participated in my first manifestation, attended an ambulation, and puked in a metro station. I've sat with my sketch pad drawing in le Louvre, and danced the Tango on the Quai St. Bernard on a balmy summer night, the bateux mouches loaded with tourists capturing the romance on film. I've been to London, Switzerland, Belguim, and Italy, paid homage at the Sacred Beaches of Omaha, Gold, and Juno, visited ancient Roman ruins, and fell on my ass in a bar in Amsterdam. I've palled around with Communists, Socialists, Marxists, and Jazz musicians. I've stayed in a suite at the Ritz with a dream date, picknicked on the Pont des Arts under a full moon, and took a young Italian lover who ferried me about on a scooter! I learned to appreciate the pleasures of raw oysters from Bretagne, fois gras, and stinky, unpasteurized cheese, and dined for hours with friends consuming countless bottles of wine. The friendships I have forged will last a lifetime - and what beautiful friends they are! It is they I will miss most of all.

Bonne Fete

Today could quite possibly be the most cheerful, festive day of the year for les française. It's Christmas Eve, and tonight there will be the feast of all feasts, "Le Revillon!" Meaning "to revive" or "to wake", "Le Revillon" is all about three of France's most cherished traditions, Champagne, fois gras, and huitres (oysters), and no hostess would dare forget to offer them! Champagne and chocolates are offered by invited guests - the perfect gift for any fete. The day begins with the hustle and bustle of last minute shopping, but best be finished by 13h or you could be bitterly disappointed. There is a queue of people waiting outside the door of their local boucherie waiting to pick up their freshly dressed dinde, (turkey) the traditional main course, which is served with a chestnut stuffing (marron). Les patissieries are busy as well - of course we must have our baguette du jour, and the cases are full of bouche de noel, or "yule log". Made with a light Genoise (sponge cake) kissed with Grand Marnier and chocolate mocha buttercream, rolled and frosted to resemble a log in the forest, it is the finish to an ultra rich meal - the french literally dare you to rise to their seduction gastronomique! My personal favorite on the menu this evening (other than champagne of course) are raw oysters on the half shell, a pleasure I had not indulged in before moving to Paris. I must admit in my naivité I found them a little scary - but there are certain things in life one must experience at least once, and a freshly harvested #5 huitre from the beds of Bretagne is one of those. Some prefer a splash of lemon as an accompianment, but I like mine with a red wine vinagrette and finely minced shallot - oh la la! I die. It is no wonder that for this day, (only one of two per year) the french smile at their neighbors and wish them a "Bonne Fete!"

Occupy Wall Street

"A manifestation should be a happy event!" declared Madame V, as I marveled at the scene before me. It was my first "manifestation", (demonstration) and I was like a kid in a candy store - all eyes and wanting to taste it all! I grew up a child of the '60's, too young to march against the war in Vietnam, but old enough to know why I wanted to. After the Great Bra Burning of 1972, the trauma of Watergate, and the return of scores of displaced vets, America was ready for disco! All we needed was a steady beat, a gold chain, and a reliable dealer. With few exceptions, America stayed indoors - the season for railing against "The Establishment" turned into a long fall of complacency. Until 2007, when a small but noisy group of citizens sporting teabags stapled to their hats rallied to make their voices heard. They had the spirit - it's a happy event! Aside from the fact that some of these demonstrators were bused in and given handpainted signs by their employer David Koch, (the 4th richest man in the world) and that some of them were carrying loaded firearms to a heated debate, they were exercising their right to assemble, and that is an exciting thing. As the Arab Spring has blossomed throughout Africa, and the Occupy Wall Street movement has taken hold, I am reminded of that glorious afternoon I met Madame V at Place de République to join les française in their National Pastime - striking. I wasn't sure what to expect, perhaps police in riot gear holding back muzzled German shepards, or if tear gas would be involved. I remember Kent State! What I found was akin to a carnival. Vans with oversized balloons touting the logo of France's largest union, "CGT," tethered to loudspeakers blaring hiphop music, were stationed strategically around the rond point. There were cabanas everywhere, with vendors frying sausage, vegetables, and chicken for the most delicious sandwiches. Gyros, and pizza by the slice, and a guy wandering through the crowd selling whistles for proper noisemaking was the irony of the day - for this was capitalism at a Communist sponsored demonstration! The mood was upbeat as the crowd assembled, by law a union sponsored manifestation is a paid afternoon off. Unlike the OWS movement, most of the folks I marched with have a job, they just don't want to have it until the age of 65. They greeted their friends and colleagues with a kiss to each cheek, (there was alot of kissing that day) enjoyed a demitasse, (a teeny, tiny cup of liquid nitrogen) and marched to the Place de Bastille, smiling and chanting and having a day of it. I saw very few police, but I did see a van rolling along with the crowd with it's rear doors open, a portable bar selling beer, wine, and whiskey to thirsty demonstrators! Can you imagine that happening in the U.S.? When it was all over, the crowd dispersed to the cafés that surround the Bastille for one last beer and to discuss politics over a pack of cigarettes. Today I heard that an American veteran of the war in Iraq sustained a fractured skull whilst peacefully demonstrating in Oakland, California. Many have been arrested and detained, but not charged. The government should release of these political prisoners immediately, or give them their day in court. I raise my glass to my fellow Americans dans le rue, and wish you Bonne Courage. Power to the People! Now come with me for a manifestation, French Style....

Manifestation - french style!

Wanderlust Part One: The Early Years

I have had a thirst for travel and adventure since I can remember. My earliest childhood dream vacation was conceptualized at the age of three, my luggage a red hankerchief gathered up by all four corners and tied to a stick, destination: China! How I even knew there was such a place at that young age despite being brought up in a -shall we say - rural community in the 1960's can only be credited to my mother, who made it a point to expand our horizons in every way possible. She also encouraged my already vivid imagination, and thus armed, (a navel orange and 3 cookies packed in my kerchief in case I got hungry along the way) I set off down the country lane of my family ranch. I figured it would take about 3 1/2 hours to get to Hong Kong, due south as the crow flies. I would have to veer of the beaten path and make my way through the California chaparal, keeping my eyes peeled for rattlesnakes, to stay on course. I decided to walk alongside the creek that ran through "The Ranch" from the Ramona Mountains to Highway 395. The weather was fine, a quintessential autumn afternoon in San Diego. I was trying to whistle, with little success. But my imagination picked up where my abilities lagged, and I pretended to whistle just like Huck Finn. Those cookies were sounding pretty good by then, but I decided I had better ration my provisions, on account of there not being enough food to feed all the starving children in China. I began to wonder if one orange and three cookies was adequate for this length of journey. Maybe going all the way to China wasn't such a good idea, maybe I would just go to Hawaii instead. I calculated it would take about an hour on foot, and another 20 minutes to swim the English Channel - just like Florence Chambers! Singing a little song I improvised for the occasion, anticipating all the surprises Hawaii had to offer, I was about 40 minutes into my trip when it happened. The incident that caused me to abort my mission and return home humiliated, without having seen Hawaii or China. I had to pee. Suddenly and quite urgently. Granted, I was in the middle of acres upon acres of wild sage, anise, and mustard, most taller than I was, and there was nobody around except the 30 or so species of serpents, reptiles, and assorted stinkbugs to watch me do the deed. But I was too scared to drop trow, I had to head for home. Thinking it wise to run, the impact of each step increased my discomfort. I made a valiant effort ala Flo Jo, but to my chagrin, for the first and last time in my entire life, I wet my knickers. It felt gross, and I cried all the way home. China would have to wait until tomorrow, and I resolved to pack an extra pair of shorts for future emergencies should they arise. I was greeted upon my arrival home by a wild eyed and rather frantic welcoming commitee, and was informed that under no uncertain terms was I to embark upon any further international travel un-chaperoned. It would take nearly four decades for me to reach the beautiful sands of Hanalei Bay, but that's a story for another time!

Marianne; France's "Lady Liberty"

She's fierce, she's invincible, she's the symbol of the motherland. She's Marianne, France's "Statue of Liberty". She made her debut in 1830, (18 years before the fall of the monarchy) kicking ass in a tableau by Eugene Delacroix entitled, "Liberty Leading the People", stylishly appointed in a Phrygian bonnet - like those worn by freed slaves in Greece, her breast bared, fearless. Inspired by her beauty a simple shoemaker, one Guillaume Lavabre, pens a song that gives a name to this mysterious creature, "Berceau Occitan de la Marianne Republican" , a song of revenge by the servant class upon the nobility. Thus Liberty was baptized with a good Christian name! Shrouded in symbolism from head to toe, she appears in many forms; grasping a revolutionary pike (which held aloft the commander of the Bastille), carrying with her Tables of the Law or the Scales of Justice, (depending upon the situation) occassionally accompanied by her pet lion (a validation of the courage and force of the people). One of her favorite accessories is a length of broken chain, the very essence of her spirit - Liberté! Wildly popular, a force of nature, Marianne has been immortalized on postage stamps, her image married to the most revered of French celebs; Brigitte Bardot, Catherine Deneuve, and Inés de le Fressange are just a few of the A-listers who have posed as Lady Liberty. Exiled and ridiculed during the Occupation, she joined DeGaulle's Free France movement, but of course! I wonder why her cousin, who reigns supreme from her pedestal on Ellis Island, is not known by a name other than "Liberty"? A name popular at the time she was born, such as Abigail for example. Or Gertrude - "Trudy" for short! Or perhaps we should baptize her with a more current moniker, like Britney, or Heather, or Khloe. I think I prefer "Trudy", as it contains the sound "true", Liberty always being true to those under her protective wing!

La Marseillaise, French National Anthem (Fr/En)

Your Friday French Fashion Report: Dolce and Gabana Menswear Collection for Spring 2012

Moving past, (with great difficulty) the hotness of the models and the sensuality of the music, the menswear collection by Dolce and Gabana for Spring 2012 is full of must haves, from the timeless elegance of a well made suit to daring see-through shorts! Trousers are slim, sometimes cropped, and the palette is muted. Earth tones are on the horizon for 2012, look for grey, tan, and slate, and accent with splashes of pumpkin, mustard, and plum. Man purses are getting larger as well, ("It's not gay, it's European!") which is fabulous for us girls - now they can carry more of our stuff and look good doing it. The casual look is dressed up with the marriage of Bermuda shorts and wing tips, and dress shoes are worn without socks (as the Italians are wont to do). Also shown were a selection of interesting jumpsuits, which evoke images of a chic groundcrew for some fabulous gay Air Force, and a new take on fishnet shirts - an open weave that on the runway looked damn good, but translated to the Jersey Shore? I'm not so sure. However, the slim pant is always groovy, always Italian, and trending.

Dolce & Gabbana Full Show ft Noah Mills - Milan Men's Fashion Week Sprin...

Cinema: Minuit à Paris (Midnight in Paris)

I was introduced to the quirky genius of Woody Allen in high school, on a date at the Drive-In with my friend Donald Smith, in a blue VW Beetle affectionately called "Mildred". It was the 1970's, and on the playbill was a triple feature; "Sleeper", "Bananas", and "Everything You Wanted to Know about Sex, but Were Afraid to Ask". It was quite an introduction! Donald's taste in cinema was far more sophisticated than mine, and I can still hear his laughter as we experienced this marathon of absurdity. I was hooked, the unbearable angst and rapier wit of a skinny Jewish geek from Brooklyn hit the mark so many times over the years. I have often felt that we have been privy to the innermost essence of the man, his soul laid bare on the silver screen for all to see. From his romantic side in "Play it Again, Sam", to his relationship issues in "Manhattan", and "Annie Hall", to his hatred for and desire to murder ex-wife (Mia Farrow) in "Crimes and Misdemeanors", we have experienced his personal journey to the place he has finally arrived, contentment with the here and now. Unfortunately, this new found state of being is unkind to his art - with the exception of "Scoop", where Allen confronts his own mortality, his last several films have fallen flat, missing the neurosis that gave his work a cutting edge. Having fallen head over heels in love with Paris, having lived here for the last 4 years, having loved Woody Allen, and having read about all the excitement as he filmed here, casting France's First Lady Carla Bruni in a cameo role, I decided Midnight in Paris was a must see. Sadly, I was wrong. Perhaps 10 years ago I would have wept at the sight of all the familiar places, shot so perfectly for the opening sequence. The Place du Concorde, Montmarte, Le Tour d'Eiffel, the Opera Garnier, he hits all the spots I know and love. Had I become jaded? What francophile hasn't dreamt of rolling with Hemingway and Picasso, Gertrude Stein, Josephine Baker, Man Ray and Cole Porter, all in Paris in the 1920's, all partying like rockstars together in between hours of intellectual discourse! Our hero, played by Owen Wilson has, and serendipitously has the chance as he walks the streets of Paris at night. A successful Hollywood screenwriter engaged to be married working on the next great American novel, he fancies himself as a writer in Paris, romanticizing a time long past. As the clock strikes midnight during his promenade through the city, he is transported by an antique Peugot occupied by Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald and the name dropping begins. We hear Cole Porter singing at the piano, Madame Baker sings and dances sensuously. There is nothing I hate more than predictibility in a movie, and it became annoyingly so as we went to Le Polidor to meet Hemingway, Le Moulin Rouge to meet - you guessed it- Toulouse Latrec, (yawn) and Maxims to include Degas and Matisse. What was worse is the acting, which felt stilted and unnatural. Rachel McAdams seems to be reading her lines, Wilson is just not up to snuff, and the part of Hemingway (played by Cory Stoll) was embarrassingly overacted. Ironically Madame Bruni came off as quite natural - this being her first role as an actress, and having taken quite a bit of criticism from the French press. Marion Cotillard proved herself formidable in the role of "Adriana", a mistress of Pablo Picasso, delivering the finest performance in the film, and Adrien Brody makes us laugh as Dali. The ending, being every bit as predictable as the rest of the film is a bit of a letdown, and I am sorry to say perhaps Mr. Allen's best days are behind him. On a scale of 1-10, my Overall Enjoyability Rating for Midnight in Paris is a 4

A Week in Bretagne: Cancale

Packing a suitcase to the max for every possible weather condition, armed with a sack full of Ranger Cookies and an appetite for fruits de le mer, I folded myself into the back seat of a tiny Japanese car, and along with Madame V, Madame M, and a long haired chihuahua named "Brutus", trundled toward the region of Bretagne and the quaint little village of Cancale. Bretagne is known for her fresh seafood, fresh cream, and sel de mer (sea salt), and the quiet fishing villages that dot the jagged coastline have been home to le pecheur for many a century. Windblown and sauvage, the islands that jut out from the sea have witnessed many a shipwreck, from invading marauders to those who have salt water coarsing through their veins, and small altars dedicated to the marins lost at sea can be seen everywhere. Cancale is a petite gem, with a boardwalk one can traverse in a matter of moments, lined with cafés featuring fresh oysters, gift shops offering the usual, and a town pub where the locals meet daily to share a beer and a good debate. One block behind the waterfront are two rows of three storied stone houses, their shutters painted bright blue and green, geraniums spilling out of planters attached to the windowsills. Many of these homes are summer getaways, and some have been converted into a clé vacances (vacation rentals). The rest are occupied by native Cancalese, some in the family for generations! We chose a good time of year to visit - mid June, before the tourists descend en masse, bused in from the Nederlands, ferried in from England, and motoring in from Paris to spend July and August at the seaside. We arrived at low tide, and had a clear view of the oyster beds below. Oysters are to Cancale what Buffalo Bill is to Cody, Wyoming - that is, everything! Vendors sell their harvest everyday from little booths installed permanently at the foot of the pier, and you can have them shucked for you and eat them on the spot. It's just the thing after a promenade along the hillside, a nature trail that is civilized enough for the timid, yet peppered with enough variety to keep the avid hiker interested. Affording one stunning views of the ocean beyond, the famous Mont St. Michel can be seen on a clear day, her unmistakeable shape a beacon in the horizon. If you are very brave, you can have a dip in the Atlantic, but men beware of shrinkage! The water is so cold year round it will be three days before you see the boys. Centre Ville (downtown) is a 15 minute walk inland, it's main focus a Gothic style church with a decidedly nautical theme and an impressive pipe organ. The village boulangerie has a line outside the door each morning, and is naturally closed on Mondays - it was here that Madame V bought a death-by-chocolate cake to celebrate my birthday. Nobody but nobody makes gateaux like the french, with their rich chocolate and fresh cream from free range, happy cows. It's a laid back vacation destination, perfect if you like long walks near the beach, oysters on the half shell, and peace and quiet. (Off season, that is!) Next door is St. Malo, famous for her thermal waters and spa treatments. We shall visit her next!

Your Friday French Fashion Report: Sonia Rykiel Fall/Winter Collection 2011/2012

Evocative of French Resistance agents of WWII, the Sonia Rykiel Collection for Fall/Winter 2011 brings to mind the streets of 1940's Paris, with it's eclectic mélange of textures and patterns that is uniquely Sonia. Known for her sweaters, she layers expertly without losing the body, and her pairing of clunky shoes with evening wear is nothing new, but daring nonetheless! Sonja always projects a sense of humor with her designs, and this seasons Pendleton inspired plaid blanket pants are no exception - perfect for an crisp fall afternoon at an Ivy League football game, fringe and all! Choose a formidable leather handbag as your top accessory priority for autumn, perhaps in an eye popping colour to contrast with a neutral palette. Bonus Video: Interview with the artist Sonia Rykiel from her Paris apartment!

Fashiontv | Sonia Rykiel Show Fall 2011 Paris Fashion Week | fashiontv ...

Sonia Rykiel exhibits personal drawings in Paris

Le Cuisine: The JJR Café

As I have mentioned in previous articles, dining in Paris is frought with hazards - from overpriced slop marketed to unsuspecting tourists, to overpriced crap served to Parisians vying for the best location sur le terrace, and one must "choose carefoolie zee restaurant" as my friend Madame M insists. Sometimes you find the best places quite by accident, as happened to me just the other day. It was not my intention to have dinner out as I hopped the train into Paris, and made my way toward Gare du Nord and the Indian Quarter. I was on a mission - I have had a craving for Mexican food lately (being from Southern California), and decided to learn how to make tortillas from scratch, (the availability of quality ingredients is highly questionable here.) I read gobs of info on the subject, most of it concerning a handy little tool called a "tortilla press". I was considering ordering one, until I discovered the shipping alone would be a cool $75.00! It was then the proverbial light bulb appeared over my head, perhaps a similar tool is used to make flatbread for Indian cuisine! The metro pulled into Gare du Nord, and I wound my way through the maze of underground tunnels, following the signs toward sortie Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis. Once on the street I immediately felt the vibe of the neighborhood, a microchasm of inner city clichés. A small gang of teenaged bad boys lounged on the railings near the entrance to the metro, smoking cigarettes with an attitude and leering at everything in a skirt. An elderly Indian woman in a sari of saffron and purple silk pushed a stroller with her grandchildren in tow, shops full of traditional clothing, brightly colored and boasting a very "special price" lined the street. Little markets crammed full of strange looking roots and deadly chili peppers were my destination, in search of the elusive tortilla press (or a reasonable facsimile). The air was rich with the aroma of exotic spices, and the strains of Indian disco wafted through the air from a little shop selling Bollywood style DVD's. Women were at the market buying fresh ingredients for the evening meal, while men were gathered in little groups outside the neighborhood barber and the tabaconist. I marveled at the prices, it is much cheaper to buy spices here, and you can find other exotic ingredients you cannot in a supermarket. I did not find a press, (there was a similar item that pressed and cooked, but I was not convinced) but I found my appetite - all these aromatic ingredients on the shelves were having a Pavlovian effect on my psyche! It had been a long time since I have had Indian cuisine, the reason being the usual restaurants are mediocre beyond description. I hit the pavement in search of the most interesting prospect. There were any number of possibilities, little dives with pre-prepared takeout in a glass case, and two or three tiny tables squeezed in along one wall. Then I noticed what appeared to be the neighborhood "haunt". If you want a good meal anywhere in the world, eat where the locals do, I always say! A friendly waiter greeted me with a smile and offered me a seat, placing a large sheet of green waxed paper on the chipped formica table to serve as a tablecloth. I was the only "gringo" the the place, and I was eyed with curiosity by the regulars. A little girl stared at me with big brown eyes and a bright smile as she sipped her lassi, and I caught a whiff of sambal oleck that made my eyes and my mouth water. I ordered a samosa as a starter, and have never had better. People wandered in and out, laughing with the cook, shaking hands with my waiter Nazim, stopping in for a quick snack of parota garnished with chutney, or a refreshing beer. It was noisy, and divey, and fabulous! I had chicken vindaloo that was to die, which was served with a generous portion of rice. A piece of nan and a mango lassi completed the meal, and l'addition was less than 15 euros. The food tasted like I had wandered into Grandma's house, and she was cooking as she had been all her life! The JJR Café is located at 187 rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis, metro lignes 2, 4, or 5, RER B or D. Service continué 11/11.

Sunday with Madame V

Sunday's in Paris are all about relaxation; family and friends, big lunches and long walks, and of course, art! I had a rendezvous with Madame V for lunch and a visit to our favorite atelier on this fine Sunday morning, a tropical and balmy day seldom experienced in this particular parallel. We met in her "quarter", and it was pleasant to stroll to le "Butte aux Cailles", (Quail Hill) and lunch in what Madame V would call a "veree sympatique" café known as "Le Café du Commerce". Cozy, unpretentious, and sensibly priced, it is a little gem, and Madame V and I lingered over our dessert of apple crumble and tea until our perky serveuse prompted our departure delicately (by stacking chairs from outside). My saumon was delicious and cooked to perfection, and they even had "mashies" and offered a basket of whole grain bread! V always knows the best places to eat, and I am highly recommending the Café du Commerce to anyone searching Paris for something good to eat. Well fed, (perhaps too well), I followed my expert guide through the historic, narrow, cobbled streets, the sun warming my skin as the wine warmed my belly, and I realized we had arrived at Place l'Italie - I am still connecting the dots! After a rather unpleasant ride on the metro, (the unseasonably hot weather has caused the trains to reek of "B.O." two months earlier than normal), we emerged into the fresh air and onto Rue de Rivoli, and voila! Our funny atelier, with the giant red and white polka-dot culottes hanging from the front of the building. I love this place! We perused, laughed at the quirkness of certain pieces, and were entertained by "Francesco", a piece of work if there ever was one. It's a joy to support the arts, and Madame V and I bought little thumbnail aquarelles for each other, signed on the back with a bonus tableau and a flourish by Francesco himself. A fine Sunday afternoon, Merci, Madame!

Meet Francesco; Art in Action!

Your Friday French Fashion Report: Ermanno Scervino Fall/Winter 2011

It's sad but true; nothing in fashion is new! My grandmother once told me "If you live long enough, you'll see everything come around again", and she was right. And while the Fall/Winter Collection 2011 by Ermanno Scervino is a mélange of styles regurgitated from the 70's and 80's, somehow the collection seems fresh with it's slender silhouettes and monochromatic palette. Androgeny waxes feminine ala 1980's St. Laurent, with tailored trousers that take one anywhere. The daring backless pantsuit stubbornly makes another attempt at relevance yet another season, and the cape is modified into a rather chic 21st century carcoat. I was suprised to see shorts with tights, as this fashion statement seems to have seen it's day in the streets of Paris - being all that in 2009, and noticeably less so in 2010, and were those socks with sandals?! Must have's for Fall 2011: Ankle boots, Groovy car coat (semi cape), slim tailored trousers.

ERMANNO SCERVINO AI 2011-2012