Let them Eat L’Oreal

Friday, June 11th, 2010

Makeup-free Mondays: interesting, provocative, and—when you think about it for three seconds—bonkers. Last I checked, women (Lady Gaga excepted) were already fully empowered to forgo makeup on Monday or any other day. Half the working women I know go without; the rest slather on CoverGirl Thick Lash like there’s no tomorrow, and nobody cares who does what.

This natural beauty initiative either has something to do with Debrahlee Lorenzana, a 21st century Joan Holloway who was (allegedly) fired by Citibank for being too sexy for her shirt, or it’s a fabulous prank: after all, the organizers are asking women to donate their unopened makeup to–no joke–women’s shelters (Let them eat L’Oreal!)

The people at The Beauty Bean, where MFM was launched, recommend a Charlotte York inspired Sex and the City hair style that requires a $58 “serum” followed by a $38 “Anti-Humidity” spray followed by a $49 “creme”—no servility to fashion or commerce here! But their MFM page exhorts, “Stop apologizing for not wearing makeup, no matter what day of the week it is.” It’s true that women apologize for a lot of random nonsense, but not, in my experience, their bare faces. Even Grace Coddington goes naked at Vogue.

What next–girdle-free Fridays? This is the latest (well-intentioned) initiative in a growing trend of low concept activism that ranges from the merely misguided (Remember Not One Damn Dime Day? No one else does either) to the downright embarrassing (Bras Without Borders). And like most misdirected advocacy, it’s having an unintended effect. I suddenly hear Dior’s Serum de Rouge Luminous Lip Color Treatment calling out to me. Sephora, all is forgiven–I’m coming for the Crimson 840.

Wintour Issue

Tuesday, September 22nd, 2009

The most remarkable thing about “The September Issue,” R.J. Cutler’s documentary about the making of Vogue’s 2007 biggest issue ever, is not Editor Anna Wintour’s botoxed personality, Creative Director Grace Coddington’s unexpectedly fresh, funny and genuine presence, or the surprising preponderance of older women without makeup running a magazine devoted to beautiful young things with pancake faces. It’s that Wintour, the most influential force in global fashion, has so little to say about the art she embraces.

Wintour is alternately so excruciatingly inarticulate (its takes her  ages to say that her siblings, who work in more socially redeeming fields, find her profession “amusing,” and almost as painfully long to repeat the same observation) and evasive (she dodges questions with weak jokes) that the film never plumbs her relationship to fashion—it merely tracks the way she packages it. There’s zero content in the scenes in which she discusses spreads or selects shots (“too much black”) and she seems barely capable of an extended conversation, much less substantive commentary on the industry she dominates (except for a tantalizing little summary of what was happening in fashion when she became a model in the 60s, in which she actually uses the word “class”—a subject Cutler assiduously avoids.)

You have to wonder if some robotic sensor accounts for the fashion radar that made her famous. Who cares if she’s a smug, self-satisfied, truly unappealing martinet (we wouldn’t hold that against a man in her position of power); what I want to know is, what does Wintour, surely a woman of colossal insight, have to say about fashion?