February 25, 2009--Dolce & Gabbana
The morning after Barack Obama delivered his rousing version of a State of the Union address to a joint session of Congress, in which he called upon all Americans to sacrifice in order to participate in the restoration and rebuilding of the American economy and spirit, I finally got around to looking through last Sunday’s New York Times Spring 2009 Women’s Fashion supplement. Their annual glossy magazine that follows on the heels of Fashion Week in New York City.
Each one of these has a title and theme of its own. This year’s was cleverly named “A Stimulus Package”; and I naively thought it would be replete with hints how to dress appropriately and sensibly during the Great Recession. You know, where to get what used to be called “investment clothes,” those outfits that were spiffy yet practical and would last for a while since they weren’t so fashion-driven that they would, by next year, make it look as if you were wearing last year’s clothes.
But I should have known better. A clear hint about what was waiting for me after all the ads for Ralph Lauren, Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Prada, Calvin Klein, Giorgio Armani, and Hermes (these literally fill the first 15 pages) was previewed by Rona’s excitement Sunday morning when a friend and I returned from a walk on the beach,
She had the magazine on top of the stack of the other sections of the Sunday Times.
Before we could wash the remaining sand off our feet she sputtered, “I’ve got to show you something.” She picked up the magazine. “Look at this these.” She opened the supplement to an “editorial” page and waved it in front of us.
“Slow down. Slow down,” I said, still pumping endorphins that were released by our walk in the sun and sea and air. “You’re shaking that thing so much that I can’t see what you’re point to.”
“These pajamas.”
“What?”
“From Dulce & Gabbana.”
“What about them?” I asked. She had stopped shaking the magazine and I could see a photo of a pair of shorty pajamas—the top and bottom floating separately in the air. The spread, like the others I learned this morning, had the punny title, “Beddie Buy.”
“I want you to guess how much they cost.”
We knew from her agitation and tone that they cost more than we would have guessed on our own, if we had been so inclined. “And one hint to help you, each piece is priced separately.”
“Ah, that will make it easier,” Peter said. He lives in rural Vermont where everyone wears flannels and so I knew he was being ironic—what does he know from silk pajamas?
But, he smirked, suggesting that he felt sure of his over-the-top guess, “I’ll say $500 each.”
I on the other hand live in Downtown Manhattan, not that far from Dolce & Gabbana’s Soho store, and thus I self-confidently proclaimed, “$750 each.”
It was then Rona’s turn to smirk. “Wrong on both counts. Want to try again?”
Neither of us wanted to. “No.” I said. “Just tell us how much. We’re feeling too good at the moment and want to get this over with.”
“OK. Are you ready for this?” We both nodded. “The top costs $1,795; and the shorts $1,595.”
To tell the truth we were both stunned. “Before sales tax that’s nearly thirty-four-hundred freaking dollars for a pair of freaking pajamas!”
With that, she slammed the magazine back on the pile of papers and stormed out the door for her own walk on the beach.
I knew she would come back in an hour all mellowed out. For me on the other hand, the morning was ruined.
Each one of these has a title and theme of its own. This year’s was cleverly named “A Stimulus Package”; and I naively thought it would be replete with hints how to dress appropriately and sensibly during the Great Recession. You know, where to get what used to be called “investment clothes,” those outfits that were spiffy yet practical and would last for a while since they weren’t so fashion-driven that they would, by next year, make it look as if you were wearing last year’s clothes.
But I should have known better. A clear hint about what was waiting for me after all the ads for Ralph Lauren, Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Prada, Calvin Klein, Giorgio Armani, and Hermes (these literally fill the first 15 pages) was previewed by Rona’s excitement Sunday morning when a friend and I returned from a walk on the beach,
She had the magazine on top of the stack of the other sections of the Sunday Times.
Before we could wash the remaining sand off our feet she sputtered, “I’ve got to show you something.” She picked up the magazine. “Look at this these.” She opened the supplement to an “editorial” page and waved it in front of us.
“Slow down. Slow down,” I said, still pumping endorphins that were released by our walk in the sun and sea and air. “You’re shaking that thing so much that I can’t see what you’re point to.”
“These pajamas.”
“What?”
“From Dulce & Gabbana.”
“What about them?” I asked. She had stopped shaking the magazine and I could see a photo of a pair of shorty pajamas—the top and bottom floating separately in the air. The spread, like the others I learned this morning, had the punny title, “Beddie Buy.”
“I want you to guess how much they cost.”
We knew from her agitation and tone that they cost more than we would have guessed on our own, if we had been so inclined. “And one hint to help you, each piece is priced separately.”
“Ah, that will make it easier,” Peter said. He lives in rural Vermont where everyone wears flannels and so I knew he was being ironic—what does he know from silk pajamas?
But, he smirked, suggesting that he felt sure of his over-the-top guess, “I’ll say $500 each.”
I on the other hand live in Downtown Manhattan, not that far from Dolce & Gabbana’s Soho store, and thus I self-confidently proclaimed, “$750 each.”
It was then Rona’s turn to smirk. “Wrong on both counts. Want to try again?”
Neither of us wanted to. “No.” I said. “Just tell us how much. We’re feeling too good at the moment and want to get this over with.”
“OK. Are you ready for this?” We both nodded. “The top costs $1,795; and the shorts $1,595.”
To tell the truth we were both stunned. “Before sales tax that’s nearly thirty-four-hundred freaking dollars for a pair of freaking pajamas!”
With that, she slammed the magazine back on the pile of papers and stormed out the door for her own walk on the beach.
I knew she would come back in an hour all mellowed out. For me on the other hand, the morning was ruined.
posted by Steven Zwerling at
5:27 AM
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