(Sort of) MUSEWORTHY: Piquenjo Press, 2006 -

Okay so she is not technically a fashion muse, no friend of Luella or Galliano - yet- but I think it's safe to say that's only for lack of a pet passport. Were she to nip to Paris, and hit the party circuit on a long weekend, I'm pretty sure she'd pick up a modelling job or two. As it is, life is too, too tiring. Picquenjo can but dream of the CATwalks...

MUSEWORTHY: Casati, Luisa, 1881 - 1957

Mad Italian stick-thin, goggle-eyed socialite who tore up Venice in the 1920s and famously proclaimed "I want to be a living work of art!"

Pre-red carpet times, the Marchesa worked the pavements of the style capitals clad in fashion performance pieces that make Isabella Blow's hats look conservative. Try a necklace of live snakes and daubs of chicken's blood for first night at the opera, a custom-made suit of battery operated arrows that short circuited and nearly fried her alive for a ball, or her birthday suit worn dashingly with a full length fur, and accessorised with two pet cheetahs on diamond leashes - just for the hell of it.

Pure theatre made the Marchesa a legend in her prime, and sent her influence down through the ages. Although she died penniless and dressed in rags, the fashion set remembers her as model for Man Ray and Erte, and inspiration for all. Mrs. Harvey Weinstein, a.k.a. Georgina Chapman named her label , Marchesa, after Luisa, and the Chanel make-up team dreamt up a Casati-inspired eye for lagerfeld's Cruise 2010 collection - deliciously dark and smudgy.

MUSEWORTHY

(Who’s who, darhlinks…)



I have set myself an Herculean task: to compile a modern “Chictionary” and, in tandem, the Fash-Pack answer to Debrett’s (which is of course, the original social register, and still the last word on the Top of the Brit Toffs). Debrett’s has totally moved with the times – positioning itself via its shiny modern website as the go-to great uncle for advice on all things aristo (http://www.debretts.com).

Head here for advice on dressing for a royal wedding, or how to address a viscount, but what if your queen is McQueen? What about that then? Debrett’s is bugger all help on that front, I can tell you. Anyway, it costs Boodles. Two-hundred and ninety-five quid for a copy of the latest Peerage & Baronetage. And Galliano’s not even in it.

So. I’m for a fashion reference vehicle that juniors in the Vogue fashion office can afford (when I last checked they earned two shillings a week, so the poor things need a free service, no?) Carry on so charitably and I might sneak onto the queen’s New Year Honours list…in which case I’d be hoping for a free copy of Debrett’s. Until then, I’m doing this: seeking to chronicle fashion’s good, bag and ugly, its muses great and small, old and new. And it’s lingo, as we’ve already established.

It ain’t vellum bound, and it’s doubtless chronologically unsound, but herewith my Chictionary of Muses takes type. But who to pick first for my team? Nuclear Wintour, perchance? It’s getting late, the wine’s all gone and the mosquitoes are biting; I’m not feeling tough enough to take on Anna’s bob ce soir. Kaiser Karl? I’ve just re-read The Beautiful Fall by Alicia Drake (Bloomsbury) - impossible to do the man justice one sad little paragraph. Suggestions please!

CHICTIONARY

(I speak, you speak, we all speak...FASHION!!)



They say (sigh?) that regional dialects are dying out, thanks to Hollywood creep and the ever-expanding tentacles of the World Wide Web. But as every serious fashionista knows, they be wrong (note: that works best if you say it in a bumpkin accent like an extra from Midsomer Murders). There might be fewer Yorkshire souls yapping on about putting wood in t'ole and there being nowt so queer a' folk, but clique-alects rule okay in elite circles.
It's nigh on impossible to understand what the f’row is saying half the time ("f’row" = front row...don’t you read Grazia? Hello?!) but happily I’m here to help by acting as interpreter via this regular new post, which will be published first on my favourite magazine blog, Erica Bartle's Girl With A Satchel. I’ll be decoding le fashion speak regularly in the hope that karma's gonna get me…a Phoebe Philo for Celine jacket for Christmas. Capiche? Stay with me. I hereby launch, Chictionary. Ta-da!

F’row Word of the Fortnight
Nonvin (non-van) adj., Derog. 1. Denotes a fashion crime; something ugly, hideous, shockingly off trend. Literally, to be a long way indeed from the work of revered French fashion house of Lanvin [currently headed up by one Alber Elbaz, A.K.A. le chicest homme alive].

In conversation. Hints and tips for daily use:
On seeing a short and scary frock covered in alarming plastic bling as sewn in Bali, Fashionista 1 says, "Ouch! Plastic, c'est pas chic!”
Fashionista 2 replies, “Eiuw! I know. That is so Nonvin!"

Spies Like Us

Psstt...I've got something to tell you. It's a secret, a top one of the sort squirrels keep, although that said, there is nothing rodenty about the over-the-top chic-ness of this particular snippet of not-yet-widely-known information. So scratch that - it's a top one of the sort kept by international women of mystery. By James Bond. By J. Bondettes. By spies like us. "So what is it??" I hear you call.

I could tell you, but I'd have to kill you. And that wouldn't be very nice, now would it? So how about I let the pictures tell a thousand words, about my designs for next winter. And that way we all get to live another day. Phew.

Mrs. Press A/W '10, Photographs: Liz Ham, Model: Milli @ Viviens

T'is The Season

They say to give is better than to receive. Hmm, who are they anyway? Clearly getting a glorious Mrs. Press gift box stuffed with vintage treasures, silk knickers and a supa-dupa soap or an oh-so-classy candle is a damn fine experience. Okay, so giving one to a lucky lady is pretty good too, but I, for one, am all for admitting: I LIKE PRESENTS. I LIKE THEM A LOT. BUY ME SOME THIS CHRISTMAS. BUY A WHOLE BUNCH OF REALLY EXPENSIVE ONES AND STACK THEM UNDER AN ENORMOUS TREE. DON'T HOLD BACK. SPEND ALL YOUR POCKET MONEY. GO ON, I'M WORTH IT.

To order your customised Mrs. Press Box of Delights, call our Sydney store on 02 9331 7732, or email fay@mrspress.com We're wrapping up a storm and delivering for free until Santa takes over.

Go West...

Don't know about you, but I like to channel Mae West and purr, "[S]he who hesitates is a damn fool," whenever the opportunity presents itself.

Par example, it's time to get dressed: should I climb into a sad old pair of denims, the sort that bags pathetically at the bum and the knee and makes one resemble a plumber at the end of an arduous shift, sink-side? Or should I dunk my sleek n' chic vermilion clad pins into a perfectly cheeky playsuit, a French navy Swiss voile number that makes for an hour glass moment and guarantees attention all round?

Hmmm, this way, or that? Sad or glad? Invisible or inimitable? No prevarication here. I promise you that, Ms. Mae. Playsuits away! For inspiration, look to LeBlackBook.com.au's too, too fabulous spread of Mrs. Press summer duds. Let's leave the last word to Mae: "Too much of a good thing is wonderful."

Now Voyager!

"The real voyage of discovery is not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes." Why thank you, monseiur Proust. Trust you won't mind if I take m'new peepers ocean bound? I do so love a nice yacht. The sort that features plenty of squashy white leather, a perky purser and more than one sterling silver drinks tray. It's any excuse for champagne with me, clearly. So what will I be wearing on this nautical jaunt? This brazen excuse to make a bar out of a boat in the ongoing search for new experience? I might make like Antonia Kidman in the November issue of In Style and team my Mrs. Press silk shorts with a crisp white shirt, and piles of fab jewellery. Or wear them to sprawl on the sand surrounded by piles of Prada, as recommended in this swish spread from the new issue of Life & Leisure Luxury. Change is as good as a holiday. So for my next look, it's super-wide, high-waisted silk lounge pants, printed with birds, Chanel peep-toe booties and my Mrs. Press kimono, natch...Move over Nancy Cunard. Get over it Marcel Proust. It's an ocean life for me - new eyes n' all.