What do Mr. Luxe and Gaultier have in common?
John Paul (Mr. Luxe) meet Jean Paul (Gaultier)
Namesake aside, they both rock a mean breton stripe and know their way around a brassiere.
Yep. Yesterday afternoon, Mr. Luxe and I snook away for a liquid lunch and a nosey around the retrospective- The Fashion World Of Jean Paul Gaultier: from sidewalk to catwalk.
Monsieur Luxe lapped it up like a curious cat up a very couture drainpipe.
And it’s a monster of an exhibition!
160+ frocks – spread across two floors – edited, staged, all the high drama, with gloriously low lighting. Think fancy french salons with leather luxe dungeons.
What can I say, Gaultier is a genius.
All that luxe detailing, poetically styled with…. je nais se quois.
F**k it, I think I’m French.
It all plays out at this exhibition like a symphony.
And we were hooked from the sailor striped start.
I was nearly hooked to a moving fishtail skirt as it rotated past on the catwalk conveyer.
No Choo’s were harmed, just ego bruised.
We loved the journey through breton tees, punk kilts and denim jumpsuits just as much as the crowd pleasing haute couture and THAT Grace Jones inspired tuxedo.
I made sure to measure up Madonna’s conical corset. Yep. She is THAT tiny.
And Mr. Luxe eyed up the peek-a-boo basques – a little longingly for my liking.
After a good gender-bending, gimp-mask wearing, risqué hour – of mannequins – later, we reluctantly left.
Bear hugging goodbyes to Dita Von Teese aren’t encouraged apparently.
Through all our oohing and cooing we both agreed that his costumes and corsetry are just as cool now as they ever were.
I predict a seascape of stripes, of brasier sales boosted and an influx of bretonistas bellowing the streets of London this summer.
Jean Paul. Good call.
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