Fashists

O.M.F'ing.G. Just a bunch of sociopaths.

This is the quote, which I saw on fashionista.com, that caught my attention:

As the owner of a 32E bosom, I was once informed that the Vivienne Westwood clothes I was eyeing up were for women who want to look as if they have breasts, not for those already in possession of them. On another occasion, a designer stared at my unclothed form and stuttered: "Hourglass!" in tones one might use to utter the word "paedophile". Most mortifying of all was the moment an Armani tailor waved her hand dismissively across my chest, before pronouncing: "These are not Armani!"

But to my mind, the money quote from the piece is this:

A boyish physique has long been the ideal in the lush, homoerotic environs of high style.

I also really like this observation:

Throughout history, breasts have been the playthings of class. During the Renaissance, when Elizabeth I was wont to draw attention to her sexagenarian assets, the chic bosom demanded small and perfectly formed Diane de Poitiers-style orbs. Less than a century later, the upwardly mobile breast required the more lavish proportions of a Barbara Villiers or Nell Gywn. Victorian breasts were modest, Edwardian embonpoints; Twenties bosoms were flattened, Forties appendages were recrafted as missiles.

The synechdoche makes it unusually effective in pointing up the objectification of women. I'm not up on me feminist cultural criticism these days, but I assume someone, somewhere, has argued that women are too often evaluated as assemblages of parts rather than as entireties, let alone as people.

Still, perhaps that's not an entirely bad thing in these days of superficial overfamiliarity in public. I engage in sartorial artifice almost every day, attempting to project a milquetoast persona to strangers, trying to be snap-judged by my appearance, because of the psychological boost it gives me to know that I am more than that. But, granted, it helps a great deal that my circumstances happen to be, if not exactly happy, at least contented: the primary aspect, in this connexion, being an utter lack of any situational ambition and therefore no concern with what others may think.

UPDATE: Que ironico: yesterday's syndicated Simpsons ep was the one in which the while-u-wait plastic surgeon gave Marge implants instead of liposuction, to her dismay and Homer's delight:

M: "What on Earth have you done?! My maguppies became bazongas!"

H (singing): "...and they're all miiiiiiine"