(From top left: Acne angora knit, Topshop Western-inspired belt, Chanel 'The Little Black Jacket' coffee table book, Mango double breasted tux jacket, River Island distressed boyfriend jeans, Valentino Rockstud leather clutch, Gaia Repossi for Zadig & Voltaire cage ring, and Michael Kors Watch)
For a minute there, I almost called this 50 Shades of Grey. Glad I've shown you people of cyberland that I'm not that much of a living cliché. We might have to pretend that me being a French girl writing about Chanel's classic Little Black Jacket doesn't make me as common place as they come though .. right? Right. It so does though, doesn't it? Especially since the theme is currently one of the least cutting-edge out there at the mo, thanks to Karl who has just gone and waved his magic marketing wand again, only to propel this old time favourite straight back into the [black and white] limelight. Or maybe that is precisely what makes it more cutting-edge and paradoxically, less avant-garde. If cutting-edge means, as Wikipedia suggests, 'state of the art', then I'm sure Joan Smalls' boobs wrapped in a bow-tied LBJ must, undoubtedly, constitute the 'highest level of development' as to how one might be inclined to wear this piece of clothing. Or tied around one's naked body as a skirt (see previous exhibit). Enough with the compound adjectives already. My point is, I didn't find the 113-photos presented at the Saatchi Gallery groundbreaking (though I did take a moment to salivate over Georgia May's hot bod - a now popular weeknight activity for the boy and I, since I was given a [life-size] poster of the shot which has now taken up residence in the lounge). I did however really like the styling (by still-life sex queen Carine Roitfeld). And though the exhibition didn't really resonate with me on a deep and meaningful level (let's not get into what does), I did come home thinking that I have not been doing enough little black jacketing (why can't it be a verb?) as of late. Easier said than done with my decomposing collection of dust-gathering blazers. Shabby without the chic. So I went and got the above (remember?) which just arrived. And this is how the ever stereotypical French girl in me would wear it today. Standard to say the least. Don't blame me though, it's my genes. Sorry Karl.