From the VoxVault. Long before he left his legendary post at Lanvin in 2015, I penned this offbeat tribute to Elbaz, an unlikely role model in a time of explosive self-criticism, particularly among the young. Alber Elbaz died this week, aged 59, another tragic victim – one of three million so far – of the Covid pandemic. He was a genius, a philosopher, a generous and optimistic soul, an all-round lovely bloke, already missed. Janice Breen Burns
ALBER ELBAZ is an elegant, Tweedledee of a chap with a smug/naughty smile and pop-eye spectacles that accentuate his sparkly eyes. He’s been known to be fond of goofy bow ties, droopy trousers and high-top trainers done up with extra metres of loopy white shoelaces. He likes a sockless shoe. Nothing appears to fit him particularly well. That’s him, pictured, hugging himself, pleased as a salon poodle after his recent ready-to-wear show in Paris. He is Lanvin’s creative director and one of the most influential men in fashion. Fussless chic with a modern twist or six .
Isn’t he smashing?
I LOVE Alber Elbaz; how utterly “wrong” he looks in a world seething with people trying so-ooo hard to look “right”. You know what I mean; fat people lipo-sucked slim, old people slicing bits off to look young(ish), wrinkly people Botoxed smooth, brown people bleached pale and pale people baked brown. Don’t get me started on almond-eyed Asians wanting walnut shaped eyes either, or walnuts wanting almonds.
The world has gone nuts, but Elbaz is still Elbaz, the metaphorical tip of a thrillingly lovely iceberg, the epitome of NOT WANTING. Not pining, not craving, not wishing. Just arrogantly, confidently, narcissistically being, revelling in who he is. This is the key to good fashion. Jot it down. This is how you unlock fashion’s power.
Self-acceptance is a miraculous accessory for striking, carefully picked clothes. It is uncommonly chic and particularly popular on fashion’s loftiest echelon where Alber “Tweedledee” Elbaz, Muiccia “Ain’t no oil painting” Prada, Jean Paul “Me neither” Gaultier, Vivienne “Who gives a toss” Westwood and, who could forget, Donna “Rhinoplasty? Don’t be a clod!” Karan, among many technically not-particularly-attractive others, direct the seasonal looks that trickle down and eventually seduce us all. Aren’t they smashing? Ugly/beautiful/ evocative/powerful/enviable/fashionable/ fabulous. Smashing.
For a ridiculous number of years I have preached the power of a good frock, a nice suit, a new hat — the self-concept of Decoration before Alteration.
It’s still not enough. In the past few years particularly, the stream of pleas from sad little poppets wishing they were someone else has thickened through my inbox: “I’m short — how can I look taller?”, “I’m chubby, how can I look slimmer?”. “I’m thin.” “I’m florid.” “I’m in a wheelchair.” “I’m ugly.”
Self-hate’s gone viral and global. While I have been banging on about the power of fashion to unlock who we are, a generation has been marinating in a culture that still, more than ever, reveres model and celebrity looks above all. Anything different can be solved, so goes the theory — should be solved — by the right surgery, the right pill, the right diet. In fact, wishing for one painfully narrow definition of beauty has become a lifestyle, and scheming to achieve it — one way or another — a project that must never be abandoned. Self-acceptance; what’s that?
Good grief. How sad. But in counterpoint, I give you, Monsieur Elbaz and his rare, imperfect ilk; fashion’s marvellously, technically “unbeautiful” people who use clothes unselfconsciously to express who they are, and who, incidentally, wield more power in the world than most technically beautiful people ever will.
It’s time to switch allegiances and goals or, at least, expand them a bit.
