Beauty and Madness

(center): The designer's final touch

Shark Attack With the celebrity-ogling contingent of the style set trying to cram its way into the Marc Jacobs store opening, Susan, Michael and I keep our focus on new fashion ideas and head to Coco Kliks’ Circus Sublime show at Bliss in West Hollywood. It’s always a thrill when a previously unimpressive designer puts out a collection that makes you reconsider his or her talents — last fall, Coco Kliks was one of those designers who turned me around. I have high hopes for this year when she starts off with some strong skirts and dresses. But what’s with the pants with lace overlay, Coco? Not sure whether that is the circus or the sublime. The next morning, I arrive a few minutes late at the 11 a.m. Deborah Lindquist show. I should have slept in. “Whoever cast the models should be shot,” whispers the woman next to me about the models mugging on the runway. Susan wisely spent her morning choosing just the right hat for today — she’s become known at Fashion Week for her exquisite collection of headwear, and after two hatless days, people had started asking questions. When she finally arrives in a pirate chapeau by Paris milliner Marie Mercier, the photogs go snap happy. One starts, and the rest gather ’round, like the proverbial school of sharks. Once Susan escapes, we make our way to Magda Berliner, who creates little works of art and is presenting her 12-piece collection, Hunter/Hunted, as an installation. The quieter environment underscores the lovely and provocative juxtaposition between soft and hard — say, a lace-ribbon dress paired with a chain-mail-adorned capelet. When Susan and I arrive at the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising show for six recent grads, we find two girls getting comfy in our chairs. This isn’t altogether unusual, so we show them our tickets and wait for them to move. And wait. Time to channel Kelly Cutrone, the fierce doyenne of People’s Revolution, which does PR and front-of-the-house production. Cutrone, who can give front-row crashers the heave-ho in a few languages, told me earlier about a run-in she had at Petro Zillia when she kicked Mrs. Eddie Murphy out of a coveted seat. When the Mrs.’s PR flack complained about the treatment of “talent,” Cutrone informed her that being married to an actor didn’t make her talent. Three cheers. Because the week was filled with too many people who confused their 15 minutes with being an actual celeb, when they’re not even tabloid fodder. The girls moved.

(center top): Runway debut: Carlos(center lower):Backstage: Juan Carlos

VIP Kisses More hunters, but this time versus fairies at Juan Carlos Obando’s show. An art director for many years, he made a strong debut last fall. “Modern garments with vintage construction” could be his motto. I stop backstage to say hello, and JC gives me a tour of the collection. His clothing is all about enhancing the body in the sleekest, sexiest way possible. “A woman needs the help of clothing for self-confidence — that’s where I come in,” he tells me. And does he ever. Stretch-silk skinny pants or skirts and bustiers with bias details ­channel that inner warrior goddess. After JC’s show, Susan and I relax in the Mercedes-Benz VIP room, which attracts a number of people who just seem to hang out. Free booze will do that. Of course we never make it to the real VIP room — apparently for the M-B honchos and their bimbos — though we longingly watch platters of food disappear into it. There’s not even a bowl of stale peanuts in our alcohol-stoked lounge. Suddenly, the velvet curtain flips back for a moment and I glimpse a flash of Prada skirt and a familiar bob. It’s Anna Wintour being escorted down the hall for Carlos Rosario’s debut show. I suspect her first-ever appearance at an L.A. Fashion Week has more to do with the induction of photographer Mario Testino to the Rodeo Drive Walk of Style later this week than anything else. When we walk to our seats, I immediately spot Wintour in the first row. Her hair, so thick and perfect, is riveting. The lights come up, Wintour’s sunglasses go on and Rosario makes a striking debut, despite the washed-out makeup and muss-fuss hair, even the cringe-making moment when a model strolls by with hanger straps peeking out the back of a dress. Somehow, we know that because Wintour is here, he’ll be judged more harshly than he would otherwise be. After, Rosario takes his bows and then kisses Wintour’s hand.

(center left): Grant's last pass (right): Kayne is able.

Stomp We knew it would happen. Esther Nash has shown up. We always recognize her because she usually has her name written somewhere on her clothes. And she likes to have her picture taken — a lot. Her BabyDoll/SugarDaddy Web site dubs her “Fashion Queen Esther Nash,” and says, “Esther is a dancer, a gymnast, an actress and a model, in addition to acting as a fashion designer and skilled businessperson.” But Nash is just one of several Fashion Week oddballs who seem to live for the photo flash. Meanwhile, Grant Krajecki’s Grey Ant show seems to have pulled in the photo-worthy A-List and beyond — way beyond. Or is that from the beyond? There’s Divine. And Michael Jackson. Boy George. Dolly Parton. Cher. The Cher look-alike is so convincing, she fools a few people — at least for a minute. It’s a clever comment on the star-chasing that goes on at many of these shows. Heck, the whole city. And it just gets better. Krajecki opens with a Friday the 13th theme, complete with young lovers, a chainsaw-wielding maniac and “blood,” which causes one woman to toss her Gucci bag behind her. Could be a new definition of fashion victim. For all the fun and games, including a cheesy ’80s-style dance troupe, the clothes more than live up to the production. I’m not expecting much at the Jenni Kayne show — I’ve never been a fan. But Susan and I are both blown away by her collection. It’s a focused, grown-up line with a beautiful sense of color, sophisticated . . . and wearable. Leaving the show, we notice Kimberly Stewart (daughter of Rod) performing the perfect H-wood-brat foot stomp when a guard doesn’t initially let her depart through the backstage. Then a fast-moving brouhaha breaks out. Fists are flying, people are screaming and we spot security hustling someone out the front. Apparently Anthony Kiedis wanted to get backstage but wasn’t let in. Later, a guard tells me that he punched Anthony’s friend. “But I’m not going to punch Anthony Kiedis,” he confesses. The perks of celebrity.