tailoring- take a hike....goddamnit

Lord, spare the impending fate of my poor computer screen.

I swear, another collection of "masculine tailoring" will neither be tolerated nor justified EVEN with the words Yves Saint Laurent attached

eugh, who am i kidding, it is YVES SAINT LAURENT, after all.



Entering the slideshow, with an inaugural click, my poor heart sank, whilst my relinquishing brain surrendered with one final pump of a adrenaline into a left fist, headed straight for the homepage. ANOTHER FECKIN' TWEED JACKET. However, after ransacking my retired remains for a final ounce of patience, i continued clicking in the pursuit of anticipated, perhaps inevitable, style.

And there it was. Bestowed upon me like an angelic gem, chasing the dredges of fitted charcoal, tweed suits, showered with prince of wales checks, descended a sumptuous, double breasted, loosely belted, purple satin coat whose soft degrade pattern slowly dripped into ruffled marabou-feather detail. The elation was utterly divine.

What followed was an amalgamation of paris' most favourable emerging trends. Monochrome components filtered through tunics and into a lavish, fur princess coat, with soft, dog-tooth print disappearing within copious texture. Timid bondage appendages also prevailed through exaggerated chain chokers, menacing gold buckles and hardened leather pieces, aggrandising from resilient bombers, laced knee-high boots, jaggedly stone-encrusted platforms, to a bluntly studded, robust pinafore.

Exceptionally elevating Pilati's reign, however, were luminescent, white crepe-silk refinements, embodied by a variety of  opium-drench 70's contours (ysl opium, that is). Breezing, wide brimmed jumpsuits were loosely fitted with an hourglass illusion and styled elegantly with victorian collars, holding up sheer décolletage coverings. In addition, dazzling blanched robe dresses, flouncing pleats and translucent, gauzy shirts, accommodated grecian draped gowns and led to Freja Beha Erichsen's white-swan, feathered costumery, drawing the spectacle to an awe-worthy close.

Sorry haters, Stefano Pilati ain't goin' nowhere.