is an entirely different story. one that no dress can make up for.
i was thrilled to discover the book at a close fashionista friend of of mine. I was excited to for the prospect of learning something new about dior: origins, his claim to fashion innovations, revolutionary silhouette, ect. i was surprised that the book had nothing to do with the designer.
instead the preface and introduction presented itself as a collection of stories that were spun around the pieces worn by the people who bought them. stories of memorable moments that were made because of that one perfect dress.
and who doesn’t have those stories? i have some myself and the dresses that live in my closet like artifact of that time. living mementos of the past. but, such was not the case with this book. instead in the pages i found a log of the authors clothing collection. no fun fact or tidbit about the design or fabric. its place in history or even real story to accompany the dress or the person who wore it.
there was no ode to these tangible markers of both social and personal history. it read more like a catalog of the authors closet.
which begs the question, where is the zest in these stories? these dresses? the book?
perhaps i was dreaming of another type of book.
a better one.