Who wouldn’t love Rick Owens and his women warriors? However, I’m shallow and prejudiced, and the evil twin in me wonders if big models are as useful as blind pilots. She whispers that clothes don’t look good on chubsters. Diversity makes real life more interesting, but fatties on the catwalk, even cool girls, feels like sexploitation. Size-ploitation?
I bet my Louboutins I’m not the only one seduced by schadenfreude when I see people plumper than me on the runway. And there’s that delightful burd who, fair play to her, has edited UK Vogue for yonks. No one in England gives a spotted dick what they look like, right? I know, I know, I’m a terrible person.
It’s an aesthetic opinion, not a purge. I’m not saying that anyone above a size zero should be executed (just digitally altered). That would be signing my own death warrant. I’m a size 2. I eat! I also lie a lot and drink vodka ice-cream. Clothes just look better on coat hangers — human or plastic. Who wants a mannequin with an ass on display? That’s a blow-up doll, which has a different function entirely.
Wearing clothes in real life is a different activity from selling them — which is what runway and advertising is for. Fashion is a business, not a counseling service. Is fat all that’s left to wake up the front row from their appetite-suppressed stupor?
Now that I’m older and more idealistic, apart from a greater dependence on vodka and valium, I understand that taste is subjective. You can’t be too rich or too thin, as skinny Wallis Simpson said. But Cristina Ricci springs to mind.
Thighs aren’t allowed in movies anymore, and is that really such a bad thing? Carrie was a horror movie in more ways than one, with the director’s wife cast as a cheerleader with thighs wobblier than my auntie’s sponge cake.
Yes, chubsters need clothes and want to look as good as possible in them. The way to achieve this, apart from the obvious (surgery!), is for designers to stock shit above size 6.
Of course the devil in me wonders if this bias toward small sizes may not be a social service? If the only way to get a decent dress is to lose a few inches, maybe that’s motivation to stop carby chow? And the money you save not having a heart attack can be redirected to the fash budget.
Just to prove that I’m not perfect, I will share a humiliating story. There I was in Selfridges, wondering whether to try on Vicky Beckham’s zip dress first or cut to the chase with Roland Mouret, when I found myself in that no man’s land, not quite a size 2 and not yet a size 4. I left the changing room in despair and saw a crazy lady in red knickers walking toward me. As she got closer, I noticed she was wearing the same Louboutins as me, and the rubies Mr. Lash gave me.
Dear reader, this crazy lady was me. In my distress about not being able to zip up size 2, even after exhaling every molecule of breath, I’d exited the fitting room in my underwear. The moral of the story: if you must have a martini at lunchtime, stick to the citrus twist because an olive has 29 calories.
Read more about Vivien Lash in her evil twin Carole Morin’s novel, Spying on Strange Men.