Dear Shaded Viewers and Diane,
Dame Vivienne Westwood might be showing her main line in Paris in little more than a week but none will ever be fooled as to where her love truly lays. Steadily, proudly British as she is, one is left wondering if the meticulous, tailored, quirky style that long defines them Brits was ever even there before her rise. It was not by chance that BBC's most infamous villain would choose to wear her suits after all, and the parade of tartan and pinstripe, suspenders and pillbox hats we've seen at her Red Label show just a few days ago, spoke of a skilled ease in handling heritage that could only come from someone who helped put it up there in the first place. Westwood designs, as she habitually does, almost as if to dress herself: her muse is sensitive and witty, with a purposeful stride, her heart so big she needs a larger, double-breasted coat, wider shoulders, ampler skirts for a fearless silhouette all gathered about the waist. The tones are often those of budding roses: ruby velvet, scarlet satin, red lips and blush, pockets' flaps like petals and lapels rounded charmingly in Valentine shapes.
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Later,
Silvia
