WAISTED For Laura Brown, dress­ing this sea­son is a cinch.

Harper’s Bazaar (Malaysia) - - The Style Bazaar -

Saint Lau­rent by Hedi Sli­mane One of my favourite pho­to­graphs is a por­trait of artist Georgia O’Ke­effe in 1960. She is out­side, un­der the blue sky of New Mex­ico, hang­ing her paint­ing Pelvis Se­ries, Red With Yel­low on an easel. Her hair pulled back in a bun, she’s wear­ing a long-sleeved black tu­nic cinched with a Héc­tor Aguilar belt made of black leather, em­bel­lished with bold sil­ver crosses. Now that is a belt. The sort of belt that would

give a girl a fit of de­light in a vin­tage store

or be found by hap­pen­stance in a rel­a­tive’s closet. A belt that of­ten ends up on Pin­ter­est, cap­tioned with some­thing like “OMG, I love/ live/die for that belt.” That’s what belts do: They say some­thing. There’s some­thing about a belt that in­stantly con­fers char­ac­ter. If you’re a pic­ture, the belt is your frame. And while it’s looped around your waist, not a piece of jew­ellery hang­ing from your neck, a belt is im­me­di­ately per­sonal. I’ve al­ways been chal­lenged at belt wear­ing. I’ve been told to belt up more than once by my mother, but in Aus­tralia, that just means “stop talk­ing.” I can barely get it to­gether too put on a pair of jeans, let alone thread some­thing throughrough the loops around my waist. It’s just such a look k – and, thank­fully, my trousers have been able to stay up un­aided. So far. All those belted ladies, they al­ways seem a step ahead of me. Lit­er­ally, more pulled to­gether.r. If you’re on a retro sweep, think of Loulou de la Falaise in a swishy metal­lic num­ber with a gypsy skirt, out on the e town with Yves Saint Lau­rent; Cather­ine Deneuve con­tain­ing ntain­ing her kink­i­ness in Belle de Jour; Bianca Jag­ger cinch­ing ng in her cherry se­quins on the way to Stu­dio 54. A waspy waist,aist, a swing in the hips, con­fi­dence to spare. But this sea­son, I’m feel­ing it. First, there were so many looks on the run­ways that em­pha­sised the waist. It might have some­thing to do with groovy young J.W. An­der­son’s work for his own la­bel and for Loewe. He’s got the colour thing down, J.W. He beats to the ’80s but his pieces are not pas­tiche. For Loewe, a blou­son leather jacket and hound­stooth trousers were jazzed up with a bright yel­low low-slung belt made of in­ter­locked tri­an­gles. For his name­sake Be lt, La n v i col­lec­tion, it was green, white, and tight. At Balmain, the shape was strict and Hel­mut New­tonesque, strong- shoul­dered glama­zons fas­tened with a bold slash of blue satin. I’d like to chan­nel that Balmain lady on a Satur­day night. For the more re­laxed girl – with the wind in her hair and flir­ta­tion in ev­ery step – there are Chloé’s skinny leather belts, tied with a casualness that takes for­ever to achieve, and Gucci’s book­ish suede pieces, worn over nubby coats (For this look, add glasses. Who cares if you need them?). Then, of course, there’s Lan­vin. Oh, to be that Lan­vin lady – lounging in a Moroc­can gar­den gar­den, bo­hemian dress flow­ing, tasselled b belt dan­gling non­cha­lantly from the hip. ThereT are cush­ions thrown every­where, I’m nib nib­bling apri­cots, young men tend to my ev­ery wish. And it’s hot … so … hot. Sorry, where was I? Oh, back in New York,Yor at my desk, the loops of my jeans empty and alone. But that’s the ir­ra­tional joy of fash­ion, right? It makes you want to beb some­one else. So for once in my life, I’m go­ing to belt up. My mother will be so happy.



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