Fashion, the cruel stepmother
IT’S ALL VERY WELL to receive an invitation to the ball, but tradition and modern life collide when trying to find the right gown
The thing about balls is that they bring out my Cinderella complex. I suspect I am not alone. Witness my usual wardrobe crisis leading up to the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts annual ball, this season on a theme of Splendore a Venezia, no less, in keeping with the current exhibition curated by Hilliard Goldfarb.
He turned out in full 18thcentury regalia — breeches, brocade top coat, lace jabot and cuffs, white wig. Easy enough for him. When a woman chooses a gown, contemporary style and history collide. Modern life is compelling, but the fairy tales are still with us. (Which is why a woman in a tux is so darn great. To heck with fairy tales is the message.)
The gown must be edgy and alluring, but traditional and not too revealing. If your figure is not what it once was, well, your choices are limited. A bit of décolleté might do it. But the glory in today’s gowns is in the body-skimming silhouette. So there’s the agony of the Spanx to endure.
Oh, and did I mention the endless preparations — the hair, the makeup, the nails. And for some, there’s the diet, the facial and the Botox.
In October, I bought a gold sequin mermaid skirt from Anthropologie, shown in its lookbooks with cowboy boots and cosy sweaters. It was so tight, it scratched my legs as I pulled it up quickly. But I loved the rough sequins, how they were not too shiny and turned to silver when brushed this way and that, and the fact — hope? — that it was a versatile piece that could be worn again and again. (Just like my basic black halter gown that in theory can be transformed with jewelry and worn again and again.)
Up until the last minute, I was going to return the gold sequins and wear that black gown with a new choker, but in the end, stepped out in the gold skirt with a low black camisole and black dévoré Poiret-esque jacket, forgetting my dancing shoes, somehow. (I had to go back home to get them as I was quite sure neither the Fairy Godmother nor Prince Charming would appear with glass slippers.) Mine were black suede Buenos Aires tango shoes, in any case.
I was, frankly, miserable in my ensemble. The skirt was too tight. The Spanx were excruciating. I could barely sit, never mind dance. If you are wanting to see a picture of the outfit, forget about it. My misery must have shown; nobody took my picture.
My girls have not had an airing like that in decades. And highlighting the décolleté, a statement necklace of peachy-blush crystals that actually prompted the CEO of Birks to ask what it was. (Erickson Beamon for Club Monaco.) Anybody can wear acres of pearls, I reasoned, with which I believe he agreed. I nearly did wear the pearls.
In any case, enough about me and the agony of dressing up for the ball and the agony I put my friends through, borrowing this and that, although in the end, I always wear my own stuff.
It was, as always, an inspired evening, with each room in the Michael and Renata Hornstein Pavilion of the museum decked out in different Venetian themes — Carnaval, Opera, St. Mark’s Square, Maggiore, Grand Canal and Murano — dreamed up by the Tuxedo agency.
And the fashionistas were out in droves. One can only imagine the man/woman-hours on make up and such for the overflowing crowd of 834. OK, so if half the crowd were women, that’s, say, 400-plus hairstylist appointments, more than 4,000 fingers painted, countless lipstick applications and reapplications. And surely quite a few of the men had a trim and polish too.
Reigning in style was Sun Life Financial president Isabelle Hudon in a white highneck jewelled sleeveless capelet (yes, hard to describe) over a black body-skimming gown, all by Alexander McQueen. All eyes gravitated to that magnificent outfit, ordered for Hudon by Holt Renfrew.
The modern and the traditional married beautifully in that one neat ensemble.
Thierry Loriot, curator of the Jean Paul Gaultier exhibition, was in the mood for a fashion statement, donning a JPG tuxedo that was traditional in front, with cutout straps behind, with Saint Laurent trousers and sparkling shoes.
Also on the edgy front was Chanel PR director Virginie Vincens in a high-low subtly shimmering Chanel dress, punctuated with bold lace tights and gloves.
Ruby Brown, model and perfumer, was snug as a lovely bug in a cascading violet tie-front gown by Catherine Malandrino, the French designer who set up shop near the museum this week. Museum director Nathalie Bondil also wore Malandrino, in black. (I’m going to get me one of those for the next ball!)
Utterly modern as befitting her role as public-relations director at the cutting-edge Phi Centre was Myriam Achard in purple Denis Gagnon, all backless and slinky. (I have a dress in that same purple satin, but neither the body nor the guts to stand out in that colour.)
Besties Rebecca Makonnen and Anne-Marie Withenshaw were both decked out in BCBG, Withenshaw stunningly svelte three months after the birth of Emma Rose.
There was Karine Vanasse in black vintage Montano, simple, sexy and cute with no muss, no fuss in her pixie cut, and Mitsou Gélinas equally at ease in a black and white Escada gown.
Maripier Morin was in a show-stopping embroidered gown with long train by Mikael D from Mikael Derderian, formerly half the Pavoni label, which red carpet watchers will recognize.
Sandra Abi-Rashed, brand director for Elle Québec, was in asymmetric Halston, with a black mask fetchingly perched in her hair. (It was a masked ball, but there were few masks in sight.)
Meanwhile, I left before midnight, with my shoes. When I got home, I tried the skirt with an off-shoulder grey sweatshirt and beige cowboyish boots. It was a great look.
Now where would I wear that?