I Blog Fashion - BREAKING NEWS!!!!

Prepare for some major news folks. I Blog Fashion is STYLING the Joanne Hynes catwalk show at London Fashion Week this season!  The presentation entitled ‘Guerriers’ /‘Warriors’ is inspired by the West of Ireland (Joanne’s home turf), our own warrior queen Grainne Ni Mhuiel and features a unique capsule collaboration with artist Helen Steele.  This cannot-be-missed runway reveal will take place at 11.45am at the Freemason’s Hall, Covent Garden on Sunday, February 22^nd.  Tickets can be requested in Ireland from SRMPR (sonia (at) srmpr (dot) ie) or UK and internationally from SNOW PR (vicki (at) snowpr (dot) com). 

PS: To say I'm excited is an understatement.

www.joannehynes.com
www.helensteele.com
www.iblogfashion.blogspot.com

Inside Style - The Seventies

As featured in The Dubliner magazine - January 27th

After a season of snow, the sniffles and incessant talk about national solvency, the spring / summer collections are bid to return! Yes, I knew you’d be excited; even if there’s no chance of wearing anything that isn’t thermal/waterproof/doesn’t convert into a tent for at least another three months. That being said, if and when, the sun decides to grant us with its presence, there’s a big chance we’ll all be stepping back in time.

It appears the seventies are making a comeback and with it the promise of high-waisted bell bottom trousers, stacked wedges and octopus-inspired felt hats (insert cynicism here). It’s not that I can’t get down with a Studio 54 vibe. It’s just the fact that there is only one Bianca Jagger, there was only one Farrah Fawcett and there will never be, with good reason, another Bee Gees. Self-reflexive irony has cavorted wantonly across the fashion terrain for years (think American Apparel, the Bernard Shaw, Vanilla Ice). It’s gotten so that clothing has become effectively past tense where the spirits of bygone muses are ‘channelled’ into looks with sell-by dates. It’s time we put an end to era recycling. Now! (She dismounts her soapbox.)

I’ll be the first to admit that fashion is essentially postmodern in its reconfiguration of the erstwhile. Yet even last season’s Mad Men homage fell foul to the everyday reality of rain, wind and general ‘can I be arse Spanxing myself into a circle skirt and skin tight sweater’- even if the figure-friendly look did involve more accommodating kitten heels. The truth is despite the days getting longer or mercury potentially rising, there’s only so much a gal can be bothered suffering for fashion’s sake.

Let’s break it down. It’s a balmy evening. I’m having a pasta-free week and decide to opt for a diaphanous blouse, macramé scarf and some Charlie’s Angels denim flares. Permanently inhaling (but happy), I strap on five inch cork platforms and decide it is indeed a night for dancing. Question time! Do I a) get told by the doorman that ‘fancy dress does not mean you’ll get in free; no matter how old you are’ (ouch!) or b) receive an unsolicited edict from the taxi driver that ‘if you remembered it the first time, you shouldn’t be wearing it the second time’? Either way, I think I’ve proven my point.  

Modern Vintage

I popped into Oxfam Vintage the other day on George's Street for a bit of a goo. Low and behold, I found this gorgeous floral number with pussy bow detail - quite the box ticker, eh? I'm not really a pink kinda gal but the knife pleats create a more structured look and there are lovely cameo hues of dove grey and fuchsia that make it less girlie girlie. It has to be said, this iPhone pic doesn't do it quite the justice it deserves, especially since I snagged it for a whopping €10. Bargain! Nice one...

IMAGE - Ireland's 100 Most Inspiring Women

O.K. Picture this. It's Saturday afternoon. I'm finishing a deadling, drinking coffee and basically chilling in my comfies at my laptop. I realise if I don't head up to the corner shop to get some provisions, I'll feel to lazy to move and just order Chinese. Bundled up, I truck on down to the KCR where I grab some provisions and the February issue of IMAGE magazine. Low and behold, my name appears in a feature entitled: Ireland's 100 Most Inspiring Women. How amazing is that? I love it when you have no idea of something and you see it and think 'Wow!' So, thank you IMAGE and 'Wow!' As an avid reader of your magazine, I'm very pleased indeed. May I also add, I am deleriously exicted about the reference to my frame as 'enviably slim'. Given that I am still nursing the post-Christmas mortification of splitting my leather Joanne Hynes dress (with my arse), this is a MAJOR ego boost. I would marry you all if you'd have me (and said burgeoning bum). Thanks again! xxx

Inside Style - Sick Bed Chic

Inside Style by Annmarie O'Connor 

as featured in The Dubliner - January 20th

Pyjama chic - SS/11
Above, from left: Spring 2011 runway looks from Karen Walker, Vena Cava, Suno, Band of Outsiders. Photos courtesy of the designers.
Image courtesy of Refinery29.com

There’s nothing stylish about being sick. Once claimed by the winter lurgy, even the idea of looking good induces a sense of nausea. Sure, Victorian literature may have drip fed us images of consumptive heroines, pink-cheeked and febrile, dressed in layers of tulle but the reality is much divorced from that of those wacky Brontës.

This I know. For the past week I’ve been laid out in my Dunnes fleece PJs and snowflake robe vowing to kill the spore-sprayer who bequeathed me with such a vile dose. Let’s face it.  There’s no way of sexing up jim jams; especially when you’re sporting an attendant case of unkempt roots and abject jaundice. 

At least there’s the prescient comfort of being alone, in bed, without being forced into public glare...until those critical supplies of Lemsip and Lucozade dry up. Cue:  the epic journey to the corner shop dressed in two fur coats, three snoods, a Cossack hat and a redundant slick of MAC Russian Red seeping into large dehydrated crags that were once my lips.

This is when I start to feel sorry for small children and those with underlying heart conditions. They shouldn’t feel forced to witness this hobbling creature from the deep stocking up on fluids, however low her electrolytes may be.  Even my adopted stray cat, Mr. Scruff, has been noticeably absent at the back door.  I however take no responsibility for the recent rash of birds dropping from the sky. That’s simply an insult too much.

Thankfully, I appear to be on the mend and to celebrate I’ve dusted down my new pair of Anne-Sofie Back trousers which have been waiting in my wardrobe to fulfil their manifest destiny. As cosmic spite would have it, I’m probably the only person to have gain weighted after enduring local shame and a liquid diet for over seven days.  Looks like the closest thing I’ll be getting to Swedish avant-garde is an odd glance into that random-looking Ikea mirror in the front hall.

Although I may still be a little soft around the post-Christmas edges, at least I have my health back. Now it’s just a question of bringing myself to wear a tracksuit and MBTs while these mince pie saddle bags shift.  Sigh. I guess my fashionable new year still awaits...

Inside Style - Age Limits

Inside Style by Annmarie O'Connor - as featured in The Dubliner magazine - January 13th

Age - I never quite act mine. At four years old, I advised my mother to cancel my imminent birthday party as I would not be turning five. This refusal to engage with the process of growing up has stood me in good fashion stead. In an industry where airbrushing and Photoshop blast away the sands of time, my Peter Pan-like proclivities fit in quite nicely.

Well, that’s what I thought. A recent visit to a city centre clothing store taught me I appear more hip replacement than hipster.  Browsing through rails of Breton tops, braces and fluro mesh I was approached by a concerned staff member. “Do you need any help?” enquired the bespectacled blonde. “No, thank you,” I replied, impressed by the customer service.

Seconds later, as I approached the gold lamé bras and Lady GaGa pants, another sales assistant wearing similar Buddy Holly frames beseeched me accordingly. “Are you okay?” she asked with concern. “Yes,” I blurted. Paranoid, I caught my reflection in one of the mirrors. A routine inspection dispensed with fears of spinach-clad teeth, wind-swept hair, smeared lippie et al. So just why was I getting the ‘security, please!’ vibe?

Puzzled, I continued to flirt with rainbow racks of tees and stripy tube socks and questionable tie dye.  I lifted up lacy confections as alien beings, renouncing just about everything with a mental diatribe: ‘too pricey, ‘too see through’, ‘too silly’.  And that’s before castigating the music because I didn’t ‘know the words’.  Then it hit me...

If Carlsberg made epiphanies, they’d avoid mine on account of being too cringe-worthy. Aware of my fifteen year disadvantage over most of the staff and patrons, I quickly skulked out of the double glass doors and made my way home.

I felt as if I’d morphed into Edina Monsoon – a risible perma-teen only minus the Ab Fab wardrobe budget.  It was confirmed. My demographic is commanding less sartorial sway with each eroding year. One more wrinkle and I’m fashion roadkill. Gulp...

Still, if there’s one thing Eddie and I have in common, it’s that place called Denial where Bolly runs in rivers, everyone is a size 8 and cellulite an urban myth.  With that I called my own Patsy sidekick and hit up The Octagon for a cocktail as big as my age.  It may only be a number but it’s also a handy excuse for an afternoon tipple.

Inside Style - New Year's Resolutions

Inside Style by Annmarie O'Connor - as featured in The Dubliner magazine - January 6th

"Don't Shop" - Prescott, AZ - Brand New Films' Flickrstream
Photo credit: Jeff Daverma

New Year’s resolutions. I never make them; if only to manage my own expectations. The way I see it is if I don’t go there, no one gets hurt. 

Why vow to curb my shopping habit when it obviously contributes to economic growth? Is there merit in swapping skinny jeans for tracksuit bottoms other than to sprawl on the sofa? And someone please explain the virtue of avoiding the sales.

 In fact, of the ill-advised fifty per cent of guilt trippers that make resolutions, ninety per cent of them fail. If I were a betting gal, I’d keep those shekels in my pocket. O.K. Let’s be honest, I’d put them towards a new pair of shoes.

My sister tells me it would do no harm to peep my head from my jumper and smell the IMF coffee. “Saving would be an idea,” she suggested. In our New York patois, that suggestion comes with a head tilt, sharp voice inflection and mildly threatening raised eyebrow.

“But I am,” I offered weakly. “I’m buying less; just better.” In fashion speak that translates as: I’m spending the same amount only I have less to show for it.

“You could try,” she suggested, “if only to prove me wrong.” Damn! The gauntlet had been thrown down. Two would have made a nice set of gloves but that’s another figure of speech.

Now I have no choice but to demonstrate that I am not fashion’s victim.  My sister suggested a budget. I suggested the government had already given us a steep one. The raised eyebrow made its reappearance.

“It’s about breaking up goals into attainable chunks,” advised my de facto elder. “Roll it out month by month. Once you see those savings grow...”

“...I’ll want to buy a Pauric Sweeney python bag!” I blurted. The thought of it alone made me weak.  So shiny; so pretty.

And with that, the wise (albeit exasperated) woman left me to my own devices. “Let’s hope it’s roomy,” she advised. “You might be living in it soon.”

Ouch. She had a point. My powers of restraint (along with my bank balance) needed a makeover.  Feigning ‘luxe minimalism’ wouldn’t do. I needed to go cold turkey which is why I’m eating Christmas leftovers with the door locked. The next time you see me may well be s/s 12.  Austerity – never a good look.

Photo credit: Jeff Daverman. Click here for 'Brave New Films' Flickr photostream.

Man Flu Musings

I've been struck down with a serious case of Man Flu. The much derided and seemingly apocryphal ailment germane to the Y chromosome has infiltrated my world. Think raw nose, battery sneezing and enough antibacterial gel to sterilize a Jersey Shore smush room. (Sorry Snooki...) In fact, I'm feeling so sorry for myself, I could probably write a Country and Western song. Instead, I raided the guest room where I keep my second wardrobe and started creating new looks for 2011. I'm thinking of those Grace Jones razor edges for some East Coast preppy. Could this be the psychoactive delusions of a Lempsip and Ibuprofen cocktail? Give it another 48 hours and we'll see...

Cos top, Aquascutum shirt, River Island skirt, Dries Van Noten shoes

Wildchild Vintage tartan wool skirt and Joanne Hynes belt

Dries Van Noten - on the Right Foot for 2011

I've been hankering after these Dries Van Noten shoes for quite some time now. Having used similar pairs in shoots and shows, I eschewed temptation; partially paralysed by IMF guilt. That all changed yesterday. Ringing out 2010 with a visit to Smock, I purchased the last pair in a size 7.5. and danced about like Dionysus on the tear. It's true what they say about delayed gratification - so beautifully sweet....on my feet.