I Think I'm In Love.

Nah, this post's title isn't a reference to a Spiritualized song (for once), it's about this goddamn Marni collection that is quite literally making my brain implode with awesomeness. It's wearable yet cerebral, playful and profesh, luxury for the slightly loopy at its absolute best. I thought I was 'over' fashion, what with having recently disbanded Thee Fashion Blog That Shall Not Be Named, but Consuelo Castiglioni has quickly changed my mind on the matter and deftly weaseled the love for colour, proportion and sky-high platform shoes back into my cold, black, 5-outfit-redundant heart as of late.

The woman of the venerable Italian house's Fall 2009 Ready-to-Wear collection is, in my mind, the lovechild of Margot Tenenbaum (kohl-eyed, scrawny-armed former prodigy with a depressive streak from Wes Anderson's The Royal Tenenbaums) and Howard Roark (sexy power-tripping genius architect from Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead). Marni's marriage of Roark's egomaniacal intelligence and Margot's fabulously eccentric heiress shtick basically renders me speechless, and wanting nothing more than to be this Roark-Margot hybrid with a wardrobe filled with nothing but the following outfits...in my brilliant skyscraper penthouse, of course.

This one below would be for lazy Sunday shopping; I would totally pick up a box of chai tea, a brick of Camembert, some graphing pencils and a carton of Marlboro Reds in this splendid mish-mash of an outfit. I've no doubt my Cantonese convenience store clerk would be a fan of the jaunty hat.

I would wear this next one when taking public transit. Because even though my father is a massively loaded architect and my mom is a playwright heiress mess, I still like to keep it real and tell my driver to fuck off every once in a while. The massive workman gloves seem awfully functional re: poor people germs, as does the breastplate-like beaded vest thing (seriously though, what would you call that thing?) But I digress.

A navy blue fur coat is obviously one of the most badass articles of clothing one could possess, and as such this ensemble would naturally adorn me while conducting my daily badass activities, whatever those may be.

The cape hearkens back to a time when men were chivalrous and women were ladylike and people actually gave a shit about what they looked like before they walked out the front door in the morning; in sloppy modernity, however, the cape-wearing individual has, by and large, been relegated to something of a crazy person. But no matter, because this is exactly what I would want to be wearing while taking a stroll down Fifth Avenue with my pet pig on my way to hot yoga.

The jacquard overcoat, printed knees socks and outrageously high open-toed wedge sandals are obviously perfect for attending my Thursday afternoon Sartrean Existentialism class at NYU, and having coffee and a heated debate about the true beneficiary in Wagner and Nietzsche's friendship with my dashing T.A. on a nearby park bench afterwards. Obviously.

The perfect party dress for when my attendance is required at yet another dreadfully boring Saturday evening gala. The jeweled bib-front is questionable/quirky enough to pique the curiosity of the more conservative individuals in my socio-economic strata, but inoffensive/expensive enough to keep their comments at bay. Also, it's sexy without being restrictive in such a way that would make climbing into the town car difficult after a few too many bottles of champers, the importance of which is not to be minimized.