Asia On My Mind

In fashion, Asia is everywhere. Many of New York's hottest designers are of Asian descent: Derek Lam. Jason Wu. Anna Sui. Doo-ri Chung. Alexander Wang. Naeem Khan. Wayne.  This month's Vogue has a spread totally devoted to the industry's top Asian models. And, of course, apparel manufacturing has moved from North America to Southeast Asia and the Indian subcontinent. In the Wester fashion industry's subconscious, we see the entire continent as a source for that stereotypical, lithe, shy girl with mysterious hair, or maybe the land of cheap labor and even cheaper knock-offs, or the place of origin for the brilliant children of immigrant families. But we never think of Asians producing clothing--much less couture--for their own market. That's about to change.

 Victor Fraile/ Getty Images AsiaPac/ Zimbio

In a piece for T Magazine, fashion writer Cathy Horyn visits the workshop and studio of Guo Pei, China's premiere couturier. Horyn describes Pei as a "a study in Asian poise and etiquette." The whole article is tinged with an unfortunate racism, but Pei's character study serves to illustrate a larger point: caught between a love for traditional Chinese design, and an unimaginative but creative industrial infrastructure inherited from Mao's regime, Pei has set herself up to rival any Marchesa or Dior creation.

Guo Pei began her education at a moment in China where fashion and glamor didn't exist: apparel-making was a trade, not a craft. She enrolled in Beijing Light Industry School in 1982. When she asked her teacher how to make a large skirt, "'I don’t know, but maybe you can find a solution in costumes for opera,'  Guo Pei recalled. ‘‘At that moment, I fell in love with big things." Her large imagination eventually led to her opening her own studio in 1997. About four years ago, she took advantage of China's growing industry. Now, as Cathy Horyn points out, where Paris houses are starting to cut back on hand sewing to save costs, Pei can take advantage of cheap labor to create her dramatic pieces. One dress took 50,000 hours to embroider. While her designs are a little tacky--almost as if a Disney princess vomited glitter on an Alexander McQueen dress--no one can doubt the originality of Pei's vision. It's hard to imagine Beijing ever becoming a new Paris--especially with the instability that rapid industrialization brings (that cheap labor isn't going to be cheap for long--but there's no reason why designers in secondary markets like China won't be mentioned in the same breath as the Paris greats 20 years from now. (You can view Pei's Winter/Fall 2010 show here.)

Reading Pei's story reminded me of an Indonesian designer I caught sight of on Jezebel, Tex Saverio. According to his official blog, Saverio is 26 years old. He dropped out of high school--which his parents weren't too happy about--and eventually graduated from BUNKA Fashion School. His creations easily rival Alexander McQueen's in spirit and maybe even in technical achievement:

Oh, and did we mention that he's only 26?

Pei, Savario, and no doubt many other Asian designers are hungry for the big leagues. Luckily for them, they may not have to go to Paris to get there.

Some Sketches

I thought you all would want to see the backlog of images I have. I happen to think it's depressing that these drawings span a year and they are the ACCUMULATED OUTCOME of any formal drawing I have done. So many great designs are hidden in my notes. My process is to randomly draw until I hit on a motif, draw it obsessively until I get it right, and, if I don't put it into a formal illustration, then forget about it. If I don't feel the dress--its colors, its fabrics--then I don't want to hear about it again.

First up: A minimalist Byzantine gown. I drew a doodle of it on one of the first days of Italian class junior year, then eventually put it down on fancy 11"x14" marker paper.

The purple stripe in the middle is meant to imitate the clavi, seen above in the mosaic from San Apollinare Nuovo. Clavi generally denoted rank but eventually became decorative elements.

 Then there's this sketch, also from sophomore year. This is Esmerelda [sic] one of the main characters in the epic I'm constantly writing in her head. I never colored the sketch in because I loved the face too much.

Next up: a drawing I did of the lake at the beginning of this year. I thought it would be really awesome to indicate texture by using different types of crosshatching...but I got bored.

Then there's a sketch I did this summer. I was really inspired by some gorgeous Art Nouveau glass vases from the Philadelphia Museum of Art:

One day at work this summer, the idea for a blouse suddenly flew into my head: a blue-gray crinkle chiffon kimono top with attached crimson satin belt and a violet shell. And, hey, why not make it into a ball gown? This was also the day when I had stroke-like symptoms due to heat and stress. Oh, wait, I didn't tell you about that? Fun times.

I know that the final drawing is not in the right proportions (the left arm, for one, is too long), but I'm really happy with how the face came out. I was trying to imitate some contemporary Georges Barbier images. Think I was successful?

The next sketch was a perfect storm of inspiration. There was some Jezebel headline called "Get This Girl A Dress!" about how apparently no one would lend out clothes to Christina Hendricks except for tacky Zac Posen because no one makes samples in her size. (Which is dumb.) Now, I happen to have a picture of this Christian Lacroix dress on my wall (I promise it looks nicer in the Vogue photograph):

All photos Style.com

Anyway, for some reason, I was thinking about the Jezebel article when stepping out of the shower when this image hit me of a sassy Christina on the red carpet in a gray and black dress that fully covered her boobs, with lace like the Lacroix dress, and little blue, yellow, and green rhinestones on the lace (because...why not?).

One day, I'll make a formal sketch of it. Maybe...

Finally, a dress that had been stewing in my head for awhile. The pattern came to me in a flash: clusters of some sort of flowering branch that, from far away, look like an abstract or camo pattern.

The idea for the dress was to have the back be made out of three panels, like a Watteau back, but not pleated. The dress would be made out of a slate blue duchess silk satin (it's a heavy satin, not liquid like bridal satin), embroidered with gold matte leather sequins. The character that I designed this dress for is named Dove. She is a sex bomb and is very, very French. So why not give the dress an olive branch motif?

I picked up the design again on the first day of classes. Somewhere along the line, I decided to add two back panels, to give the dress a sporty look. Now it's made of seven pieces: two front panels joined at the center front, one central back panel, two bottom side panels and and two top side panels:

I'm not really happy with how the drawing as a whole came out, but you get the idea. I'm going to redraw it one day and I will try to figure out how to make the pattern I want...

Premet

Too much has happened since I last wrote. I had a fun internship this summer (that might turn into a job?), I'm working on a thesis about how the Medici circle, especially Botticelli and his Birth of Venus, used the image of a woman named Simonetta Vespucci (distant cousin of Amerigo), I just finished a run on Rocky Horror as a Trixie and a Transie, and now I'm really fucking tired.

Anyway. I was researching the early 20th century design house Drecoll (why? You'll find out soon enough.), when I came across this website with sketches from a house called Premet, a Parisian house that was open from 1911-1931. All of the images on antique print dealer Elisabeth Legge's site are from 1921-1930, but most of the sketches look like they're from 1930, anticipating the tight, clean geometry of the rest of the decade.

What really strikes me the most is the unnamed designer's brilliant use of color. The above slate blue and red is an enviable color combination, and there are better ones that follow:

The geometry and the colors of this one are strongly reminiscent of the Fall 2010 Balenciaga collection. (Except the Premet is obviously superior and not ugly.)

What surprises me most is the fussiness of some of the clothes from the 20s. The early part of the decade was known as the "costume period," where the famous knee-length, dropped waist was paired with the 1910s's taste for "Oriental" embellishment. Minimalism really only came about in the late 20s, with the advent of Chanel's little black dress. But here, we see the house's taste for false hanging sleeves that recall the late Gothic period:

And a Getty image from 1926:

But my favorites are the evening gowns: light, clever, sophisticated and elegant.

"'Alitalia' and 'helpfulness' do not go together."

So spoke a very nice guy at the agroturismo that we stayed at in Sicily. First of all, let me say that I love Sicily. I think I left my heart in Palermo. I will strong-arm Rahm my future husband Rahm no, actually, my future husband to go to Cefalu on our honeymoon. After I left Bologna, I met up with my family and we stayed at a gorgeous agroturismo just outside of Licata (on the southeast part of Sicily--it's in between Catania and Agrigento) for five days and then hung out in Palermo for 3 days. We saw Greek ruins, Byzantine art, Baroque churches, Art Nouveau theatres, and even dipped our feet in the Tyrhhenian. But holy fuck were the last 48 hours of the trip a schlep. Sicily was Odysseus's last major stop on his way home before he was imprisoned by Calypso for seven years. The pastures of the Sun God were on Sicily, as were the monsters Scylla and Charybdis. I'm 100% certain that we met both.

We went to the beautiful beach town Cefalu on our last day there (pictures soon, I promise). After having some extremely fancy gelato on the beach, I offered to walk to the train station to figure out when the next train to Palermo was, forgetting that the station was more than a bit of an uphill walk, which would be very hard for my mom, who has trouble walking long distances, to make. Anyway, I get to the station and some guy is standing out there and starts talking. I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or talking to someone behind me and quite frankly I wasn't in the mood to find out, especially since, after I went inside, he was still talking to the spot where I had been standing. Anyway, mission accomplished, I go back down into town. We decide to take a taxi to the train station. There weren't any taxis at the stand, so I called one. The dispatcher told me to look for a cab with a certain number. After a few minutes, a taxi (that wasn't ours) came to the stand and we decided to take it because we didn't feel like waiting. (Do you people understand how GOOD it feels to be in a civilized city where you can get a cab whenever you want?) Anyway, we get to the station and as soon as we get out, some guy comes up to me and asks, "Were you the people at Piazza Garibaldi?" "Um... yeah?" Then he started yelling at me for not waiting for the cab that was supposed to get us, and what the fuck was our problem, etc. (our cab driver, a very sweet lady, had told us business was slow so I guess that's why he was pissed.) She jumped in and said, "Oh, she doesn't speak Italian" and told us to go inside. They fought for a bit, she won and left, and then we heard the other cab driver bitching very loudly outside. Whatever. Then, two minutes later, the guy who had been talking at me (Scylla?) when I went to the train station the first time bounded into the station, with a very worried-looking older man in tow, literally got into my face and started yelling about how could we have left him, and he was waiting in Piazza Garibaldi for three hours (more like three minutes), and why didn't we ask for the number of the cab, etc. Basically, I lied to him a little and said we thought the first cab was ours, but he wouldn't go away. Finally the older man, who had been trying to calm us down, asked us where we had been waiting and then basically said, "Oh, you were mistaken, you were in Piazza C." (Total lie.) Which calmed Scylla down. He shook my hand, left, and the older man leaned over to me and said that he was "malatto" (sick). Then we heard more extremely loud bitching outside, so I started cursing in Italian, which I can assure you surprised everyone in the waiting room. We then had a peaceful train ride to Palermo. Considering what happened next,I think that Scylla gave us the malocchio.

We wanted a memorable last meal in Palermo. We got it. We wandered a block away from our hotel to a piazza where there were a bunch of restaurants. Mom saw one that had a huge antipasto buffet and she was all, "Oh, the antipasto of my youth! Can we go?" Before we could say yes or no, the owner, Charybdis, who was very friendly but seemed a little bit...off... invited us in. And by invited I mean forced us to sit down at a table. We started talking in Italian, and he kept on putting his hand on my shoulder and being otherwise touchy-feely. I turned to him to ask him to stop and found the powerful stench of wine and beer on his breath. He asked, "Can I get you Sicilian-style veal rolletini. It's the best?" "Uh, no, we're not really interested." I gave him our order. Every 5 minutes:

"Do you not want Sicilian-style veal rolletini? Only the best for you."
"No. We want what we ordered."
Charybdis retreats to his corner table where he drunkenly mutters over the receipts and takes a swig from his huge jug of beer.
"Claudia [the waitress]! Get x for that table!" Claudia totters over with four other orders and does as commanded.
Charybdis saunters over us. "Do you want veal rolletini."
"No. We want what we ordered."

Our food eventually came. I got the past I ordered but Rachel and Mom got... veal rolletini. We wait half an hour for our garlic bread, which never came, and Dad's steak. Which had magically turned into veal rolletini. And we were charged 105 euro for the pleasure.

We had to get up at 5:30 in the morning to get to the airport. The flight from Palermo to Rome passed without event. We get to Rome and check the board--our 12:45 flight had been pushed back to 5:40. Well, that was weird. We went to the Alitalia desk. What had happened to our flight? Could we change to another one? The people at the Alitalia desk were studiously unhelpful. It was a Delta flight, so why should they help us? Except it was an Alitalia flight. Oh? Then the flight got pushed back even further to 8:40. We went to the Alitalia desk again, and they didn't help us, again. Finally we walked to another counter and found the Delta desk. They switched us to a flight to Atlanta with a connecting flight to New York. We get to Atlanta. Do you know what was cancelled? Our flight. We were automatically moved up to the next flight to New York, but no one could tell us where we could get our boarding passes. We were so tired that we sat around waiting at gate 21, not gate 12. Somewhere between running to gate 12 and trying not to knife anyone for this incredible stupidity, Rachel got me french fries and chicken fingers from Checkers. Ah, the first taste of home. I had been imprisoned in a land of good food and fresh vegetables! Nothing could have been better than potatoes lovingly fried in lard. Anyway, we got on the plane. As we found out when we landed in La Guardia, our luggage didn't. We just gave up and went home. (Our luggage is coming this evening.)

Maybe it was the fact that I hadn't slept for 24 hours but I almost cried when I stepped out of the airport. Home! The beautiful smell of New York (smog and gas), the constant murmer of traffic, the wide, long streets, and the shiny modern buildings. I have a very love-hate relationship with New York (as in, I love to hate it), but I think I finally understand why outsiders are so fascinated by it. There really is nothing else like my beautiful crystal city.

Wake Me Up Before You Go Go

This is probably one of my favorite doodles ever ever ever. I drew it not long after Alexander McQueen's death, based on some images I saw from the beautiful Sarabande collection. It's a little melancholic but also very graceful.

Looking at this image makes me think of ECCO, in a strange way. I'm glad we had this semester together. I really felt I grew as a person: I became more independent and mature, and I know what my goals for the very, very near future are (write thesis about Boticelli, party, graduate, have Rahm's babies). I had so many laughs with all of you--both ECCO students and italiani--and I'll miss you all.

Guh.

I do so love me some silver foxes. And I do love men in glasses. Which is why you need to see Anderson Cooper in glasses.

By the way, this reminds me of when my friend Emily and I accidentally went on the EVIL BLOG known as Rahmbamarama. DO NOT GO YOU WILL BE SCARRED FOR LIFE DON'T CLICK ON THE LINK WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS I WARNED YOU. It's a blog dedicated to Rahm/Obama slash. Which is gross. And Stephen Colbert and Rahm slash. Which is funny. And David Axelrod and Rahm slash. Which is weird. And Michelle Obama Rahm slash, which is just ????. Anyway, it's a blog dedicated to writing weird things about my imaginary boyfriend. But the point is is that someone once posted a bunch of photo manips of Rahm wearing glasses, and just like the other Silver Fox mentioned above, he looked ten times hotter, as if that were possible.

Valentino...T-shirts?

What do you think of when you hear "Valentino"? Maybe big, poofy ball gowns. Elegant couture. The color red. An extremely tanned little elf of a man. Well, now Valentino is making T-shirts.

 Valentino/ The Business of Fashion

According to Christina Brinkley of the Wall Street Journal, the couture house started to make extremely high-end T-shirts. They are simple jersey T-shirts, but they are adorned with all of the signature Valentino trimmings: lace, sequins, silk. The shirts range from $395 to $3,000. The company's co-designers, Maria Grazia Churi and Pier Paolo Piccioli, have introduced ten of these shirts to the market and plan on creating ten new T-shirts each season.

In a way, the T-shirts make sense. As one can easily infer from the 2008 documentary about Valentino's last runway show and eventual retirement, The Last Emperor (which I just realized I haven't reviewed yet. Hmm, I guess I'll have to go back and watch it...), after Valentino retired and the company was sold, the new owners are far more interested in the bottom line than any integrity to art or to the house's legacy. And this isn't to say that Chiuri and Piccioli are bad designers, or that the T-shirts aren't secretly awesome, just that this very commercial decision is a sign of the times. The T-shirts have been selling very well, and they are a clever mix of not only the high-low sensibility of the moment, but also, in some ways, the green movement (the embellishments are all made from fabric scraps. Thing extremely high-end American Apparel). Even though the house's legendary gowns are extremely expensive, it is clear that the owners of Valentino want to turn a bigger profit more quickly by entering the world of sportswear.

This post originally appeared on Contrast.

Tiramisu I Have Known

In anticipation of going to Treviso to go to Antico Ristorante Le Becchiere, the birthplace of tiramisu, I am going to write about all of the tiramisu I have divested myself of.

1) The one, the only, Rita's:

 I already posted about it, but it's still one of the greats.

Her recipe calls for putting chocolate in with the egg whites. When the tiramisu has had time to refrigerate properly, the chocolate tastes like fudge. Definitely not traditional, but still incredible.

2) Zabaione

 I had this in Venice the night of Carnivale. Zabaione is tiramisu's close cousin: it's eggs, sugar, mascarpone, and rum. When it's warmed up, like here, it's the perfect remedy for the early spring chills! Since tiramisu is a Veneto invention, it's pretty safe to assume that it evolved from this drink, a traditional elixir on wedding nights. It is pretty orgasmic.

3) ZaZa

 ZaZa is an amazing restaurant in Florence. Special thanks to my friend Allie R for recommending it to me! I had told Will and Alessandra about this place, and they made reservations at this place without realizing that I had recommended it. They do traditional Italian food and beautiful roasted meat. *Sigh* Anyway, their tiramisu was okay. There was a little too much coffee on top.

4) Napoli

 This was at this restaurant in Napoli where we had a prix-fixe lunch. It was the very beginning of our Ecco adventure in Napoli (spring break) and I'm very sorry to say that it was an inauspicious beginning! The antipasto was amazing, but the gnocchi they gave us was greasy, flavorless, and, in some cases, burnt. The tiramisu was easily the worst I've ever had. Ever. It's not like tiramisu is difficult. How can you fuck it up? Well, the mascarpone wasn't fresh, the savoiardi had been soaked in too much rum and coffee for far too long and there was way too much coffee on top. It tasted like it had been sitting around for at least a day. Gross. We had better luck with our food elsewhere in Naples!

5) Easter

I don't have a picture of this, but one of my housemate's friends brought a tiramisu for Easter dinner. It was so good! The perfect amount of creamy and cakey and rum. He also put little sugar hearts on top, so when I ate leftovers for breakfast (NATURALLY), the sugar had all melted and it was amazing the end.

6) Osteria dell'Orso

 Osteria dell'Orso is a fantastic restaurant right around the corner from Ecco. The portions are huge and the food is cheap. It's just excellent. I was a little worried when I ordered my tiramisu because my sandwich, while good, was not as good as it could have been. I also had a really hard time attracting the waiter, so when one did came by doing something else, I was like, "Um, sorry can I order a tiramisu? Sorry for the interruption!" He took 50 cents off of my cheque for being so nice. Anyway, this was a perfectly competent tiramisu, even though there was cocoa on top (not my fave look).

7) My Tiramisu

I attempted to make a tiramisu by myself. I am physically incapable of separating eggs, someone needs to get me one of those machines that does it for you because this is getting far too comical. Anyway, I successfully separated my first two eggs (one of my housemates and her boyfriend watched me, mesmerized). After they complimented me, I got so flustered that I cracked the next egg too hard and egg went all over the table... and yolk into the eggwhite bowl! I was able to get most of the egg out but when I cracked the final egg, the yolk ran all over the place. CONSPIRACY.

 Eggs were the cause of all my troubles Friday. I had PMS-induced panic attacks because of finals. THANKS, EGGS.

Anyway, I decided to toss the eggwhites out. What I was left with was custard and Kahlua, and I could have made an awesome zabaione. Or I could just make a custard sandwich. Which is what I did. And grated dark chocolate on top.

Victory.

Illuminating

Oh, hey, speaking of the Met, my friend pointed me to this exhibit called The Art of Illumination. This is an exhibit OF EVERY SINGLE PAGE OF THE BELLES HEURES OF JEAN DUC DE BERRY DO YOU PEOPLE UNDERSTAND WHAT THIS MEANS?????????????????????

I'm sure everyone knows what an illuminated manuscript is: vellum that's been painted over. There's more to it than that, of course. Pages were carefully planned out in red pencil (which it is still possible to see sometimes). Pigments were incredibly costly. And then there is the painstaking work of painting the beautiful curlicues, palaces, clothes, etc. The Belles Heures is justifiably one of the most famous book of hours (a book of prayers for a private patron). The illustrations are simply incredible, and as can be seen at the exhibit's website, the artists--the Limborg Brothers--were extremely innovative.

I'm a bit of a manuscript geek. I almost considered taking a class on illuminated manuscripts at Bologna, but it was three hours long and met on Friday and Saturday mornings, and I don't like them THAT much, but still. These things are so beautiful, so delicate. The Met making the exhibit's website into a blog is especially genius: now, incredible hi-res scans of the Belles Heures are available to anyone. For me, they encapsulate everything I love about medieval and Renaissance art: the bright colors, harmonious compositions, humor, humanity, observations of everyday life.

I've also been busy looking at manuscripts in Italy. The Museo Medievale in Bologna has a lovely little room dedicated to old choir books:

By the way, this Met exhibit ends on June 13th, and I think I get back to the states on June 11th. If I miss this exhibit I will be extremely depressed.

American Woman

The fashion world is all abuzz; that wonderful time of the year has come again: the Costume Institute Gala and the accompanying exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum's Costume Institute. This year, the exhibit is called American Woman: Fashioning a National Identity (May 5, 2010-August 15, 2010).

The exhibit itself has a pretty interesting history. The Brooklyn Museum could no longer afford to maintain its impressive costume collection, so in 2009,  the Met agreed to take charge of storing and maintaining the collection while the Brooklyn Museum still has access to it. As if to prove that point, American Woman does not have its own exhibit catalog. Instead, it is sharing a catalog with the Brooklyn Museum's sister exhibit, American High Style: Fashioning a National Collection (May 7, 2010-August 1, 2010).

The Met's own exhibit seeks to define the American woman as she presented herself at the beginning of the 20th century. According to WWD, the exhibit is divided up into several sections--the Heiress; the Gibson Girl (a Victorian prelude to the flapper); the Bohemian; the Suffragists; the Patriots; the Flapper; and the Screen Siren. The last room has videos and photographs devoted to America's style icons past and present.

Kyle Ericksen/ WWD

The categories are a somewhat curious choice, considering that some of the styles presented in the exhibit--most notably the Suffragists and the Bohemians--didn't affect the majority of American women. Obviously, the curators, as well as sponsors Vogue and the Gap, want us to draw connections with today's fashion trends (with varying degrees of success). The exhibit comes with the inevitable discussion on what, exactly, makes American style American. And who personifies American style? 

Most agree that American style is defined by a certain functionality, simplicity and independence, which Costume Institute curator Andrew Bolton hopes each section of the exhibit encompasses. As for the quintessential American woman, he says that it's Sarah Jessica Parker (who narrates the audio guide tour).
"She is such a style icon, but apart from that, she is very adaptable in terms of the clothes she wears,” Bolton said. “She is somebody who costumes herself into roles. When you think of Sarah Jessica Parker, you almost think of a flapper, because she has this remarkable joie de vivre about her. Michelle Obama represents this idea of a democratic way of dressing high and low and is a contemporary patriot or suffragist. Chloë Sevigny may be a Bohemian, and Scarlett Johansson the Screen Siren."

The fact that you can't really name one perfect example of American style, or that all of these women are celebrities in some way, speaks volumes about how we as Americans treat fashion today.

This post also appeared on Contrast.

Make over!

My lovely room mate Gerta gave me a makeover. Grazie, Gertina! <3

Bella Venezia

Click images to enlarge.

I went to Venice today with the best intentions: walk around, take pictures, and see Palazzo Mocenigo, San Marco, Il Palazzo Ducale, and the Accademia all before the last regional train left at 7 PM. Well, Rome wasn't built in a day and even I have to confess that Venice simply cannot be done in one day. Unless you want to get the 8:00 AM train. (No.)

While attempting to find Palazzo Mocenigo, I found a restaurant called Alba Nova. It was cute and the menu was in Italian, so I went in and got papardalle with porcini mushrooms, cherry tomatoes, and parsley. So fresh, and so good! I was even rewarded with a few locals walking in (including the guy who delivered the groceries!) to chat with the cook and drink a glass of wine at the bar.

My first stop was Palazzo Mocenigo, one of Italy's only historic costume museums. The palazzo also houses Italy's only Center of Textile Studies. It seems like the palazzo is more Center than museum, but that's okay because the few clothes they had were beautiful. All of the dresses were from the 18th century, Venice's last hurrah. The first room had two children's robes:

The dress on the right was a fantastic green silk moire with white, green, and teel embroidery. Drool-worthy. Although you can't see it in this picture, the dress also has a Watteau back. In my costume history class, I learned that this type of dress was called a robe francaise, but the Venetians and the French called it an adrienne. I also have a thing for fabrics, so as you can imagine, this piece was orgasmic:

The palace itself was also quite beautiful: a Rococo interior to match the Rococo clothes.

There was also a family library with 200 years' worth of fashion books on display. What I wouldn't do to revise and update this beauty from an 1886 fashion plate:

Oh, and there was a whole room dedicated to George Barbier prints. It's like they knew I was coming.

Next stop was Piazza San Marco and, naturally, Basilica San Marco:

San Marco is basically ridiculously beautiful and made my beloved Monreale (more on that soon!) look like Amateur Hour. Unfortunately, most of the church was closed off in preparation of Easter. Oh no I will just have to go back, woe is me, etc.

After that, I took a quick turn around the corner to the Palazzo Ducale. Tip: Don't get the audio guide because it's somewhat tedious and it's 5 euro. They don't give you a receipt so you can't get it reimbursed by ECCO. Boo. You also aren't allowed to take pictures inside and the guards are just bored enough to strictly enforce this rule. Poor things, they all looked so miserable.

When I entered the Palazzo Ducale I was like, "Yeah, yeah, Venice is really pretty and all, but I'm mostly over it." Then I turned my head to the right, saw the Renaissance Wing, and then almost burst into tears because it was so beautiful. The picture above is just one teeny, tiny detail of the Giant's Staircase, where the new Doge was crowned.

By the time I had done all of this it was almost 5:00, and what with the crowd and possibly getting lost, I wouldn't be able to go to the Accademia and catch my train. So I meandered around the luxury district for awhile and mentally flipped the bird at the Prada store because how dare Miuccia Prada say she's a feminist when she can't be arsed to design costumes for an opera for any actor above a size 2 so then the Met had to hire a ton of models instead and then this same bitch had a fall collection that purposely made the models look curvy my God what a whore. Ahem. Anyway.

So as I was walking back on the Rialto, feeling badly for myself for having been to both Venice and Florence twice and still not having seen a single famous Titian portrait, I heard a tambourine. And then:

LARPERS!!!! LARPers make the world go around. Of course, they weren't very good LARPers because their clothes were, ummmmm, 16th and 17th century? But we can't complain.

Oh, and there were so many bridges:

Did you know that the Rialto and the Ponte Vecchio in Florence are the only two bridges in Italy with stores lining the sides? How lucky that I have been to both tourist traps!