Designer Raf Simons and his team prepare a model for the runway in the documentary film “Dior and I.”

WHEN MOST PEOPLE think of fashion, they think of splashy magazine editorials, whatever their favorite celebrity was last pictured in, and/or what they will wear to the office or on their next date. Spoiler alert: there is much more to fashion than meets the eye. The styles that define a season, and sometimes a generation, are the labor of love of designers and their loyal production teams, who rely in turn on steering from powerful financial backers and fashion journalists. Creativity, innovation, cultural forces and business expectations must converge before a collection reaches the runway, much less a sales rack. If learning what goes on behind the scenes in the fascinating and sometimes treacherous world of fashion is your thing, here are some ideas to keep you busy this summer.

WATCH

“Dior and I,” a 2014 documentary feature film directed by Frédéric Tcheng, is an exclusive, insider look at the genesis of a collection at a revered French fashion house. It is a tribute to the creative genius of Raf Simons, the then newly appointed artistic director who was assigned the task of designing his first haute couture collection in less than eight weeks. This gargantuan task takes most designers six to eight months to complete. The film documents every detail of Mr. Simons’ creative process, from studying designs and fabric samples in the Dior archives and pinning prototypes on the models to making final adjustments before each one steps on to the runway. The show itself (which was a monumental success) takes place in a hotel particulier in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in Paris, where in accordance with the designer’s wishes, the walls were covered from floor to ceiling in fresh flowers as a counterpoint to the abstract floral designs in the clothing worn by his models. In more intimate footage, Mr. Simons muses over the magnitude of his task, and the importance of defying expectations (“I am not a minimalist!” he says at one point, exasperated). Excerpts from Dior’s memoir recited in voiceover echo these sentiments, drawing subtle parallels between two great creative minds. The film also pays homage, in touching and unscripted footage, to the often forgotten petites mains – the seamstresses and craftsmen – who bring a designer’s vision to life. Perhaps as a reflection of the personalities of Simons and Dior themselves, the film is a measured, thoughtful and elegant presentation of both the art and business of fashion. (June 4  is the last day to see “Dior and I” at Landmark‘s E Street Cinema in D.C.)

Bertrand Bonello’s feature film “Saint Laurent,” on the other hand, is anything but measured. It is a flashy, colorful, in-your-face portrait not only of the man, but of an era – the late 60s to the 80s – where excess in all things except modesty reigned. Saint Laurent started his career as a designer for Dior in Paris where he contributed greatly to the ongoing success of the house, but he eventually left to found his own label with the support and guidance of his life-long partner Pierre Bergé, a ruthless and brilliant businessman. The film portrays the designer’s meteoric rise, but also the debauchery (in sometimes disturbing detail) that ultimately leads to his fall. This is not the first film on the subject. “Yves Saint Laurent,” directed by Jalil Lespert, was released last summer. Both seem to suggest that the genius and the madness of this great artist were inexorably intertwined, and his ultimate demise unavoidable. While fascinating, it is a somewhat less than satisfying explanation for the source of creativity. Were Saint Laurent’s mental illness and self-destructive habits really necessary in order for him to create great fashion? A newly sober John Galliano, the former artistic director at Dior who recently staged a dramatic comeback by taking over the helm at Maison Margiela, might have something to say about that. “Saint Laurent”  is currently playing at the Angelica Pop-Up at Union Station.

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Diane von Furstenberg’s autobiography, “The Woman I Wanted to Be,” is an intimate and candid look at a life well lived. Ms. von Furstenberg is many things: mother, wife, socialite, designer, muse and businesswoman, to name a few. Most of her adult life has been spent as a member (a princess, to be precise) of the jet-set that hops from one glamorous place or occasion to the next. She surrounds herself with wildly talented and successful people, including her husband Barry Diller, who happens to be one of the most powerful men in the entertainment industry. But what sets Ms. von Furstenberg apart from the other members of her elite tribe is a fierce desire to be her own person. She created the iconic silk jersey wrap dress in 1970 and defying the norms for her social class, went to work on building a fashion empire that now includes apparel, footwear and accessories. Her book describes the ups and downs of running a fashion business, which in her case included going from being called the “most marketable woman in fashion since Coco Chanel” in a 1976 Newsweek cover story to virtually losing her company a few decades later. Ms. von Furstenberg also speaks of her personal setbacks, including a battle with cancer, the untimely death of close family members and several failed romances. The book is a revealing look at the self-doubts, wisdom, humor and grit of the woman behind the fashion myth.

In “The Battle of Versailles,” author Robin Givhan (see MyLittleBird interview) brings to life a seminal moment in American fashion: the one where a group of American designers (Bill Blass, Stephen Burrows, Halston, Anne Klein and Oscar de la Renta) took on the French fashion establishment (Marc Bohan of Christian Dior, Pierre Cardin, Hubert de Givenchy, Yves Saint Laurent and Emanuel Ungaro), and came out on top. It is hard to believe that before this runway show was staged at the Palace of Versailles in 1973, American designers were not considered to be in the same league, much less invited to present in the same venues, as French designers. A Pulitzer Prize winner in criticism for her fashion coverage and the Washington Post’s fashion critic, the depth of Ms. Givhan’s knowledge of the subject matter is matched only by the fluidity of her writing style. She recounts in careful detail, and with just the right amount of insider anecdotes the events leading up to, and the participants in, a fashion show that was supposed to be a fundraiser but turned into a performance that would forever alter the balance of power in the fashion world.

Metropolitan Museum of Art exhibit “China: Through the Looking Glass” explores the influence of Chinese art and culture on Western fashion.

VISIT

“China: Through the Looking Glass,” the new exhibition (through August 16, 2015) at New York City’s Metropolitan Museum of Art, organized by The Costume Institute in collaboration with the Department of Asian Art, is a breathtaking exploration of the influence of Chinese art and culture on Western fashion. Dramatic sights, sounds and lighting immerse visitors in a cultural journey that spans three floors of the museum. Traditional Chinese music is played throughout the exhibit and large screens display selected scenes from filmic representations of China, while more than 100 examples of haute couture and avant grade ready-to-wear is displayed in juxtaposition to Chinese paintings, costumes, porcelains and other art. In one section of the Asian wing, mannequins wearing haute couture evening gowns that incorporate  traditional blue and white porcelain motifs strike poses before an encased “dress” made entirely from fragments of actual blue porcelain. In another room, ancient pottery and other common objects are displayed in cases alongside gowns by designers Lanvin and Saint Laurent, whose silhouettes or embellishments echo the shapes or adornments of the Chinese artifacts. A stunning installation in another section, a pagoda surrounding a mirrored lily pond, features mannequins in opulent gowns that seem to float in mid-air under a luminous moon. Although the exhibition focuses on China as a source of inspiration for modern designers, its real achievement is to prove, as if such proof is needed, that in fashion inspiration knows no boundaries – geographic, temporal or any other.

–Sylvia Colella
Sylvia Colella blogs about fashion and lifestyle-related subjects.  A former Parisienne, she is obsessed with all things chic and glamorous. 

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I OFTEN GRIPE about living in Maine. It’s dull, it’s boring, there’s no culture. But a recent weekend trip to New York City put it all in perspective.

It’s noisy, crowded. Piles of garbage bags line the sidewalks. Traffic clogs the streets. Restaurants are full, outfitted with TV sets blaring from all corners, and music videos playing on huge screens suspended from the ceiling, making conversation impossible. Still, they attract hordes of young people who desperately want to be “out” instead of home alone with their own thoughts.

The trendy cafe we squeezed into our first night there served unrecognizable foods. Many were too spicy to actually eat, but they sure looked sophisticated, the kind of things you want to say you have eaten.

On first inspection, only several hours in, it seemed to me that the city of my birth had gotten even fuller since my college days, quite a feat for such a tiny island. It fairly bulged with more tourists, taller buildings, brighter lights, bigger shops and countless restaurants, cafes, bistros and street vendors. (And noticeably more garbage, which is understandable given the previous sentence.)

We stayed in an outrageously expensive “4-star hotel,” which is the least number of stars my travel-weary husband finds acceptable, yet it still was what Bette Davis surely meant when she uttered the famous line, “What a dump!” I won’t name names, but let’s just say that the warm chocolate-chip cookie you are handed upon check-in is the high point.

The low point was the shower, its anemic, not-hot, weak water pressure droplets feeling more like getting spat upon by a giant.

I know: complain, complain. But as my husband likes to say, every stick has two ends. The reason for the trip was to meet old friends and see a smash Broadway show. I had low expectations, since the Great White Way of the old days is long gone, replaced by the likes of anyone who wants to end up in front of the footlights. Goodbye Laurence Olivier, hello Larry David. But we lucked out, and a matinee performance of “The Book of Mormon” turned out to be a fabulous, funny, lyrical, upbeat, irreverent take on the good old-fashioned musicals of my youth. The wildly appreciative audience stood up and cheered the outstanding cast at the finish, and the joyfulness of that moment made the hefty price tag worth it ($169 per orchestra seat).

As if anything could top it, dinner later on did. Searching online, we had found a little “farm to table” place tucked in the back of an organic grocery store. The food was perfect, the service congenial. And having to take the only available reservation at 5:30, we were back outside while it was still daylight, allowing us time to stroll the city streets and appreciate the brilliant crimson illumination of the top of the Empire State Building competing with the bright white glow of an almost-full moon.

The next day, following a pretty decent breakfast that cost an arm and a leg but hey– the grapefruit juice was fresh-squeezed, after all–a sponsored five-borough bike tour event closed many of the city streets to traffic as several thousand bikers suited up and came out to enjoy the perfect weather en masse. We did not participate but watched it from several venues, and by the way had a heck of a time crossing the street since the bikers owned the city for several hours.

A quick trip to the site of the former World Trade Center to ooh and ahh over the two hole-in-the-ground fountains, a drive-by of the new Whitney Museum, a final slice of pizza from the Original Ray’s in Chelsea and we left it all behind us. It was great fun, but it was just one of those things. Back in Maine, all was peaceful and serene. And best of all, it’s finally stopped snowing.

–Andrea Rouda
Andrea Rouda blogs at The Daily Droid. 

PERHAPS MY FAVORITE harbinger of spring arrives in mid-April, when the National Cathedral announces its upcoming Flower Mart . The second I see that wooden sign hammered into the ground, my mind swirls with delight.  No other spring event quite captures the colors, the tastes and the international flavor of spring in Washington. (This year the focus is on Asian culture. More than 23 Asian countries, along with Taipei and Hong Kong, will participate.)

Immediately, I contact my fellow flower-marters, to make sure they have that Friday morning clear on their calendar. There is a routine to follow!

First order of business — getting to the White Elephant Sale early Friday morning (there’s always a line).  That’s where I found my rhinestone earrings in the shape of a flower, and my friend wheeled away an antique garden cart for her patio.

Next, I must peruse the fabulous display of herbs and flowers, and pick out the hanging basket that is most full of blooms and color.  Last year I feared the colors would be limited because downy mildew meant impatiens was not sold in the Washington, D.C. area.  I shouldn’t have worried; the flower mart had an array of geraniums in neon colors as well as the fungus-free New Guinea impatiens in tropical orange, tropical punch, celebration blush pink and other extravagant shades.

I proceed to my first walk-through the display of crafts, salad dressings, lawn ornaments and peony bushes for sale under the tents.  But all this must be done early enough so that I can get in line for the lobster roll! There’s a booth that plumps down a huge serving of Maine lobster on a hot dog roll, but only on Friday and only until they run out of lobster. I remember this because one year, after waiting in a lengthy line, I was told the last roll had just been sold to a woman who had bought 25. Now I know to be in line by noon.

Inside the many cathedral buildings, there is an opportunity shop that is open throughout the year, but stocks up especially for this event. There is also a book sale outside that runs throughout the year at the cathedral but has much more to offer during the week of the Flower Mart. There are kiddie rides along the side and back of the cathedral and hot pretzels and barbecue. There are booths of baby clothes, and bath powders and rugs for the kitchen. It is a veritable carnival of sensory pleasures.

Following my routine path, I walk down along the side of the cathedral heading towards the Bishop Garden where I pause among the tulips and other early spring flowers and then  to the peony bushes and peony trees in full bloom.  Finally, I must stop at the lovely benches in the garden and admire the enchanting little settings and reflect on how lucky we are to have this magnificent cathedral, in all its splendor and majestic stained- glass reflections, the sounds of the  children in their choral groups performing on the steps, the scent of the cotton candy and the nostalgic melody of the carousel as it turns ’round and ’round  carrying the next generation perched to enjoy all that is the Flower Mart.

–Lorraine Rose
Lorraine Rose is a practicing psychotherapist in D.C. when she is not besotted with the aroma and beauty of spring flowers.

Hours: Friday, May 1, 10 a.m.-6 p.m. and Saturday, May 2, 10 a.m.-5 p.m. For more information, see here. 

AS THIS SPATE sunny days teases us into believing warm weather has finally arrived, we can’t help but dream about spring and summer escapes (we Little Birds do like our getaways).

Which inevitably raises the question of how to pack and just as important, what to pack in. The days of luxurious airplane travel having long gone, conventional wisdom says no to checking luggage (unless you happen to own the airplane). But you don’t have to settle for non-descript carry-ons . New choices on the market are lightweight enough to easily hoist into overhead bins and durable enough to weather the bumps along the route. They’re also attractive, available in a range of colors and meet those pesky TSA requirements.

And, if you simply must check your baggage, the latest word in luggage, as in just about everything else, is “smart.” According to a recent article in the New York Times, manufacturers, including Samsonite, Delsey and Rimowa, are set to introduce lines of suitcases with tracking capability.

–Janet Kelly

THE MOMENT THAT did it: I was at the optician’s and caught a glimpse in the mirror. I was chatting with her, and smiling—but still scowling. I’m a high-strung sort, I knew my favorite accessory was a little black cloud, but I hadn’t grasped that it was a permanent fixture even when I felt chipper. (That my kids often asked, “What’s wrong?” while I was, say, cheerfully puttering around the house should have been a tip-off.) Since my attempts at greater serenity starting from inside my skull didn’t seem to be making a dent on what showed outside, I thought: maybe it’s time to try working from the outside in—specifically, starting with the dents chiseled between my eyebrows.

Almost a year after writing a piece about Botox’s effect on mood, I was finally overcome with curiosity about whether Botox could alter not just my scrunched brow, but the thrum of low-grade anxiety responsible for much of it. The studies I’d read used Botox to treat depression, but the principle jibed with decades’ worth of happiness-research findings: making your face look happier tends to make you feel happier, and not just because you’re pleased by the cosmetic improvement. For instance, people told to hold a pen in their teeth, which creates a smile like it or not, found cartoons funnier than did study participants forced to be sourpusses by holding a pen between their lips. (A friend even reported a trend among hip Manhattanites for starting the day with such pencil-clenching to promote a positive outlook.) So I set out to see if ironing out my brow could similarly spur a little serenity.

Even legendarily tightwad me thought better of going Groupon on this one. (A doctor needs no certification to inject Botox, and even purported credentials can be misleading–people can get “certified” online. The deluxe version sends you a foam head to practice on. I don’t know, when one of the potential side-effects is, y’know, botulism, I think I’ll play it safe.) So in early February, I placed myself in the well-credentialed hands of Dr. Tina West (a participant in the original clinical trials) of the West Institute in Chevy Chase and took five shots right between the eyes—well, actually, about a centimeter higher. Thirty units of Botox and a few pinpricks later, I was primed for my frown to be frozen out of existence, and maybe some chronic consternation with it.

Although it takes up to two weeks to take full effect, I went home and told my family what I had done. “You’re not going to be able to scowl?!” asked my husband. That’s the idea. “Ha! Her powers have been neutralized!” he crowed, while the kids laughed and laughed. “We don’t have to do what she says anymore! Her reign is over!” I secretly suspected that my powers would prove too great for mere botulinum toxin, but sure enough, over the next couple of weeks, I’d begin a slide toward default fretting, brow muscles commanded to contract, and…not so much. It’s very, very weird not to be in control of your face. Even once the full force of it kicked in, I could manage the slightest squeeze of muscles, and of course the at-rest wrinkles remained, but I could produce only a shadow of my former craggy crevices. I couldn’t help laughing, checking myself out in every mirror trying my damnedest to glower and seeing someone who looked confused, possibly mildly concerned, but far from cataclysmic. I loved that there were now limits to how dark my expression could be.

My daughter came home from college and midway through dinner, I referenced the great Botox experiment. “That’s what’s different!” she exclaimed. “I forgot you were doing that, and I’ve been sitting here wondering, what’s different? Did she pluck her eyebrows in some new way?” Part of what she was observing is a natural lift that I had not anticipated. As Dr. West explained, muscles throughout your body work in opposition, so you have muscles that pull your forehead down, others to lift it up. When you nullify the downward tug, it gives the upward freer rein. In rare cases, it’s too much of a good thing—the eyebrows arch into what’s self-explanatorily called Nicholson brows, and the doctor needs to tame those muscles until the dose can be adjusted next time around. For me, though, it merely resulted in a millimetric lift, not enough for a perpetual-3 to create a noticeable difference if you’re very familiar with my face. Whether it has made a noticeable difference in my outlook is more debatable.

As scientific experiments go, this one is ludicrous—a sample of one, no control group and observational bias to beat the band. Nonetheless, I swear, it has had an effect. As if to give it a good test, a couple of small-to-middling family crises arose toward the end of February, and I have been worrying all right—plenty—but not obsessing and perseverating to quite the degree that I would have otherwise.  While I recognize the huge potential for placebo effect, trading in my Resting Bitch Face for at least half of a Happy Face (the unimproved lower portion still sinks instinctively into grimness) does seem to be hampering the cycle of fretting and frowning—it feels more like I worry when I’ve got something to worry about, less as a matter of routine. True, I’ve regularly asked my family for feedback, and none of them reports perceived differences in my overall disposition (oh, like they actually pay attention to me anyway?). In fact, after some sleep-deprived snappishness directed toward my husband, specifically his snoring, he sulked, “Geez, I thought you were supposed to be all jolly and stuff now.” Hey, it wasn’t a lobotomy! But knowing that my brow is not perpetually lowered like thunderclouds—I’m aware of that, and it’s uplifting to know I look happier, even aside from what it’s doing to me subconsciously. It’s safe to say that any shifts in my psyche have been subtle, at best, but I don’t care what my family says—I say I’m more tranquil, goddamn it.

It’s too much to hope that one round of Botox can break me of a lifelong brow-knitting/anxiety-fostering habit. But if I keep at it, I may indeed find the results more enduring. “We know how long Botox itself lasts—on a woman, we usually use 30 units, which lasts on average four months,” notes Dr. West. (The more typical 20-unit dose lasts around eight weeks–reason to check the number of units someone’s injecting.) “But I get patients who report that it lasted much longer, which tells me that something changed how much they’re scowling even once the Botox wears off.” Indeed, studies have suggested that with repeated use, botulinum toxin may “have a persistent benefit even once the paralysis has reversed,” due perhaps to “dermal remodeling, slight muscle atrophy and behavior modification.” I may well commit to regular boosters. It’s very tempting; as Dr. West warned, not many people stop getting Botox. “It’s like once you dye your hair—you see the gray roots reappearing, and you think, Uh-uh! I’m not going back to that!”

Already, I’m certain that I’m able to create slightly deeper creases than I could a month ago, and I’m not happy about it—whoops, I mean, raise those brows, relax that forehead!–I’m totally chill! Besides, given the cost, it might make more sense instead to finally try the meditation I’ve been meaning to get to for 30 years. Or just stick a pencil in my teeth every morning.

–Catherine Clifford

JANUARY SEEMS FOREVER ago, but that’s when MyLittleBird was in New York City for a second day, photographing our fashion pages for Fashion Washington‘s (FW) April issue. With Oriana Layendecker behind the camera and Megan Pfiffner leading the styling charge, we came up with our some edgy additions to make to your spring closet. Let’s just say that if geometry wasn’t your best subject, better take a refresher course. If nothing else, remember this key word: graphic.

And check out our backstage photos for a look at what went on behind the camera.

–Janet Kelly

ON MY WAY TO and from the Metro, I must pass by Artisan Lamp in Cleveland Park at least a couple of times a week.  I invariably gaze into the window and lust after the collection of antique (mostly art deco and art nouveau) lighting — elegant  bronze floor and table lamps, gold-leaf sconces and twinkling crystal chandeliers.  But this past weekend, something else caught my eye — a sign posted on the window asking for a social media and website assistant. Assistant? Did they even have a website? To my surprise, yes.

What was so jarring was the contrast between that plain white piece of paper with computer type on it and the gilded and art-filled contents of the store. But then again, just because a store has been in one place for 35 years and displays 19th-century antiques, it still needs 21st-century technology to promote and sell its brand and its wares. So, good on you, Artisan Lamp. MyLittleBird looks forward to a new and improved website, Facebook and Twitter posts, Instagram pix, etc., so instead of merely looking in the window, we’ll be able to browse online for more of your products, find out about sales and even (gasp) make a purchase. Full disclosure: This LittleBird bought a pair of French art deco lamps several months ago. They sit atop a glass cabinet in her apartment and although they don’t emit lots of light, they do light up the room.

 –Janet Kelly