Now that I have seduced design freaks (for those with a higher tolerance for key names in the garment biz, Courreges' designs not only hung on the likes of Twiggy and Jean Shrimpton but also in the MOMA, Victoria & Albert Museum and other mad mad mod venues of historic importance), I'm about to horrify you with the details of abuse of said dress. I got it from the dingy basement Ragstock in uptown along with fleas or a rash or kookemia (yechhh that place creeps me out) for $12. Even aside from it's hi-beam color that is visible from space, this wonder jumped out from the racks of diseases moldering away in the dankness. The heavy wool, completely lined, feels like it was made on the royal loom, it's that hefty and majestic. The architectural construction was accomplished by the loving hands of a master tailor, not a 10-year-old in Malaysia. Heck, the big old label screams Bon jour ya fookin idiot, but I can't even speculate how many pierced and inked Ragstock shoppers instead picked out the orlon acrylic re-enactment of the bathroom floor of the Schooner on a Sunday morning hanging next to this important piece of design history.
It's vital that you appreciate the filth in which this garment was found so you won't judge me too harshly for using salad tongs to place it gently but quickly in my washing machine with a liberal amount of environmentally friendly laundry soap (which everyone knows is simply ineffective) and hitting the gentle cycle. While it's true, I'm too cheap to use dry cleaning, I'm also convinced that you get back all of the filth, contagion and bodily fluids you dropped off, eternally horribly sealed in a plastic wrap of toxic chemicals. Eeeuuw, I'd rather take my chances on ruining the garment. The documentation you see here, taken prior to pressing, shows that it came through the ordeal like a trooper. If possible, I feel even better about this sequence of events. I may make a little gallery in my house, in the upstairs real tiny bedroom and rope it off with colored yarn and establish a suggested donation of $75, like the Met. And maybe I'll have Petula Clark on the hifi and visitors can dance. Plan your visit by clicking here. Or calling 1-800-NOT-LIKELY.