Pretty in Pink

Haute couture causes raised hackles. To confess to having even looked is to be found guilty of heartlessness, callous disregard for the straits many are in, encouragement of economic vampirism, lack of empathy, an inappropriate attitude, and greed, and worse. Which isn't fair.

Few of us will have the opportunity to wear haute couture, and even fewer of us would have the occasion or the panache, yet it reaches into all our lives at a very personal level. Like all art, it speaks of, embodies, beauty - and we all know what beauty is. Which is why it arouses such fierce responses. One of which can be 'That is ridiculous - no real person could wear that!'
Of course not. Haute couture does not necessarily present a holistic image. It may be exploring and representing any aspect of line, colour, surface, light, depth, texture, and their concerns with movement, and interaction with us.

The work is one of many hands, many craftspeople and minor artists, under the command of the maestro, the designer. Perhaps it is this that arouses the set of resentful passions, that there is a necessary hierarchy. There is no egalitarianism in art but infinite and fine ranking - which ranking we can all discern, and which confers authority and esteem in different measure. There is better and best.

The opera that is this lovely dress and wearer is as beyond the reach of Angels as playing the Goldberg Variations. But I can look, and feel, and understand the mastery of some of it.

And just as I might be able to pick out the Theme to the Air, perhaps a little rouching on a summer skirt, a halter top with tight, flowered bodice, could be found.