NYLON Magazine - September 2007 - (Page 70) WOMAN ON TOP WHY THE WORLD WILL NEVER FORGET THE MANY GUISES OF FASHION ICON ISABELLA BLOW. BY EVIANA HARTMAN three iconic images of a fashion icon. clockwise from top: in 1992, 2003, and 2005. She was, famously, a woman of many hats. A pink acrylic saucer perched precariously on the forehead. A facial shield comprised of 100 miniature lace veils, designed to capture tears of mourning. A swirl of feathers that appeared to float in mid-air, spelling out her surname: BLOW. Isabella Blow, the beloved, eccentric British fashion editor and muse who died this past summer at the age of 48, almost never left home—or got out of bed, for that matter—without something protruding from or partially obscuring her head. And while her hats and the flamboyantly tailored ensembles she wore with them made her an unmistakable presence in the front row, her contributions to the fashion world extended far beyond the spectacle of her own appearance. She styled for Vogue, London’s Sunday Times, and Tatler. She discovered and championed the careers of Philip Treacy (who designed so much of her headgear that London’s Victoria & Albert Museum devoted an entire exhibition to their collaboration, When Philip Met Isabella); Alexander McQueen (she bought his entire graduation collection for £5,000; he shipped it to her in garbage bags), John Galliano, and Hussein Chalayan, as well as models Stella Tennant and Sophie Dahl. As outrageous as Blow’s millinery was, so was her mouth, both literally—she painted hers red and would say to assistants, “If you don’t wear lipstick, I can’t talk to you”—and, it was rumored, metaphorically. Blow embodied the 13th century motto of the aristocratic, scandal-ridden Delves Broughton family she descended from, the Latin translation of which is “Nothing Happens by Being Mute.” On discovering Dahl as a teenager crying in the street: “I had never seen bosoms like that in my life. I just wanted a piece of her.” On sex: “When you’re married it’s difficult to have sex with everybody because I’d get kicked out on to the street. But I think inherently I’m probably a total slag.” On her chapeaux: “Men love hats. They love it because it’s something they have to take off in order to fuck you.” Beneath the bawdy bons mots, however, was a dark side. Blow was disinherited by her father, battled depression and a stormy marriage, and ultimately took her own life by drinking weedkiller, just as her father-inlaw had. But throughout her highs and lows, she adhered to the cardinal rule of iconhood: to be resolutely unafraid to walk into a room and draw gasps. As fashion endured deconstruction, minimalism, casual Fridays, and the Juicy tracksuit, Blow kept herself corseted, accessorized, and shellacked to perfection, at once a woman and a work of performance art. Even in death, she remains larger than life. And to that, we tip our hats. hall of fame clockwise from top: photograph courtesy of phil poynter/art dept.; courtesy of everett collection; courtesy of craig dunsmuir/wireimage.com. http://www.wireimage.com
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