AngloMania

Battling late summer lethargy and the post-vacation blues, I resolved to tick off some items on my “Things to Do Before Labor Day” agenda. First up was a visit to AngloMania: Tradition and Transgression in British Fashion at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I had been anticipating its opening since a selection of featured pieces by Vivienne Westwood, John Galliano and Hussein Chalayan were first unveiled in the May issue of Vogue. The July installment of that venerable publication included a multi-page spread of candid photos from the Met’s Costume Institute Gala, the “Party of the Year” attended by nearly 1000 movie stars, royalty and fashion luminaries and inspired by the exhibition.

I prefer to drop by the Met on Friday and Saturday evenings when the galleries aren’t cleared until 8:45 pm. Chamber music performances (usually by Juilliard students) can be enjoyed along with a cocktail on the second floor balcony, and the sculpture garden in the American wing at twilight is one of my absolute favorite places in the city. The Japanese area is also quite romantically lit (boys take note). Controversy has swirled of late around the raising of the museum’s suggested admission price to $20; like all good New Yorkers, I forked over a single GW and made my way to the English period rooms, once the lavish interiors of actual British estates.

A Union Jack topcoat designed for David Bowie by Alexander McQueen greeted me at the exhibit’s entrance. The theme of deconstructed convention continued throughout each display. Traditional garments from the first wave of European Anglomania in the late eighteenth century were shown alongside examples of modern British fashion, represented by Westwood, Galliano, Chalayan, Stella McCartney and Christopher Bailey for Burberry. Of course there were plenty of whimsical hats, by Phillip Treacy and Stephen Jones, and footwear by Manolo Blahnik. The floor plan and explanatory placards were haphazard at best, but the sheer beauty and ingenuity of the clothes overshadowed any presentational missteps. Ever the pragmatist, to me the most desirable pieces were the supremely wearable rather than haute couture: the caramel Burberry fox-trimmed trench from the upcoming season (very equestrian chic, like the first look Madonna wore on her Confessions tour) and a Stella McCartney three piece ivory tuxedo (perfect for onstage). I spent several rapt minutes gazing at an exquisitely detailed ivory satin and black velvet gown from the turn of the century. Made by Charles Frederick Worth, even Scarlett O’Hara would have had difficulty squeezing into its miniscule waistline.

Whether or not you're planning to view AngloMania before it closes on September 4, I recommend visiting the Met’s website to hear Sex Pistol Johnny Rotten’s hilarious pontifications on straitjackets, safety pins and the monarchy. I couldn’t resist picking up the exhibition’s accompanying CD, a collection spanning thirty years of British pop. It includes a cross section of what I consider to be the greatest songs of all time: Culture Club’s “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me”, Duran Duran’s “Girls on Film” and Thomas Dolby’s “She Blinded Me With Science”, although the Sex Pistols are oddly absent. The disc opens with “Praise You” by Fatboy Slim, a tune that became synonymous with fashion in 1999 as the soundtrack to Cindy Crawford’s runway return in the Ellen Tracy 50th anniversary show.

Later that evening, after leaving the museum, I happened to pass a woman on the sidewalk wearing a Galliano for Dior newsprint tee, a pattern featured on several pieces in the exhibit. En route to meet a friend, I dashed across Madison Ave, my black plaid Burberry umbrella shielding me from the warm summer rain.