If I’d known Jean Paul Gaultier was going to send this model down the runway, I would have dropped a thou and hopped on an overnight flight to Paris just to sneek in.
Not because I am mean-spirited, but because I would have just loved to see the front row reactions, everyone completely unsure what to do: laugh to demonstrate that they got the clever joke, look aghast as they pray that being in the room with so much cellulite won’t make them gain half a pound themselves, or look to Anna for guidance and mimic her stern (shielded by tinted Chanels) poker face. I imagine at least one socialite swallowed her own Orbitz-citrus-gum-and-nicotine-flavored-vomit. They would, of course, want to laugh, as it is a poignant satire on the skinny model debate, but
Me? I’d be rolling over the runway with laughter—not at Galliano’s statement, but at every fashion type who takes themselves much too seriously.
(What is Gaultier’s message? Was it threatening: “this is what happens when the world rejects skinny models;†tongue-in-cheek: “well, you all asked for more body types;†or a more thoughtful stance: “extremism in body forms is unhealthy—either be it rail-thin skinny or morbidly obese?â€)