Fashion-Forward * Edge-Wise * En-Vogue
AllSaints had me at the vintage sewing machines display, I got so lost in the steam punk decor style, I forgot to look at the clothes (a confession from the fashion addict about to invade the guest closet in her house). Hours donated by me to my Canon photographing every crook and cranny of the store: the industrial-chic stage lights' vantage view from the ceiling to the stained bathroom tiles lining the dressing rooms. Love is this right here: style renegades in the city that nurses silicone and calls it fashion.
Of course then the clothes happened to me, in visions of alluring sales girls dressed in silk dresses and combat boots. Any Vegas store with the bravado to put its women in silk dresses and combat boots owns me. In my fantasy, there is a third-generation quiet English sartorialist who tailors all these clothes, patiently and nervously, in his second-floor loft in Nottinghill.
AllSaints is not cheap, like a charming stranger who turns emotionally unavailable after your life-changing tryst. Somehow you want to pay for it, even if that means selling your soul, or just that classic Chanel your mother gave you.