I didn’t make it to Coachella. In fact, I’ve never been and I’m sort of resigned to never going. Approximately 326 emails with Festival Fashion in the subject line have been demoted into the clogged-up Promotions folder. But that doesn’t necessarily mean the physical elements of “festival fashion” are utterly beyond me.
Around ten hours from now, I’ll be on a flight to Palm Springs bound for the Louis Vuitton cruise show. I’ll also be there again in July on holiday. Further beyond that, Port Eliot will come a-calling again in August. My head is prematurely filled with thirty degree plus sun-saturated thoughts and with that come, wafting fantasies spun out of images of Bill Gibb and Ossie Clark-esque printed volumes, the psychedelic-“ethnic” designs of Giorgio di Sant’Angelo and Veruschka in whatever far-out exotic set that Diana Vreeland might have sent her to.
Judging by the street style pics that filtered out of Coachella, I fear my eclectic tent-like print fests might be out of step with the “festival fashion” of present day. Still, when has being out of step ever deterred me. Bank Holiday Monday yielded some rays that attempted to hit my north-facing weed patch and woven in with Coach’s own festival pieces (“weave” being the operative design detail running through the accessories), I pre-empted my own garden party. One which doesn’t involved denim cut-off shorts or suede fringing. Where bargain vintage finds (£12 jumpsuit from Beyond Retro? £1 skirt from Deborah Woolf‘s archive sale) aren’t afraid to get sodden with either English de-rigeur festival rain or warm beer. And also where cats play badminton on a dress.