Granted, Andrej Pejic is beautiful. Men are, in my opinion. But Andrej Pejic is not a woman.
So here lies my unease. Andrej is the newest young thing to grace the catwalks of S/S ’11, he is unarguably stunning; blonde, chiselled and a sample size six. Andrej spends most of his working hours not walking in menswear, but in women’s. And he wears it well.
In my mind Andrej has created an uncomfortable dichotomy. Men in dresses have never bothered me. Some of the best have had dalliances with a smudge of eyeliner or a tight skirt, and I’m not afraid to say I spent the majority of my teenage years holding a very bright flame for Brian Molko. Actually thinking about it, my problem has very little to do with Andrej, and a lot more to do with what he represents.
Whether we like it or not, high fashion dilutes itself into all of our lives. Like music, art and film, it portrays the zeitgeist of our times. What we're doing, what we’re thinking, what we want. A few years ago size zero was where it was at. We wondered at the privileged few that could afford such expensive starvation. As that tide of opinion recedes, the next epitome of a beautiful woman has become apparent. And it’s not even a woman. And that’s my problem with Andrej Pejic.
I reach the big 20 in S/S ’11; my body is more woman now than it has ever been. Bad timing, on my part. It looks like I’ll have to look elsewhere for style advice this year.
Maybe Bella Freud had a point in the recent article she wrote for The Times Style magazine, regarding an encounter with a young Swiss-French woman, “As she talked, her brilliance and resourcefulness sparkled around her, like the aura that surrounds Tinkerbell in the Peter Pan film. I found myself thinking, “Who needs Giselle when you could marry a woman like this?” Someone so clever and constructive that you could bask in the contentment of their competence.” Well put Bella Freud, well put. I might not be able to avoid my body’s development, but I can make sure my mind travels with it.