Behold the MM6 Maison Martin Margiela x Opening Ceremony Collection

As if Opening Ceremony didn’t have enough exciting news to write home about already, today the conceptual retailer has announced that their famed collaboration with Maison Martin Margiela’s sister label, MM6, is now available for purchase in-store and online. The capsule collection first debuted in a presentation during FW11 NYFW. Although MM6 is the Maison’s more casual and less avant-garde diffusion line, the range of apparel and accessories maintains that offbeat edge we know and love from the Belgian design house.

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OC and MM6’s unmatched creativity is apparent in the 3-in-1 approach they’ve adopted for most pieces, transforming them into wearable separates, like the faux fur coat that contains a detachable v-neck shirt and the leather tote with a tear-away clutch. The e-tail styling is pretty clever, too; the strips covering the model’s eyes reminds us of the Terence Koh masks that were created to conceal the identity of the models featured in Alex Wang’s e-shop.

Shop the complete collection, ranging from $174 to $1,420, here.

Alexander Wang’s New Website Is an Interactive Capsule of Cool

Let’s just agree to call 2011 the Year of Wang. After Alexander Wang’s successful New York Fashion Week show, the opening of his first stand-alone boutique, and a GQ Best New Menswear Designer win for his diffusion line, T by Alexander Wang, you’d think the 26-year-old designer would rest on his laurels. Instead, today marks the launch of his new and improved website, and damn, it’s sharp.

Designed by interactive digital agency Createthe Group [sic], the site includes three sections: Shop, Collections, and Studio. Shop is an e-commerce hub that includes RTW and accessories from Wang’s mainline, as well as mens- and womenswear from his T line. Collections is home to the 2010-2011 seasonal archives, including lookbooks and runway videos. And then there’s Studio, which is sure to keep visitors coming back for more. This section includes the brand’s latest news, campaigns, videos—like the current behind-the-scenes documentary featuring model Ashley Smith and pretty boy DJ/producer Diplo—and a space for special projects.

The first of these projects is a running-mask series designed by experimental artist Terence Koh, which begun after Wang tapped Koh to create a mask to obscure the identities of models within the e-commerce section in order to avoid usage rights issues. Always one to think out of the box, Koh produced a neon light structure for each model to wear that cast an outward illumination, inspired by Wang’s SS11 collection.

Check out the site here and follow the brand on twitter for more info.

Buy a Terence Koh Artwork on the Cheap

For those of us high on taste and low on disposable income, this past year has offered up a wealth of online shops with sales on designer duds: The Outnet, Reserve, and Privé, to name a few. So it makes good sense that the next iteration of living beyond your means, à la characters in a Bret Easton Ellis novel, would be the same e-sale model applied to art. Enter Exhibition A.

Exhibition A sells limited-edition series from a catalog of well-known artists. Catering to a previously unfilled niche, the site aims to bring high-brow art to the hoi polloi at a reduced cost. Most pieces are only available for four weeks or until sold out – no new prints will be made.

If your biggest hurdle to becoming an art collector (aside from the prohibitive cost) is the fear that your new acquisition will depreciate over time, the team at Exhibition A has done the legwork for you — they aim to feature artwork “sought after by serious collectors,” such as the currently-available print by Terence Koh, starting at $100. New artists’ pieces are added to the site every Monday, so check back often to get started on your art collection. Trust me, your retirement-age self will thank you.

Visionaire’s Halloween Party at MoMA PS1

There were many small candles on the steps of MoMA PS1 on the night of the Visionaire Halloween Party last Saturday. The party for this legendary fashion”bookzine”—each issue of which is designed by an artist or fashion designer— coincided with MOVE!, a live performance-based art and fashion event on Saturday and Sunday at MoMA PS1 featuring collaborations between designers and artists. Projected on the side of the building was a scene from a film—a woman speaking to someone in a serious and worried way. She flickered against the wall in warm tones and was gone. We followed a bloodied bride up the stairs and indoors, where someone screamed, “Help me!” The stairwell was not completely dark but not light. I heard it again. It was a recording. When we reached the top a server offered us Belvedere “Fairytale” cocktails from a small round tray. The frosted highball glasses had been chilled.

From the dark hallway you could see the light from the gallery, where most of the guests were gathered, and which, once inside, was bright and large. Around the edges of the room were white wood rectangular structures on which people sat, danced, or put their drinks. At either end of the room was a table of endlessly replenished glasses of alcohol—Belvedere cocktails at one end, Veuve Cliquot champagne on the other. Because the room was square, “walking around” felt more purposeless than usual. Still, people twirled their fingers at each other to say I’m-going-to-walk-around-the-room-now.

By the Veuve Cliquot table stood a man with a pillow tied to his neck. Kate turned him toward us by his shoulder. “I’m a bed bug,” he said. He had a drawing of a bug’s belly on his t-shirt. His friend, whose head was encased in an intricate black shellacked headdress and looked like the alien in Alien, said in a foreign accent that he was a Shaman. Their female friend waved her hand and smiled and said she was “Victorian-looking.” One man in a silvery skintight lamé outfit vogued on the white structures. He had two small monitors on his chest and one near his crotch that played videos and seemed like an homage to Nam June Paik’s TV-Bra for his “Living Sculpture.” He had a lamé bundle on his head around which he moved his hands in a “Vogue”-type way. He stuck his leg out and with control and concentration lunged forward slowly. He froze and someone took a picture.

We took glasses of champagne. They were the kind that could have easily been arranged in a champagne tower. But these were being taken too quickly to be arranged in any way in particular. Cecilia Dean walked in. She was in what looked like an actual ballerina dress from a production of Swan Lake with a stiff radius of white tulle around her and a molded hairpiece of black and white feathers. I thought maybe she was one of Hans Christian Anderson’s Wild Swans. No one could kiss her because of the obstacle of her skirt. She stood inside the main room, or outside the entrance to the main room. Sometimes she smiled. But mostly she stood silently.

Across the hall from the main room was a similarly cubed gallery where two people dressed as Teletubbies (one pink, one blue) stood and drank champagne. I lifted an invitation off the table. It was a black square with a lenticular photograph of two images, one of a person in a pale bear mask with pink lipstick and the other of a person in a ghost sheet. It was a still from Hellish by James Franco and Carter. I wondered if that was the film projected on the front of the building as we entered.

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Kate and I walked around looking into other galleries. One room was empty except for several old-style mirrors in shiny frames. I looked in a tall one and then in a squat one. In the next room, a woman in black pants with a mic strapped to her head was talking at us loudly, “Models, get ready,” she said. “Go, go go.” We walked down what felt like a runway but was enclosed on all sides by soft blue walls. At the end of the walkway there was a camera. Kate sached as if she was a model. I just walked. We turned and walked off into a darkened room that had two projections flickering on either wall and an elegant British voice singing “I feel pretty, oh so pretty,” from My Fair Lady. The screen showed footage from a previous Marc Jacobs fashion show with editors and celebrities in the front row. On the runway the party-guests were superimposed to look like they were walking the runway. Runway Kate sached towards us as real Kate took a picture of runway Kate as she got to the end of the runway. A man in front of me and Kate had a large red afro-wig. “Hi,” he said. “You don’t recognize me, but you were in my house for a party a few weeks ago.” It was the artist Izhar Patkin. We were in the Rob Pruitt and Marc Jacobs installation for MOVE! called “Looks.”

Back in the big room, a beautiful woman dressed all in black in a Spanish mantilla walked across the room worried as if she was a mourning widow. To our left a man in a gorilla suit had taken his head off and crossed his legs and was talking casually to a man in a doctor’s lab coat. A man whose suit was covered entirely in small round mirrors walked in. “I wonder what that’s like with a flash,” said Kate. I saw a friend. He was in a red jacket and hat and had crazy hair. “Who are you?” I said. “Cody Critcheloe from SSION.” (He pronounced it “shun,” like he was emphasizing the last syllable of the word FASHION.) He had gotten a Cheryl make-over earlier that day at the Cheryl installation with American Apparel at MOVE! He made a twirling motion with his hand and walked away.

Wearing a cardboard waffle, the model Anouck Lepere walked in. She tilted a can of whipped cream into the mouth of a guy next to her, lifted her eyebrow, and jutted out her hip. Several flashes went off. Next to her was a shorter blonde woman dressed as an orange across which was written “Joosie.” Many people came up to them and kissed their cheeks. They hardly had to move.

“You look like a whore, too,” I heard someone say. I turned around but no one was there. Two people with pink conical headdresses had arrived in the room and stood on the white structures surveying the crowd.

Three astronauts walked in. Their outfits commanded immediate respect. “I want to dance with an astronaut,” said Kate. “Hi,” I said to one of the astronauts. “My friend wants to dance with an astronaut.” They danced. I walked downstairs. The artist Terence Koh walked in front of me down the stairs and smiled. He was wearing what looked like a bed sheet wrapped around his body and draped across one shoulder. With him was a man in a sharp blue yachtsman’s cap. Outside Terence Koh said he was going to be home by midnight, which he said he tries to do these days. He has perfect smooth skin. I asked him what his next project was and he said in a quiet, gentle voice, “Tomorrow. Here. At MOVE!”

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MOVE! MoMA PS1 Sunday October 31, 2010 2:30pm

“Come in,” a woman said to me. “He’s about to drop paint.” I walked in and sat down for the Cynthia Rowley/Olaf Breuning installation at MOVE! a two-day performance-based exhibit at MoMA PS1, which involved twelve collaborations between artists and fashion designers. People waited. A model in a dress walked into a wood stall and arranged herself like a doll, holding her skirt out. People lifted their cameras. The artist Olaf Breuning climbed a ladder and stood over her holding a can of paint. People stopped talking. Olaf Breuning talked casually about white paint. Cameras got steady. He talked about gold paint. Then he poured white and then gold paint over the model. Camera shutters fluttered for several seconds. People clapped and walked out. We exited through a sun-lit corridor where racks of paint-splattered dresses hung with tags as if for sale.

Hung in an ordered and symmetrical manner along one wall at the Cheryl/American Apparel installation were long hairpieces in blonde, brunette and chestnut. Large mirrors were dotted with cosmetic lights where make-up artists were applying glitter and teasing fake hair into glamorous nests. “The Makeover You Never Knew You Wanted” was a “psycho-immersive” environment created by Cheryl and American Apparel. Cheryl, the artists and blood-and-glitter party entrepreneurs, had thrown their own Halloween party the night before—Cherylween III. “We had over eight-hundred people,” Stina Puotinen told me about the Halloween party. “[The Bell House] was at capacity.” She had glitter on her lips. Zig-zagged in the front of the room were racks of American Apparel t-shirts, leggings and bodysuits in nude and white donated for makeovers. At the far end was a stage set with a camera and photo umbrella in front of which the face of a glittered subject lit up as the flash popped.

In another gallery exhibiting the installation by Telfar + Lizzie Fitch, Rhett Larue, Fatima Al Qadiri, Ryan Trecartin & Leilah Weinraub, four people dressed in heavy white monk-like tunics held long gold poles. Each person held his or her pole so that the tip of one person’s pole touched the tip of another person’s pole. The four people moved slowly across the gallery floor connected like this and concentrating on the tips of their poles.

At the installation by Terence Koh and designer Italo Zucchelli for Calvin Klein, two men covered entirely in silver paint including their hands, feet and long sheaths walked slowly toward each other and then away from each other in a straight line in a room that was empty except for two beams of light. They repeated this movement. They walked slowly back and forth as droning conceptual electronic music filled the room. Sometimes when the men met at the center of the room they said things to each other only they could hear and smiled or laughed but in a way that didn’t break the composure required for the piece. Sometimes I could hear the sound of their feet against the floor or could hear only the music. Sometimes the light beams gathered in startling conical clusters around their heads. I took a flashless picture. “Excuse me,” said a man next to me. “Can I take a picture of you taking a picture?” I nodded and took another picture.

Photo courtesy of Guest of a Guest.

Terence Koh Love Poems, Michel Gondry, & More at NY Art Book Fair

imageWhile the New York Art Book Fair in theory may sound a bit stuffy or craft corner-ish to some, it’s actually quite the opposite. Sponsored by Chelsea-based imprint, gallerist, and bookstore Printed Matter, the event opens tonight and will continue through Sunday on the 3rd floor of Phillips de Pury & Company. Printed Matter describes the assortment as comprised of “contemporary art books, art catalogs, artists’ books, art periodicals, and ‘zines offered for sale by over 140 international publishers, booksellers, and antiquarian dealers.” Not much of a collector, or a fan of art books for that matter? No biggie. The weekend is chock-full of unique events anyone can appreciate.

Tonight, following a preview of the fair (tickets are $20, and sales will benefit Printed Matter) at Phillips, everyone’s favorite fag rag Butt is throwing an after-party at the Boiler Room starting at 9:30 p.m., where there’ll be $3 drinks and a free new issue of Butt for the first 50 guests. Meanwhile, back at the fair, the likes of Butt and over 100 other queer and punk indie rags will be on view as part of the exhibit “Queer Zines.” Also in attendance: uber-cool London-based bi-annual contemporary art and culture magazine Useless, who will set up shop at booth T166. They’ll be selling their 8th issue, which features everyone from Joana Preiss and Klaus Biesenbach to Isabel Toledo and the Crystal Slits.

Feeling a little lonely? Stop by Los Angeles boutique and publisher Ooga Booga’s booth, Y3, at 5:30 p.m. on Saturday, where artist Terence Koh will write you a “Secret Love Poem” for a mere $10. Also, either before or after you procure your Koh-note, head downstairs to Saturday@Phillips to preview a slew of artworks up for auction. The works in question come from a range of collections that include Vogue’s Hamish Bowles and Opening Ceremony’s Humberto Leon and Carol Lim. Whatever you do hit, all film buffs beware: Save energy for Sunday, when at 4 p.m. director Michel Gondry will be on hand to sign his new tome, You’ll Like The Film Because You’re In It.

BlackBook’s 2008 Style Gallery

Designer Jean Paul Gaultier once said, rather famously, “It’s always the badly dressed people who are the most interesting.” Here, a style gallery that begs to differ, filled with artists, eccentrics, beatniks, showgirls, gypsies, hipsters — and one very dapper man of the cloth.

DITA VON TEESE, actress, model, burlesque queen, photographed at The Way We Wore vintage store in Los Angeles. (See our extended interview with Dita.) Dita Von Teese speaks with a blue-collar lilt, which does little to suggest the curvy, reigning empress of burlesque who controls gaggles of fans while splashing around in Brobdingnagian champagne glasses, sponge in hand. But then she says, revealing her circean charm, “I’m sitting here, having just rolled out of bed, wearing a vintage slip. I don’t have any makeup on, my hair is probably a disaster, but that doesn’t mean I’ll put on a tracksuit simply because no one’s looking. I don’t know why everyone wants me to wear jeans so badly.” Born Heather Renée Sweet in Rochester, Michigan, Teese trained to become a professional ballet dancer before landing her first strip-club gig. “Ten years ago,” she says, “you could have paid $20 for me to sit on your lap any night of the week. So it would be rude of me to say, I’m not a stripper, I’m a burlesque queen.” Today, however, the self-styled, 35-year-old star is more likely to be found working the red carpet than a greasy pole. “I never wanted to be a little girl, ever,” says Teese, of her Old Hollywood look. “A lot of my friends were into the whole schoolgirl fantasy — ponytails and the whole thing. I wouldn’t be caught dead! I’m a grown woman. I know who I am and I’ve known for a long time.”

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SARAH SOPHIE FLICKER, trapeze artist, filmmaker, founding member of the Citizens Band, photographed in her Canal Street office, New York City.

Deep within Sarah Sophie Flicker’s palatial apartment in downtown Manhattan, amidst the hoards of rare showgirl costumes and shimmering accessories, hangs a trapeze. Its owner, a trapeze artist and founder of New York’s burlesque troupe the Citizens Band (supermodel Karen Elson is a member; actress Zooey Deschanel has performed with them), often dons a sequined cat mask that sits cocked atop her head — it’s one of her many extravagant headpieces. “I have this really amazing showgirl costume with a matching star headband,“ she says. “I found it on eBay when I was pregnant, like, outrageously gigantic. And it just happened to come in the mail right when my daughter was born. So I connect the two. It’s stupid, but I do.” Overrun with vintage pieces — chorus girl bloomers from the 1920s and suffragette costumes — the storage space that houses Flicker’s theatrical wardrobe reflects her fertile imagination. “I’ve always had a really rich fantasy life,” she says, “and I only like wearing things that make me feel like I’m in another time, from another place — the star of my own fairy tale. I’ll wake up and think, I want to be a farm girl from the 1930s.”

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REVEREND AL SHARPTON, TV personality, radio host, social justice activist, photographed in his office at the National Action Network in Harlem, New York City. (See our extended interview with the Rev.)

Reverend Al Sharpton seems an unlikely style icon, to be sure. In his youth, the Brooklyn native was often photographed in tracksuits, heavy medallions dangling from his substantial neck. Today, the 53-year-old civil rights activist and Democratic candidate for the 2004 presidential election has embraced a more subtle, distinguished look. And he’ll be the first to admit that clothes, even if they don’t quite make the man, can leave lasting impressions. “I try to wear outfits that make the statement I’m looking to make,” he says. “If I’m going on Larry King Live to make a point about Obama, I might wear a very plain suit and tie — best not to get in the way of your message. At a march, however, I might wear a flashy walking suit because people are going to see me leading the way. I may want to give a statement of anger, so I’m going to dress in a safari-like number. I sometimes want to appeal to mercy, in which case I’ll dress more ministerial. Anyone in the public eye who doesn’t think about their physical presence is inept.” Despite changes to his look, one constant remains: that lush, iconic head of hair, an homage to his mentor, the late James Brown. “I kept my hair like Brown’s when a lot of my Black Nationalist friends felt that was inappropriate,” says Sharpton, who stars in this month’s HBO documentary, The Black List. “I’ve always defined myself.”

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TERENCE KOH, artist, photographed at his studio in Chinatown, New York City.

Manhattan galleries brim with characters, none of whom come close to capturing the eccentric magic (and sartorial insanity) of Canadian artist Terence Koh. Formerly known as “asianpunkboy,” Koh has exhibited his work — everyday objects covered in his bodily fluids; a neon rooster titled “Big White Cock” — throughout the world’s most hallowed art halls. And while his controversial creations have won praise from critics, it’s his inimitable personal style — improbable costumes made from human hair, Cossack fur hats and iMac cable cord scarves — that sets him apart from the black smock set. When asked about the relationship between high art and high fashion, he says, “The sun lights the moon as the moon lights the sun.” Okay, but how does the 28-year-old provocateur express himself through the clothes he wears? “I repeat, when you clap your hands, they make an impact.”

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LOU DOILLON, model, actor, designer, musician, photographed at her apartment in Paris, France.

Lou Doillon’s corporeal list of role models includes empowered icons like Queen Elizabeth I, Dorothy Parker and Mary Queen of Scots. (“Mary had a crimson petticoat made for her execution, so that it would match her blood,” she says. “I live for those kind of anecdotes.”) The 26-year-old daughter of Jane Birkin and French film director Jacques Doillon, who became famous at the age of 15 for her piercings, dreadlocks and petulance, has recently retired from the spotlight to indulge her creativity. “I have a strict policy in my home — no television and no press. I’d rather stay isolated and dream away the next collection.” Having recently wrapped Lettres Intimes, her one-woman theatrical show throughout France and readying herself to start filming a movie in September, the former face of Givenchy and Miu Miu has also begun designing her own clothes, the Lee Cooper by Lou Doillon collection. Inspired by tomboys, train tracks and Jeanne Moreau in Jules et Jim, her pieces range from cheeky high-waisted shorts to long T-shirts fitted with thumbholes. “I never wanted to create clothes just for skinny girls with no boobs,” she says of the line, adding, “I always have a hard time keeping a style once it’s become ‘trendy.’ I feel like all the personality slips away when everyone is doing it. But that’s because I’m egotistical and I always like to be somewhat off.”

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THE WATSON TWINS, musicians, photographed in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. When Chandra and Leigh Watson (known professionally as the Watson Twins) were asked to dress alike for their BlackBook photo shoot because, well, symmetry seemed cute, they balked at the idea. Chandra, describing their stint as back-up singers for Rilo Kiley songbird Jenny Lewis, says, shuddering, “When Jenny told us that we were going to be wearing the same costumes, we were mortified. We were like, You can’t do this to us!” But as they quit Los Angeles this past summer for a brief American tour in support of their latest album, Fire Songs, focus shifted toward having to reinvent their look. On their first tour they dressed in white, exclusively, but this time around, Leigh asks, “How can you wear the same three items of clothing every single day and still look fresh?” Their aesthetic, inspired by singer-songwriters like Stevie Nicks, Carly Simon and Belinda Carlisle, stems from a mix-and-match indifference about wearing “a really high-end designer or something we found in a store for five dollars,” says Chandra. How best, then, to move past their obvious similarities? “It’s a fine line,” she says. “We want people to recognize us as individuals, but also as a duo.” Might they avoid the whole twin thing by parting ways and going solo? After a few seconds of silence, Leigh says, near whisper, “Never say never.”

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SIGUR ROS, musicians, photographed in Reykjavík, Iceland.

They cut dashing figures as a kind of gonzo marching band, but such was not always the case for Sigur Rós. The minimalist Icelandic quartet was once, in fact, pure grunge. “We used to wander on stage in whatever we’d been wearing for the previous day or two… and not just from one day to the next, but from one year to the next,” says Georg Holm (top left), the band’s bass guitarist, now revamped into a foppish 19th-century milliner. Tired of the routine — and suspect hygiene, perhaps — they began retooling their live show from the ground up, which meant taking a critical look at their collective style. They even chose to trade in their ratty T-shirts for flamboyant costumes created by Icelandic designer Hrafnhildur Arnardóttir. When asked to describe the new aesthetic, a rather perfect if unexpected reflection of their ghostly sound, Holm stops to think. “Let’s see,” he says. “Jónsi [Birgisson, guitarist and vocalist] looks like a Victorian chimney sweep, Kjartan [Sveinsson, keyboardist] adopted a kind of classical composer garb (or sometimes a super sleek Helmut Lang skintight affair) and Orri [Páll Dýrason, drummer] has a variety of outfits stretching from The Karate Kid to The Lost Boys.”

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RITA ACKERMANN, artist, photographed at her studio in Chinatown, New York City.

“I’m an exquisite walking corpse drawing,” says Rita Ackermann. The Hungarian-born, New York-based artist, who was featured at this year’s Whitney Biennal, has created buzz for her idiosyncratic renderings of pubescent girls, her audacious ensembles and, of course, the red ballpoint pen she’s applied to runway models’ faces (“I’m still surprised that I don’t see more people wearing ballpoint pen makeup,” she shrugs). Known for her singular, rococo brand of style, she says, “There are no clothes that I consider outrageous. My favorite page in tabloids is ‘When Bad Clothes Happen to Good People.’ I have a funny bikini that I wear all summer with popsicles on it saying ‘Lick Me.’ Is that outrageous?” Her most prized possession is a custom-made, pink couture suit she bought for $30. The two-piece costume once belonged, appropriately, to Ilona Staller (stage name Cicciolina), a Hungarian porn star turned democratic politician who was once married to artist Jeff Koons. Ackermann says, “She had put it up for auction to bail out her pop singer girlfriend from jail.”

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JACKSON POLLIS, musician, model, deejay, photographed at his apartment in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

Jackson Pollis, 18, has a thick nest of blond hair. He often wears clunky, black glasses. These two facts, more than anything, have come to define the Brooklyn-based drummer for rock quartet Frankpollis, once known as “Action Jackson,” an honorary member of New York’s raven-topped deejay trio the MisShapes. And despite close friendships with fashion types — “Ag [supermodel Agyness Deyn] is probably the sole reason I know anything about what is happening in the fashion world” — Pollis pays little attention to what transpires under the tents at Bryant Park. Of his look, and the inexorable comparisons to late pop art icon Andy Warhol, he shrugs, “Warhol’s cool, but I like Keith Haring more. I also like simple, early ’90s stuff, the style of Pavement or Sonic Youth.” When asked to predict the evolution of his own aesthetic, he says, “Maybe I’ll start wearing JNCO jeans again, or UFO pants. At some point in the future, I’ll be wearing white cargo shorts, sandals with white socks and a golf visor. That’s inevitable.”

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RINKO KIKUCHI, actor, photographed in Nakano, Tokyo, Japan.

Rinko Kikuchi is a woman of few words. But, as the 26-year-old Japanese actress proved in her Academy Award-nominated turn as a deaf-mute in Alejandro González Iñárritu’s sprawling 2006 epic, Babel, reticence is a virtue. Kikuchi conveys more unfettered emotion with her haunting, deep-set brown eyes, framed by that angular black mane, than any inflected, histrionic actress of her generation. In next month’s rollicking crime caper, The Brothers Bloom, starring Adrien Brody, Mark Ruffalo and Rachel Weisz, the seasoned motorcyclist and sword-fighter again minces few words as Bang Bang, a feisty con artist who, appropriately, loves to blow things up. Taking a break from filming her next movie in Bangkok, Thailand, the face of Chanel’s 2008 Cruise collection says of her style, “I wear what I want to wear depending on how I’m feeling. I love YSL, Alexander McQueen and Martin Margiela.” And despite wholly embracing vintage outfits from the 1960s and 1970s, she looks equally stunning in more quirky fare. Of her most outrageous ensemble, she says, smiling, “That would have to be my red and white bodysuit.”