Terrible person Vivien Lash asks if fat models are as useless as blind pilots
I’m as prejudiced as the next person, and who wouldn’t love Rick Owens and his Women Warriors? But I’m Shallow Not Stupid and the evil twin in me whispers that fat models are as useless as blind pilots. Clothes just don’t look good on chubsters. Diversity makes real life more interesting but fatties on the catwalk, even hardcore cool fat girls, feels like sexploitation.
I bet my Louboutins I’m not the only one seduced by Schadenfreude when I see people fatter than me on the runway.
And there’s that delightful fat burd who, fair play to her, has done a brill job editing UK Vogue for yonks. Because no one in England gives a spotted dick what they look like, right? I know, I know, I’m a terrible person…but counting chins pure cheers me up.
It’s an aesthetic opinion not a purge. I’m not saying that anyone above a size zero should be executed. (Of course not, just digitally altered.) That would be signing my own death warrant. I’m a size 2. I eat!!! (And make up lies for a living.)
Clothes just look better on coat hangers – human or plastic. Who wants a mannequin with an ass on display? That’s a blow up doll poppet, which has a different function.
Wearing clothes in real life is a different activity from selling them – which is what runway and advertising is actually for. Fashion is a business not a counselling service.
Is fat all there is left to wake up the FROWs from their appetite suppressed stupor? No. There’s ducks in dresses.
Now that I’m older and more idealistic, apart from a greater dependence on vodka and valium, I understand that taste is subjective. You can’t be too rich or too thin as skinny Wallis Simpson said. But Cristina Ricci springs to mind.
Thighs aren’t allowed in movies anymore, and is that really such a bad thing? Carrie was a horror movie in more ways than one, with the director’s wife cast as a cheerleader with thighs wobblier than my auntie’s trifle.
Yes chubsters need clothes (nudity just isn’t an option for some people) and want to look as good as possible in them. The way to achieve this apart from the obvious (Surgery!) is for designers to stock shit above size 6.
Of course the devil in me wonders if this bias towards small sizes may not be a social service? If the only way to get a decent dress is to lose a few inches maybe that’s a motivation to stop carby chow? And cash that you save not having a heart attack can be redirected to the fash budget.
Just to prove that I’m not perfect I will share a humiliating story.
Ever seen a fat burd in a mirror and realised it was you?
There I was in Selfridges wondering whether to try on Vicky Beckham’s zip dress first or cut to the chase with Roland Mouret, when I found myself in that no man’s land not quite a Size 2 and thank God – or Karl Lagerfeld – not yet a Size 4. I left the changing room in despair and saw a crazy lady in red knickers walking towards me. As she got closer, I noticed she was wearing the same Louboutins as me. And the rubies Mr Lash gave me.
Dear Reader, this crazy lady was me! In my distress about not being able to zip up Size 2 even when holding my breath I’d exited the fitting room in my underwear.
And the moral of the story, if you must have a martini at lunchtime stick to the citrus twist because an olive has 29 calories.
Vivien Lash Size 3 Eats