A few months back, Stella McCartney threw open the doors of her English countryside manse to Bruce Weber, and by extension, all of the readers of Vogue. If she wanted to compound the real estate envy she engendered in the viewing public, she did a very good job with her pre-fall presentation, shown to a throng of gawkers in a sprawling, four-floor loft in the West Village. Models gossiped in front of screens playing A Streetcar Named Desire; a pair boogied at a bedroom platter party to vintage Bowie LPs; Arizona Muse and Hanne Gaby Odiele toasted marshmallows in a roaring fire. Tables overflowed with macarons and chocolates from England's Charbonnel et Walker.
Looking beyond the charming tableaux vivants, this was in fact an eminently commercial collection, almost to a fault. But if there were no surprises along the lines of the citrus print she showed on her Spring runway, the McCartney standards were tweaked and trotted out in fine new form: boxy double-breasted coats in camel and Prince of Wales check in longer iterations, thick-gauge sweater dresses, pretty little silk shifts that showed plenty of leg. Long-sleeved wool dresses with apron tops managed to emphasize the bust while revealing not an inch—neat trick. The overall mood might be termed "young ladylike," from the polite fern prints to the chunky-heeled pumps gilded with gold-bordered soles.
