Fugger: Tilda Swinton

Well SWINTONed: SWINTON in Schiaparelli Couture


SWINTON, you festive bag of sass, you.

Tilda SWINTON

No, really, you look like a delightful holiday wine sack. If only Santa would pop you down my chimney with a nice tawny port and some reds and whites tucked up in there. We could have a grand old time watching Golden Girls reruns together and discussing whether St. Olaf is the greatest gift ever given to television audiences. Just the other day on Twitter I was laughing over the herring circus scene, and how Bea Arthur nearly loses it and then actually DOES lose it but manages to make it in service of the scene, and I may have shed a little mirthy tear… SWINTON and I would have such a fine old time with that. She’s a gas, I think, and the effervescent dotted froth of this frock is actually her spirit animal. Yes. Let’s go with that.

[Photo: Fame/Flynet]

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Fugs and Fabs: Celebs at the Chanel Cruise Show


Oh, Kristen Stewart. How did you get out of having to go to this?

[Photos: Getty]

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Recent Fugs and Fabs: SWINTON


I hope it doesn’t surprise you to find out that SWINTON owns a variety of fabulously warm and chic-ly shapeless coats. I imagine her home planet is as icy and majestic as her beauty.

[Photo: Fame-Flynet, INF, Getty]

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Fug and Fab: SWINTON


This is the most epic scrolldown fug, and it’s so wretched that I am going to start at the bottom and work up:

WHAT. These are shoes that are answering a question no one asked, namely, “what would happen if your shower shoes had a baby with a crow?”

The thing is, the rest of the look pretty great, you can look away from the fact that she stepped in a bird and stayed there:

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SWINTONly SWINTON’d: Guess Who?


We have a SWINTON sighting, at the Chanel couture show.

And she looks like she is wearing a San Antonio airport gift shop. She is remembering the hell out of the Alamo, and the Alamo is all, “Thank you, SWINTON, you minx, for making me feel like a baller.”

[Photo: Getty]

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SWINTerfeldly Played: SWINTON and Karl


Karl: Delicious pixie, whither the spice? DUST.

SWINTON: Hello, Karl. Your voice is the purring of the tiger I tamed last night in my living room.

Karl: True or not? Fantasy is the foreplay of reality. CLIMAX.

SWINTON: No, Karl, not until the orgy of where black and white intersect and explode into the erotic grays that shade our yens, numbering not fifty but infinity.

Karl: Your lilt intoxicates. No lemur among our planetkind could buzz my edges as you do. BLUR.

SWINTON: I feel this connection. You bring an international adapter to my plug, and together, electricity. Power. A hair dryer, keening in the wind, its purpose lost and found.

Karl: I will mourn the end of our duet. A fruit bowl broken, but not the way you think, is where poetry is born. You are the bowl, and fruit is for the wicked. PEEL.

SWINTON: So rare a bird are you that birds themselves quit, and join the circus. Promise me we’ll meet again.

Karl: Have you the feet to travel? Shoes make spirits whole. HEM.

SWINTON: Fare you well.

Karl: I bit you sad farewell, knowing I will forget we ever met. Memories are for the innocent. SIN.

 

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