Jeffrey Monteiro and the people from Blass have waited for the dust to clear or the editors to exit town before staging yet another presentation of that lame duck they refer to as
Bill Blass couture. This time they've gingerly stepped from Lincoln Center's Box and a still life presentation for last spring to the Monkey Bar. This being like the once chic stomping ground of Pat, Nan, Chessy, Mica, and Babs they probably hoped that the collection would be blessed by the muses of Bill's heyday. I think they should have saved their money and car fare by keeping these depressing clothes under wraps in their warehouse somewhere on Fifth. I'll go a step further
and say that they should have saved their money and not bothered to produce this 'Line" that is little more than a poor imitation of faux-fashion that could be attributed to a once great designer if one is standing in a blackened room with
a bag tied securely over ones head. I watched the women in the back ground almost as closely as the clothes to see if I was alone in my skepticism. For the most part they appeared only mildly interested which is more than I can say for myself. Jeffrey Monteiro may be a designer with skill and talent, but up until now that skill and talent is yet to make itself known. The cuts, proportions and banal design choices that make up the line are so spectacularly weak I'm only able to wonder what the company has in mind. If there are no ideas in the collective imaginations of the design room then why not resort to the patterns and pieces from the archive? Oh, I forgot. Those patterns were last seen spilling from a dumpster on a side street in the garment district. There's nothing that disturbs me more than bad design run amok. Someone should go out and subdue this creature before someone gets hurt.
Jeffrey Monteiro and the people from Blass have waited for the dust to clear or the editors to exit town before staging yet another presentation of that lame duck they refer to as Bill Blass couture. This time they've gingerly stepped from Lincoln Center's Box and a still life presentation for last spring to the Monkey Bar. This being like the once chic stomping ground of Pat, Nan, Chessy, Mica, and Babs they probably hoped that the collection would be blessed by the muses of Bill's heyday. I think they should have saved their money and car fare by keeping these depressing clothes under wraps in their warehouse somewhere on Fifth. I'll go a step further
and say that they should have saved their money and not bothered to produce this 'Line" that is little more than a poor imitation of faux-fashion that could be attributed to a once great designer if one is standing in a blackened room with 
a bag tied securely over ones head. I watched the women in the back ground almost as closely as the clothes to see if I was alone in my skepticism. For the most part they appeared only mildly interested which is more than I can say for myself. Jeffrey Monteiro may be a designer with skill and talent, but up until now that skill and talent is yet to make itself known. The cuts, proportions and banal design choices that make up the line are so spectacularly weak I'm only able to wonder what the company has in mind. If there are no ideas in the collective imaginations of the design room then why not resort to the patterns and pieces from the archive? Oh, I forgot. Those patterns were last seen spilling from a dumpster on a side street in the garment district. There's nothing that disturbs me more than bad design run amok. Someone should go out and subdue this creature before someone gets hurt.
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