The Peanut Gallery

Sure enough, before John Galliano can get comfortable in his suite at Chateau du ReHab the twittering hordes are tweeting about who will succeed him. What no one seems to realize is that this is the virtual end of an era. Sure, we have Karl Lagerfeld and Ralph Rucci as the last standing couturiers and not ones who will disappear into ignominy any time soon. But purely as an artist working in the grand, classical tradition of the couture, Galliano has no other peer. All of the others have retired or expired. The news of his immediate plans for rehab is for him the best news so far and his career should take a back seat to his compromised mental health. I am saddened that the whole idea of rehab has been re purposed as a veritable drive-in car wash for people in the public eye; washing and waxing the exterior with little or no time taken for detailing the interior. I'm not for a moment condoning his pathetic rants or obvious madness but I'm also not remotely fascinatedat this moment by who might replace him. The public's morbid fascination with the next "victim" for this dull bladed meat grinder we all know of as Fashion is equally disturbing. This event is a blight and a tale that cautions precious few. It feels like a perverse game of musical chairs with players scrambling blindly for anything that resembles a chair. I mourn the passing of an age that we will shortly only be able to access through coffee table books and videos. Perhaps the cheap seats have a more preferable view than the front row.