A couture Christmas season

It’s unavoidable, and it’s already begun. The bells, ribbons, presents, and wishes. Next are the TV specials, family newsletters; picture perfect parades. But before the busy and the boastful start their culturally specific consumption, we gather in the fresh cold to watch city winter begin.

The Holt Renfrew windows, a street-side peek into the fantasy of fashion. Our alter of endless high-end everything, the team who tells the wealthy what to wear. Covered up and caged in we count down to the reveal.

It’s some mindless mix of animal heads and mirrors, penguins and pearls shown. There are igloos and ice queens an imitation of Miss Wintour. Inside the boxes are lacey legging, leather gloves, and a singing snowman choir.

We’ll stand and stare on another afternoon, decide to walk away. The crowds crawl in and we shiver off, songs still playing in our heads. If this dreadful, dreary time of year must come, at least it does with style, you think, shuffling to tune.

And with that you walk away, satisfied with the corporate song-and-dance.

Que Leslie Feist,

I feel it all, the wings are wide, wild credit card inside…

*Updated with photos taken days later, after the crowds had died down