I don’t think I like Isaac Mizrahi very much. This is a sad thing for me because there was a time when I thought that I liked him very much (insofar as you can like someone you only know through the television and an occasional magazine profile). He was funny. He was unapologetically gay and unapologetically fabulous. He liked Gingham patterns more than was probably healthy. He brought good design to the masses in his line for Target. Perhaps most refreshing e was that unlike so many other fashion designers, who seem driven to make ridiculously beautiful men and women more ridiculously beautiful because in order to disguise their own feelings of ugliness and unworthiness, Isaac liked looking good himself. He seemed to like himself.
And yet. And yet. What does it all amount to?
There’s no Mizrahi look. There’s just a vague, if tasteful, preppy modern look that may as well be sold at Target.
There’s no distinctive Mizrahi persona. He’s the Will & Grace of gay talk show hosts—amusing, shallow, non-threatening. His particular brand of gayness has become so de rigeur that it’s barely noticeable. It’s a Halloween costume.
There’s nothing noble for which he stands. He shills for StriVectin anti-wrinkle cream; he shills for himself; and as the shilling goes on, year after year, it becomes apparent that his Target alliance has always been less a commitment to the democratization of style than a commitment to the aggrandization and enrichment of Isaac Mizrahi.
It’s true that Isaac has never seriously pretended to be anyone other than who he is — a relatively shallow, fame and money-seeking man who cares about fashion but cares about the fame and the money more. One might think, then, that it’s unfair to hold him responsible for my disillusionment. But what is celebrity if not an implicit contract to allow the public (I’m deigning to be the public in this scenario, though as you know I’m of the elite), to project onto you its fantasies, and its disappointments, in exchange for lots of money and attention.
