Prada's pretty woman
|By Jay B Sauceda via here|
The polished, porcelain clerk behind the counter looked at her through her impossibly long eyelashes.
"May I help you?"
"The entire fall collection," she murmured.
Heaving her weather stained backpack up onto the glass counter, she rummaged around the interior until she found a thin, black card and placed it precisely on the counter.
"I'd like the entire fall collection. I'm not sure what I'm going to like so I'd like to just buy it all - to save time," she tapped out impatiently.
The clerk examined the card suspiciously and then snapped to attention. She didn't dare ask any further questions but snapped her fingers. Immediately, a miniature army of women surrounded the dust caked figure, taking measurements, scurrying to the backroom and returning with boxes upon boxes. Promptly, a black limousine slid up to the front of the store, further spattering the store windows with Texas dirt. An impeccably groomed chauffeur stepped out of the car and entered the store.
"Robinson, right on time," she greeted him.
He nodded, "Yes miss," and immediately began loading up the flurry of boxes and bags. And then like a Texas tornado, they were gone.
At least that's how I like to imagine it. What in the world is a Prada store doing outside of a little town like Marfa, Texas? Well, a real Prada store it is not. This is actually an installation by Michael Elmgreen and Ingar Dragset (love his name), and the store is a sculpture. The NYTimes did a piece on it in 2005 that you can check out here. I still like to pretend that it's a little slice of Italian heaven for all of us big haired Texas women out there, who can't go ten miles without stopping and buying something.