We paid and wandered floor by floor. The top floor beyond was empty, a ghost floor with well-dressed mannequins holding sunglasses. Somewhere between excited and dreading (what if we couldn't live without something on a floor that has four digit items), we slowed down to touch and look. The evening racks were sparse but there was a curious similarity in one detail. Each of these evening gowns were about the length of the amazingly beautiful Marchesa dress pictured here. I held one up perplexed; this was not a usual long dress with a train but a dress that had I worn it would have had half the skirt length puddling around me, more even than the decadent curtains at Anoushka Hempel's Blakes Hotel in London. Apparently at that moment there were actually no sales people at Barney's either, another peculiarity.
Next were exceedingly ethereal black silk chiffon dresses and each held the residue of white deodorant. We walked ever more slowly, sadly at designer dresses unzipped, tilting precariously off its hangar. Azzedine Alaia had the section that used to house Giorgio Armani with natural light clarifying exquisite color and detail. The series of knit dresses were hung, the knit top lighter than rather complex skirts that pulled and tugged; the kind of dress that should not ever be hung. My companion, with a true look of horror on her face, removed one dress from its pending disaster, draping it beautifully on a large glass table that had been barren of any display at all. And still no staff appeared. (Note: I have dreamed each night of that dress, I am now obsessed. Possibly that is the most perfect dress ever made and it is increasingly difficult to stifle my desire to own it.)
So really there are two mysteries, at least. The length of these dresses, as you can see, are atypical of the usual female form. There appears to be no one home, no management, not even sales staff at Barney's. Dresses that are in the rather spendy neighborhood of (gasp) $3,200.00 are treated rather more poorly than even markdowns.
It's necessary to admit on a gigantic corporate level that a terrible mistake was made. It's time to return the store to Gene Pressman. Now, please.