So I am sitting at the Marni show this morning, grateful for that shot glass of rose tea a waiter handed out, and enjoying the Peter Blake circles and rainbow colors, only more saturated and with the metallic gloss of sequins, when a model walks by in a bolero made of tiny, tiny furrows of color, all packed together in a softness that makes me think it’s fur. “What is that?” I say to a magazine editor next to me. Over the dreadful clanging music I thought I heard her say something that begins with a ch… “Chipmunk?” I answer. “Chiffon,” she says, and laughs.