Day 1 – The Black Parade
No fashion show worth being seen at, as the saying goes, starts on time. The fashion world turns on opposites: It is polite to stare; late equals fashionable; sunglasses are okay at night, etc. And so, the comfortable hour-long wait, used by patrons to pucker up for the camera as they trotted along the red carpet leading to the grounds where the fashion tent was set up, held a lot of promise. Unfortunately, few of the designers did.
Fashionistas both on and off the runway played it safe. Basic black was the colour scheme that dominated the night. Most shied away from bright colours, settling instead for subdued hues and warm earth tones. There was enough black to outfit all the members of a Colombian drug cartel and then some. Perhaps it was a reflection of the state of the world; an aesthetic depression induced by the failing markets all around the world, not to say anything about the country. It is just the kind of finger on the pulse intuitiveness that the fashion world so loftily prides itself in. But it seemed to be more by default than design.
The collections were pedestrian. Not surprising, when you consider that most of the 12 who were exhibiting were relatively new. They paraded a humdrum rehash of catwalk clichés: micro-bikinis and slutty cocktail dresses, complemented by a varied assortment of curlicued peacock feathers (which are so five years ago). When a martial arts exhibit precedes a fashion show, get ready for a hard night. It was all chronicled by a hapless MC who was the epitome of cluelessness. (“Don John? Is it Don J? Don Juan!” he asked over the microphone when introducing one of the collections. And: “Mishana Cox. Secret Creation. Is it? I don’t think so.” It was.) If there was any chance of getting a name wrong, he got it wrong. Hopefully he will be kept as far away from a microphone on the remaining two nights (although in his defence introducing the Digicel Black Hawks Martial Arts Management Network was always going to be trouble). When it wasn’t queued to a playlist of contemporary pop and hip-hop (is there a difference?) the night’s soundtrack leaned heavily towards Afro-pop and world music that sounded appropriate for ritual killings, which did not help lift the mood either.
There were a few gems in between the clutter. Bravo to Rodney Alexander, the Trinidadian designer who showed pieces from his “Escape” collection. His African wear garments utilized an earth tone palette and were provocative without relying too much on how little his models were wearing. The simple patterns, often ranging between light brown and burnt umber, made for bold creations that were very much the wearable art that he was aiming for. He was also among the handful of designers who dressed the part.
Among the local talent, the 15-year-old James brothers also made waves with their “Diamente” line. Very much like the fabulous Telford sisters (they should always be called that) last year, the twins presented an uneven line that ranged from the garish to the grand. Not bad for a pair of teen boys who have all of three months of design under their belts. That is not to say that their naiveté went unnoticed, especially the poor pieces in their men’s line. But they easily showed up some of the more experienced local designers, though they were not on the ball when they chose their matching outfits for the night.
The artistry of Alexander’s designs and the kitschiness of James twins’ pieces captured the full range of the extremes that dominate the fashion world. There are those who try to marry aestheticism and utility (the wearable) inevitably vying with those who simply want to make a statement (the do-I-dareable), no matter how deliciously excessive and self-indulgent it is. Both have their place. I mean, how else would you ever find that perfect bikini wedding dress you’ve always been wanting? Beautiful. Abso-I-can’t-believe-I-am-seeing-this-lutely beautiful.
