Crowd control

The street is empty on the walk home. Good. The whole night was crowded. The pit was full, the seats were taken, the crowd spilled onto each side of the runway. It was the way it always is.

The shows were Pink Tartan and Joe Fresh, which draw numbers. But the latest last-minute venue the FDCC has found is huge. We didn’t have to sweat.

The tape spins, the quotes go down, the take-out is devoured. We bring cups of tea downstairs; watch the quiet night. The words: fashion week continues until April 1 finish the copy. The clock blinks 3:30, April 1. The story goes in.

Britt of Shirk in between shows

Heels (sort-of) required

Definitely not Ken

The tarts of Tartan

Pink Tartan begins with violin

The photographers didn't know his name, but he used his MuchMusic mic as a weapon

Sarah of Pink Tartan, is all biz-ness

it ends with a bouquet of white flowers.

The Biffier the better

We were seated on opposite sides of the runway. But her and her friends were as loud as mine, so we passed on jokes straight through the dresses. Shouts were tossed across instead of the usual whispers or text messages. And after it all we lifted stiff backs out of chairs and extended handshakes, names and numbers.

It was all accepted, as it always is, at that party they throw in the name of everything alternative. One year later, though, we find ourselves in the midst of another event, this time prim, proper, and economic.

We’ve got jobs to do, so she does hers and I do mine, move through questions and answers. In an e-mail I follow up, and am told a lady never gives out age, or size: oh right, prim-and-proper.

Size is still what’s to be discussed, so that’s what we do. Silhouettes and shapes are changed, each garment made to flatter. Fashion is not always about looking good, he once wrote, but was made to re-consider.

This time it is, I guess, so I’ll let her have it.

*Read about size, silhouette, shape, and the rest of it in my article on Jessica Biffi’s capsule collection for Addition Elle in The Calgary Herald.

And, go.

The first flares shot up out of the Allstream Centre Sunday night, signaling the race had begun. IZMA opened with a string of fantasy furs, growing gray and gold out of models' shoulders, all wrapped in black sheer and leather. I watched from home, tucked into a toque and fleece sweater.

In the a.m. was Sunny Fong and VAWK in its airy, open, sun-lit space, usually reserved for artsy intellectuals and Toronto-tourist types. After a morning of calls missed and answered, I put down the phone and pen, pulled out the camera.

The invitation promised Fong would make pretty the mess that has been our lives all these months: the economic crash that told us we'd brought back the eighties too fast, too hard, Mr. McQueen's suicide; our unmentioned personal problems.

Out of that decay beauty was maybe born, but mostly we held in our hands, trying not to touch furs as they passed, giggled and made jokes about taking mushrooms. And as always, it was over as soon as it began, we took off in different directions.

On to the next show, next look, collection, season, story. Wait until 11:00 to pull the red out, pass on parties, highlight notes and prep to file in the morning.

*Update: an article I wrote on VAWK is online now. I don't work at the Vancouver Sun but it seems an editor there really likes my writing. Thanks for the pick-up, VS.

Mr. Ben Barry watching the madness unfold from the second floor

Sunny smiles for the press Afiya Francisco of the Style House chatting before the show

Lay Dee takes in her first runway show

Ainsley Kerr and Jessica Biffi before the show begins

Ms. Robin Kay of the FDCC arrives

Ms. Kay again, seated next to Glen Baxter of Fashion Television

Oh, and that's Russ, or Russless, or something of the sort; whoever

One last laugh

For my slideshow of all the looks click here.

Everything in 3D, all the time

Fashion is a battle, and the war is raging on. It's one waify warrior against the other, scratching out each others 3D eyes. But you can read all about that, and Nada, and the rest of it, in the Vancouver Sun.

*Update: or the Gazette! Options, options.

The crazed ice queen, in the asylum after the war

By the final day of fashion week, we had all drifted firmly into insanity. Luckily, Mr. Lucian Matis was right there with us to open the door of the asylum.

As I wrote today on Canada.com, “The models looked like they had just escaped some magical, fashionable insane asylum. Strapped into studded headgear and dressed in flowing silver and gold gowns, the models in Lucian Matis’ fashion show on Friday looked like ice queens gone crazy.”

That the dresses didn’t necessarily flatter came secondary to the concept and construction. As I said in response to a reporter who complained that the dresses didn’t even look good on the models’ pin-thin bodies: fashion is not always about looking good.

Let that be the lesson from the week, if there is one at all. And for the record, Mr. Matis, I think your ice queens were gorgeous.

Haux headgear

Post-TV prodigy

Cut-eye from your favourites
*photo by theDavidPike
Miss Moshana Lundstrom as interviewed by yours truly
photo by theDavidPike
Bow-ties and four eyes, fashionably geeking out
Front row favourites
Degrassi darlings

Miss Biffi's dayglo set

Candy-coloured ice cream, from Pat NcDonagh

Let the last drip melt away

Chocolate, popcorn and other LG product-placements

By day four I’d begun to drag my heels. Convinced the cabbies were conspiring with mother nature to ruin my day (and by day I mean, you know, hair) I walked up and down the same strip of street near my house, waving at passing cabs. Just as the mist turned to rain one stopped to pick me up and I made my way to the tents three minutes before the show was scheduled to start.

First it was Aime Luxury with headdresses by the lovely Lara Vincent, whose mum sat front row, pretty in a pink piece made her daughter. Then coffee with Carli, whose blazer was perfectly on-trend with its bulging Balmain-ish shoulders, but still kept shaking her head and insisting that after her first trip to the tents, she just doesn’t get fashion. (It’s OK Carli, though you don’t get fashion, it seems to get you.)

Then was the reveal of the new product-placed LG Chocolate, which found its way onto the runway in the form of the huge bedazzled accessories flashing Evan Biddell’s emblem during his show. After Evan was Rudsak’s snooze-inducing catalogue collection and Nada’s romantic old-gothic showcase of nipples and lace.

Like always, the best was last, and that was the aftermath: a bed and a boy and conversation to kill for, after too many days spent away.

After my interview with Evan is SNP, pretty in purple

Ringing wrists

Mr. Biddell's finale

Rain and the rockstar's daughter

And on the third day, there was rain. The formerly fresh black carpet leading into the temporary tents set up for the fashion crowd grew damp and disgusting as the day went on. By nightfall the rain had stopped but the damage was done, leaving the event undeniably un-glamorous once the smell of the nearby slaughterhouse was accounted for.

No bother. Canadians can glam up anything and play pretend. And so we did watching grocery store garments come down the runway with surprising style and grace. To Joseph Mimran, the man first behind Club Monaco and now Joe Fresh, a thank-you is in order. The Canadian style king brought out Theodora Richards, the darling daughter of one Keith Richards, who sauntered down the runway with her signature smirk.

And to his wife, Ms. Kimberely Newport-Mimran, thanks for models who have been trained to walk, and for the mesh, the rolled up sleeves, the sequins, and the edge we honestly weren’t expecting. Well tailored, well played.

With that it was twenty-something time with the pack of trendy young things stuffed into Carte Blanch where work by Hannah and Kavin was on the walls. Drinks and dancing to ironic ‘90s pop hits, as expected. It ended as quickly as we arrived and after the owner took to the counter top for his list of thank-yous it was out the door and into a cab, and as the others continued on to the next party I called it a night.

A night, it was.

*You can read my runway roundup on Canada.com here.

By TheDavidPike

By TheDavidPike

Life size lovelies and other modeling misadventures

The single tear dripping down the model’s made-up face is a tell tale sign there was trouble on the runway. Don’t smudge it, sweetie, you want to say, but hold back. The crying doesn’t bother her cigarette-smoking mother, who is busy recounting the model’s moments of glory and announcing future plans.

She’s going to be a designer, or an interior decorator. Maybe work in advertising, the mother says. At least this one doesn’t want to be an actor, you think, staring at the silent, pretty face tucked behind the model’s dangling hair. She’s 14, been at since 12. It’s a job, the mother says, but will be the gateway to a career. In something.

There’s a tap on her back, then a smile from a stranger. “You did amazing,” the stranger gushes to the model. The heels were far too big, wobbling warily down the runway, they both agree. The models sniffles, smiles, and regains her composure, which she will need.

The meeting with IMG is in the morning, the mother says.

David Dixon's muse of choice, Barbie

Beyonce's boy, JaQuel Knight, apparently also works for Barbie

Standing still: a model lounges in Andy The-Ahn

Seeing triple? The girls of Chloe Beckerman are back in town

The models don't need to eat, but the photogs still do

Puttin' on the Fritz, with fashion's favourite it-boy

In the middle? That's Ken. No, seriously

The adorable Josh and Liam Dixon

The night ends with a bang, thanks to Bustle