Styling and the styled

A few weeks ago I got to play creative director at a fashion shoot. The set of photos, shot by major babe The David Pike, will run alongside a profile of recent Rye-high fashion grad Amanda Lew Kee in the June issue of Futuréale. Posted here is a peak.

Lew Kee, who was recently named assistant designer for Ashley Rowe, presented an all-black collection at this year’s Mass Exodus in stark contrast of the show’s light spring theme, In Bloom. Her snug sheer-meets-shine tights and spiked biker jackets demanded attention and attention was received.

The looks will be displayed in the Holt’s windows this June and featured in the September issue of Flare. On May 31 Lew Kee will present her full collection alongside a short film at the Great Hall, not far from the Queen West haunts she can often be found at, all blue-lipstick and torn up dresses.

More styled than stylist I was truthfully all but unqualified to curate looks. Lew Kee arrived with armfuls of garments and bags of spikes strung into accessories. She laid it all out, looked at me, and said she had seen the clothes all year and grown tired of styling them herself. It was my turn to play.

We’d each brought a muse: she her brand face Nadine McAdam and I the lovely Carli Rothman (who I spend endless hours writing love letters to.) The two patiently stepped out of one outfit and into the next, held still as we clamped backside fabric to fit, and moved as Dave and I shouted out long-winded directions.

After several hundred flashes, four looks, and one group photo the clothes were zipped back into their bags for later use.

We called it a wrap.

Spent today on set with these good looking people, making as much magic as we could muster up. Scribbles, studs, and strong poses TK.

Thanks to Mr. Pike for shooting, the girls for looking pretty, Amanda for bringing spiked and shining everything.

Some snaps on set:

Lusting for FAT models: day II

At FAT the models move. There are no stiff shoulders, straight leg steps, or dead eye-stares. Instead they cartwheel down the catwalk, blow kisses at the cameras, crawl on all-fours, leap frog over each other, swing tennis rackets, and drag the next girl forward with hooks piercing the skin.

Fitting then, that the second night began with a dance by Lauren Weisz. In Sunday’s best black ties and simple sauntering dresses, the models lined up two-by-two. Women behind the men, they kicked their legs up over suited shoulders and spun in circles, losing dresses as swirled, revealing black lingerie underneath.

Opera boomed out of well worked vocal chords as a busty brunette led a procession of tightened bodices by Starkers Corsetry. Bombshells in sheer black skivvies followed, including a hot-and-heeled miss Carli Rothman, who I found backstage after the show with a slice of pizza in hand, undies and all.

Self proclaimed jetsetter and socialite Jet Phynx filled the gap between shows with his brand of fame and fashion induced pop. Later Phynx, who self designs his highly stylized stage looks, tells me he’s been hanging with Gaga and Kanye and is en route to Europe and Japan to continue his global takeover.

Evan Biddell, who must have spent many sleepless nights to pull off opening his first boutique and creating collections for both LGFW and FAT in a single season, opened the second set of shows. Biddell enlisted Magnet Creative’s Gail McInnes, former Phantom Pastel Supernova, and your favourite fashion writer Sarah Nicole Prickett, to walk in the show.

Then there were the style sluts, all wrapped up in latex, courtesy of Pippa and Fashion Whore. There was the terminarix with her tech-armour arm, Alice out of Wonderland, and a rubber red wonder-girl walking in heels so stiff she needed arm supports just to wobble. And finally a set of wedding-white balloons released at the runway’s end before the top was dropped for the fondling of a honeymoon hooker.

It ended with a not-so-subtle nod to Mr. McQueen as punks in plaid kilts were paraded to live bagpipes. The presentations blended into performances with one last towering black beautiful monster standing a story tall and followed by a crawling mini monster, all teethy with face paint, whispering to the model inside the way.

Then the lights went black and before the announcer could finish closing remarks I was out the door to find a beer and a boy for a birthday, and finally a bed.

Master of the reveal, miss SNP

As his bio says: Jet holds a drink in one hand and a crowd in the other

Backstage beauties

Feed the models

One of these things, not like the other ones

Nolan Bryant with that Yuppie Activist

The lovely Lauren Weisz does it all

Suffer for fashion

Wobble on

Trapped as a twosome

A nice day for a white wedding

The offspring of the McQueen generation

Crawl towards the closer

One too many jack-n-cokes, two Pricketts, twenty three years old.
Happy Birthday, Carli.

Pending academics

When the romantics begin, the end is near, as I’m reminded by that hyphen-optional blog. She and I both made the pilgrimage from Winnipeg four falls ago, without an end in sight. Well, it seems we made it, and when spring arrives we'll put down schoolbooks, grin and hold up papers proving what we've done.

By now we’re all talked out, have little left to say on journo ethics or content on the web. We’ve handed in our papers, projects, feature stories, and TV segments; are waiting to be judged. We crammed in as much as possible, will be released ready to un-learn.

But after those lengthy lecture halls I’m reminded that we had snack time, watched TV on each others' couches, shared coffee and beer. So Carli, you’re right: without this program, and you, and the lot of them, I’ll too will be a little lost.

Neo-Nazis? Naw.

By now you’re probably sick of hearing about that new Nazi flick. You’ve heard it grossed over $ 65 million at international box offices, discussed whether or not the win could save the Weinstein Group, and gossiped about the film’s secret Crash-style Oscar campaign.

The violent, picturesque WWII story--ripped from the wet dream of the of a Jew-frowed teen picked on by a gentile--has been the talk of the town for weeks now. Tarantino and co-star Eli Roth even made a visit to our so-called Hollywood North on August 12 to promote the film (and sign some Reservoir Dogs merchandise, of course).

The incessant promotion, which included everything from sponsoring UFC 100 to sending a darling, mini-dressed Diane Krueger on a global press tour, seemed to work: on opening night I was comfortably tucked into a seat in an over-crowded theatre.

But of all the buzz, one bit was my favourite. For its “Basterdized” special issue, which was dedicated to the film, EYE weekly enlisted a couple of my friends to take on a very un-PC, but undeniably aesthetically pleasing concept, Nazi Fashion.

Styled and described by Miss. Sarah Nicole Prickett, the shoot features the man behind last week’s Absolut party, your boyfriend Justin Broadbent. To Broadbent’s left is “it-girlish” Leigh Farrell, looking like a character from a 1940s murder-mystery. And last but not least is everybody’s favourite Winnipegger-turned-Toronto-based-journalist, Carli Stephens-Rothman.

If you’re into military men, battle babes, and a practical colour scheme, pick up the issue. If you’ve tired of the Basterds, I hear there are some free screenings of a new, terrible film called Avatar.

*Seconds before pressing publish I was grabbing a link to that Hyphenoptional blog and noticed Carli had just posted, well, the same post you see here. If you're the kind of person who reads endnotes first, skip mine and read hers. Otherwise, I hope you enjoyed this blog-on-blogger, or "circle jerk" as SNP calls it.

Every day the music dies.

The drugs were about to hit when the interview began. And once we stepped into public, there were not glances, but full-on stares from every direction. Clearly, we were making a scene.

On the sidewalk we ran into a friend with a record player, and inspected her collection. We cracked the player open but all that would play was the flash of blue and red lights from the vermin across the street.

Still, everyone was staring. We filed onto an overcrowded streetcar, hoping that our disguises would save us from small talk and explanations. We had places to be, and if we didn't up the dose, sobriety would return.

In the dark corner of a bar named after the female anatomy we finally got our filthy fingers on another round of drinks. A bottle of wine to share. Two beers for me. Champagne for the table.

Before the soup had arrived I was outside taking a cigarette break, damning the lesbians that wouldn't let me smoke indoors. Dinner was rushed and delicious, as if I hadn't eaten in days.As the bill arrived we tailgated to another bar, demanding two more rounds of drinks. I wondered aloud why everyone else was asking the questions.

The evening ended with a redhead on my balcony, neither of us entirely sure how we got there. I woke up in my bed alone, wearing someone else's clothes, wondering what the hell happened to Sid Vicious. Both cases ended in self-inflicted death.

*Excerpt from Fear of being the only ones dressed up for the costume party and Loathing she who invited us. Please direct all anonymous comments to Ice Age Heat Wave.

Wednesday Night Lights.

When I first met Mr. Mercanti, I thought he was on drugs. His thick beard and well-worn biker jacket made him look like a fashionable madman. I watched him light a cigarette, and peek through the blinds into the party we were both attending.

“I’m… M-M-Mmichael,” he said, offering an open palm.

Tripping over his words, he asked me a series of question about a girl I didn’t know. I had no answers and he disappeared without finishing his smoke.

Then on Wednesday night, lured by free liquor, I had another encounter with Mercanti. The Queen St. boutique Carte Blanche opened its doors after business hours to throw a party for its newest jewelry collection, Speech.

It turns out Mercanti isn’t a drug addict. He’s a jewelry designer, and Speech is his label. The label’s name is a battle he’s always fighting: his speech impediment. Walking past bloggers taking pictures of shoestring-thin models and carefully dressed hipsters, Mercanti again extends his open palm.

“R-Rruss… Th-thanks for coming,” he says. Mercanti is the kind of man who remembers your name. He’s both nervous and sweet, greeting guests then hiding amongst them. Being in the spotlight is clearly not in his nature. But Mercanti may have to get used to it; his jewelry has been featured in Teen Vogue and Dejour Magazine, and having Carte Blanche as a retailer will further boost his profile.

Every designer has a story, but few tell it as well as Mercanti. He nods towards me, then laughs quietly and looks at the floor, tucks down his chin and again disappears into the back of the stuffed boutique. And then it occurs to me: there’s a lot of you can say without having to speak.