The fashion famous

In a room where everyone is all prettied up, it’s hard to tell the somebodies from the nobodies. Such was the case tonight. Along side the media baronesses, grocery lords, and Canadian TV actors were interns, students, assistants, and the guests of guests. So goes the fashion industry.

The crowd came for cocktail hour at Holt Renfrew, the official kick-off to fashion week. A miniature runway showcased looks by Canadian designers such as Jeremy Laing, Greta Constantine, and Pink Tartan. The partygoers watched with eager eyes as looks for next spring and summer were paraded.

The buzzed-about boys behind Greta Constantine showed off space age leather leg-wear from their new Ezra Constantine menswear line, Mikhael Kale assembled an assortment of minis, and Denis Gagnon gave his do-it-yourself customized Aldo shoes their Toronto debut.

But fashion aside, the evening was mostly about mingling. After the air-kisses came the exchange of cards, BBM pin swaps, and associate introductions. Then there was the incessant taking of photos for blogs, fashion rags, and Facebook. And as they were asked to pose both the bold-faced and fashion anonymous puckered their lips, tilted their heads, and tried to look thin.

Under that bright-white camera flash the couture customers bled right into the cultural observers. Everyone looked famous. But before my TV-aided delusions of Gossip Girl grandeur grew, I decided to make a swift exit and head back to my bachelor apartment for freezer food and photo editing.

Until tomorrow morning, when I get to play dress-up again.

Mr. Michael Seater

Life with accessories

Posing for the pit

A darling David Pike, in the thick of things

Greta in gold

Two thirds of 3 of hearts

Much Aldo about nothing

Music video madness

All is good in greyscale

Window shopping

Bags of new clothing in tow, I left Montreal just one day before the fashion festivities began. To stay would have been divine, as it always is. The food, fashion, company, and culture were top tier, as usual.

Though I left before the first high-heeled step onto the runway, I snapped a picture of a window display in anticipation of dresses to come. Andy The-Anh, a mainstay in both the Montreal and the national design scene, was on display and would also show later that week in the old port at the Bonsecour Market.

What was missed in Montreal though, may be made up for in Toronto. The collection will have a showroom showcase tomorrow evening. More on that, today's Sunny Fong show at the AGO, and the rest of fashion week, soon.

For now, here’s the last of the photos from Montreal.

Let the week begin.

Life with the wild things

The cut was intentional. The long, fake strands of store-bought blonde were replaced by bangs. Same face. On the way home from the theatre she threw her drink to the concrete, splashing nearby cars and other enemies.

Inside her eyes glowed, she smiled; responded. Nodded her head at the right moment, grabbed her jacket and provided an exit. It was out the lobby door and onto the mound of grass out front.

She raised one hand towards the sky and announced, “Let the wild rumpus start.” It was a line from the film, the book. We began a quiet shuffle, and through a series of murmurs, grunts and declarations she led us into the night.

About Buddies, and the best of bad times

It was that kind of bar. You know the type. Tucked into the neighbourhood, with the rest. The plaid shirts go home with the plaid shirts, v-necks with v-necks. Inside, it’s a big, blurry mess. Too much lipstick, too high of heels, airbrushed, plucked and tanned. That was just the men.

A cheer broke out before each song, and often after. Not once was this ironic. There was sweat dripping, hips bumping, kissing, and the like. One popular remixed dance anthem sing-along, then the next.

Outside was a lineup of new winter coats. We grabbed our own and went to shoot BB guns at living room targets.

He hit a bullseye.

is busy getting an education in the life of an Art Star

Back to future nostalgia

On an island one subway stop away from the city lays the remains of 1967, the year the world turned its eye on Montreal. Built for Canada’s first world fair, the sparkling white dome that is the Biosphere is one of the last Expo 67 structures still standing.

As I wrote last summer in  Marketing, On April 27, 1967, nearly 700 million television viewers and radio listeners tuned in as reporters broadcast the opening day of Canada’s first world fair.

The six-month fair was an optimistic time for the nation and for Montreal, the host city. Sixty-two countries and a handful of businesses set up pavilions showcasing the best new technologies from around the world. Celebrating its 100^th birthday that year, Canada’s future seemed undeniably bright.

Optimistic as we were, the future failed us. As the historian Pierre Berton put it, 1967 was Canada’s “last good year.” After Expo was the oil shock, separatism, local terrorism from the FLQ, and massive economic decline. 

So much for the future. Still, standing in the centre of the dome with wind blowing through the Biosphere and across the frigid observation deck, it’s hard to think Expo wasn’t worth it. The mid-day sun is obstructing everything, so I squint and snap one last photo. Then I take the elevator down and walk out wishing I could slip into the alternative future the architects had imagined.

Under construction?

Nope. Just a trip out of town, to think about what I'm thankful for. Updates on that and the rest in time. For now, a few photos of urban art, while I dive back into academia.

Top hat, top man, top of their class

Rushing, running, from one busy city to the next

Saturdays with Jeanne

"The week's tour de force was undeniably the underwater fantasy concocted by Alexander McQueen," Ms. Beker writes in Saturday's Globe. And though I wasn't in Paris, sitting on a patio in Montreal with my afternoon paper, I have to agree. Deep breaths, McQueen. Swoon.

The sun is bright, the air is cold, and so is my beer. Skipping over the Nobel Peace debate I make my way to fashion pages to read about the week that was across the pond. Galliano, Viktor, Rolf, Gaultier, Jacobs, and McCartney, the laundry list of names reads. And amongst them a Canadian known more for communications than couture: Rogers.

Married to the third, she's a philanthropist and fashionista, and apparently made a stir in Paris, Ms. Beker writes.

An uber-glam blonde with Dolly Parton hair, crystal-studded sunglasses and a gargantuan black skirt has captivated the camera crews outside the big tent at the Tuileries Gardens. “Wow! Who is she?” a German reporter asks.

Suzanne Rogers, the woman helping bring Oscar back to Canada. We'll thank you for that later, Ms. Rogers, but for now, enjoy your moment. Dolly Parton hair, and all.

And I'll enjoy my beer, paper, sunny afternoon, and wait to see what you turn up in next week, in Toronto.

Until then.

Suzanne Rogers, via Twit Pic @LisaTant

Underwater, under beer

Afternoons in orange

Sweet, sweet, sweeter, sweenter

Belle

Time to get lost again

Cash for Toronto
Toronto's political scene is about to get a new soundtrack. Mr. Cash--no, not the one you're thinking of--threw his hat in the Davenport ring last Monday night as the newest member of Toronto's New Democrats.

A one-time punk rocker, Andrew Cash fronted L'Etranger in the '80s, but has since mellowed out and turned to folksy-rock as half of the Cash Brothers and as a solo act. And as of Monday, Cash has changed his tune from politcally fueled anthems to professional politics.

Cash is sure to be a major player in the next grab at local power, but as the race still hasn't been formally called, it's a little early for specualtion. Torontonians will either tune in or out, but considering both Blue Rodeo's Jim Cuddy and two members of the Skydiggers played the party that launched Cash's political career, we can expect that the next election will at least sound better than the last.

We'll have to wait until then to see if Andrew's worth his wait in Cash.

*You can read my news coverage of Andrew Cash's nomination here. NOW, the magazine Cash works for, also reported on the nod.

Working the social networks
Speaking of the Twitteratti, at Ryerson you can count me in. You're in the paper, says a classmate to me. Oh no what did I say this time, is my immediate reaction.

Turns out the Eyeopener has its eye on my Twitter feed, and there under the Tweets of last week is a classroom complaint from yours truly, posted from a Rye-high IP address.

Keep up the convo, we've six months to go, Ryerson.

Tweet-tweet,

R

Window watching

George Orwell is rolling over in his grave right now. Thanks for going live, Google.

The women come and go, talking of Michelangelo

Autumn's all night contemporary art thing has been celebrated, criticized, attended, boycotted, and declared irrelevant. Everyone has an opinion on Nuit Blanche. It has been called over-branded, over-crowded, and too-905 friendly. It has also lined our streets with smiling faces and out-of-towners who, for once, have something positive to say about Toronto.

I weighed in with my own experience already, but decided to assemble what Toronto's Twitterati had to say about this year's Nuit Blanche. Parties, crowds and criticism follows:

The art kids were prepared to party, regardless of what nature had to say

And some developed a bit of a crush on Toronto's all-night arts-thing

Not everyone was a fan of Koons' commercial centerpiece (namely this Disney actor tweeting to Degrassi's Lauren Collins)

And even when the art was good, the crowds were overkill

Of the traffic: it was easy to tell the patrons from the party-goers

Torontoist and Art Stars provided live coverage, including the social observations of Ms. Ashley Carter

Morale seemed up, even if what the city saw, well, sucked, as party-boy promoter Matt Sims thinks it did

For some, like Shirk Magazine's Brittney, the night had a movie script ending

But by the time the festival settled, most just wanted sleep