After spending a week camped out in Nathan Phillips Square, one feels reacquainted with nature. L’Oréal Fashion Week’s Spring 2009 collections elicit a primal see-and-be-seen frenzy, reminding me that fashion is no longer just a business—it’s also show business. Surrounded by a cast of characters rich in dramatics, I took on the tents in pursuit of my prey: juicy Canadian fashion. Here I deliver a definitive guide to surviving in the wild.
My must-have accessories for the week? A fuchsia media pass, stacked Blackberry, and leather notebook. Platform patent booties and an eyeliner-tinged glare ensure no one will question your place in the Fashion Week food chain. These items allowed me entrance to the world of the fashion elite.
I learned immediately that the Toronto shows run on a strict schedule, unlike most notoriously tardy fashion events. Dashing in ten minutes before the scheduled start time meant missing the show. When did early become the new late?
And the number one rule of the week: pretend to know strangers and ignore those you’re most familiar with. Safe inside the media lounge, true fashion friends let their guard down and munch on veggie samosas.
Getting the week off to a cheeky start was Pink Tartan. After last season’s punky departure from her usual prep, designer Kimberley Newport Mimran went Mad Men—think wasp waists, tight capris, and cardis. Every look was paired with Hermès scarves and Kelly bags—oh so rich bitch. The crowd applauded vigorously, perhaps only to suck up to the designer. This probably has something to do with Newport Mimran’s current status as Fashion Princess to Joseph Mimran’s King.
Club Monaco founder Mimran, now of Joe Fresh fame, staged an extravagant show that became one of the week’s hottest tickets. The irony of it all is that nothing in the Joe Fresh collection topped $59. It was hard not to fall for the collection’s upbeat mix of urban essentials. I plan to pick up that darling printed sheath dress next time I pop into Loblaws for tuna steaks. I imagine the fish will set me back more than the frock.
In Milan and Paris, the scandal of the season was the tricky footwear that caused les mannequins to fall repeatedly. While the Toronto catwalkers kept their gladiator stilettos on terra ferma, one woman’s reputation took a huge tumble. Fashion Design Council of Canada (FDCC) president Robin Kay is responsible for rescuing fashion week, but before Monday’s Mango presentation, Ms. Kay took to the runway drunk as a skunk, delivering an incoherent speech that had half the audience squirming.
It was bad. So bad that a Mango executive got out of his front row seat and pulled her offstage. Naturally, it was all anyone could talk about. Designers, respected journalists and even friends lashed out, calling for Ms. Kay to step down from her post. “I’d say that’s the equivalent of a pilot arriving in the cockpit drunk,” said the Toronto Star’s Bernadette Morra.
Could Robin Kay be out next season? Will harem pants still be in? No doubt the FDCC will discuss these matters. In the meantime, I urge you to look up the exposé on Kay in Toronto Life. The woman has had countless comebacks.
Joeffer Caoc may no longer be a buzz-worthy new kid, but he still cuts a sinewy line like no one else. Elle Canada editor Noreen Flanagan mused over Caoc’s message. “It was poetic—for the woman that doesn’t need to command attention.” Indeed the black, white, beige, and gray palette with beautiful asymmetrical draping was subdued chic. Caoc did without gimmicky accessories and let the clothes do the whispering.
David Dixon’s presentation brought out fashion’s most influential editors and stylists. He delivered a sophisticated riff on Serengeti chic with safari influences. Dixon’s choice of coral as the accent colour was seen numerous times this season.
While attending the shows is a privilege, watching the glitterati is a treat. Fashion Magazine’s Ceri Marsh and Leah Rumack gave up and down glances of approval from the front row in a sartorial mix of black, white and red. Speaking of editors, Thien Li could have used some ruthless refining. How else do you explain printed palazzo pants with a gunmetal lamé top and a dizzy array of overwrought prints? Fellow scribes were critical of his showing, yet many failed to spellcheck their own ensembles. Trashed denim shorts paired with lace tights and a plaid shirt was trend redundant on one editrix who shall remain nameless.
Andy The-Ahn had me at “Paint it Black.” The show opened with a fiddled version of The Rolling Stones’ ode to fashion’s favourite hue. The-Ahn showed delicious backless gowns with mesh inserts. A flash of toned back offered the perfect exit strategy. Socialites take note: these gowns are gala-ready.
My favourite show was that of Renata Morales. The Montreal-based designer’s Japanimation collection was the most original showing of the week. The results made me pine for the days of Sailor Moon. A licorice allsorts palette of icey blue, blush, lemon, and black was grounded with tough leather booties. Morales’ creative work is simply astounding. The tangled golden cobwebs and gothic black foliage headpieces were inspired, and her talent makes heavily detailed looks light as meringue. Not just dresses, they were objets d’arts.
Fashion Week is my kind of amusement park. I urge you not to feel intimidated and take part next season; passes were open to the public for purchase. Alternately, you can sign up as a volunteer, or just call me. I’m proud to say I snuck in a few friends using a method not practiced since the fake IDs of first year—the pass back. Works like a charm, my lovelies!
For a week I lived entirely off Starbucks and sequins. Now the only front row I’ll be sitting in is my Dada and Surrealism class at Sid Smith. Forgive me if I give you the once-over and scribble in my notebook as you walk past. Fashion Week stole my soul.
