FASHION WEEK OR JUST ANOTHER CIRCUS?

The memory of my first time at fashion week has never left me. I remember how the weeks leading up to the event would create such a buzz in the lives of fashion people along with the followers of the industry. It was a time that was characterized by countless fittings, interesting hairstyles and all other unconventional and very necessary polishing acts required.

My first time was during the Africa Fashion International week where I had received complementary double tickets from one of sponsors after having contributed to one of the flagship shows a few days prior to the main launch. I had chosen distressed denim pants, brown brogues, fitted tweed jacket and had had my hair freshly cut in the style of the then not as yet popular Mohawk style. Fresh out of fashion school and bursting with big ideas and even bigger dreams, I was a boy with stars in his eyes. I wanted to one day be seen walking down the glossy, black runway to take my bow in front of what I imagined would be an admiring audience that I would have blown away.

The first day saw me sitting on one of the couches along the front foyer. For what seemed like hours, I had been forced to wait for my plus one to arrive who would be my partner in fashion for all the shows, which I had tickets to. I was mostly looking forward to the most important show, that being of my idol and inspiration, the great David Tlale. His show was scheduled for 10 PM as the finale, rightfully so I should add. Smoke twirled around my face incessantly as I puffed away at one cigarette after the other, an effort on my part to come across as natural as possible.

Fitting in was of outmost importance because I wanted everyone looking in to believe that this was just another event in my everyday life and I was also quite determined not to let any celebrity or media presence intimidate me. I sipped on a cider to balance out the smoking exercise and also took to engaging in random conversations with strangers I would encounter about the latest trends, who was hot and who was not and other such related things as all of us waited for the curtain call.

The air kissing and put on smiles tend to get a bit much, I later realised and as such was only too glad when my plus one eventually arrived. He had never been strong in the style department and because of this I had given him strict instructions on what to wear. The obsession was so bad that I had insisted on a full dress rehearsal the night before. We took tons of photographs wherein I made sure mine were taken under a large banner with king David donning his trademark afro just below his profile to serve as an enviable backdrop. Of course we flooded Facebook as we uploaded as many photos as we could. This life was one I was convinced I deserved as I took in the stares and admiration from the other patrons who seemed intrigued by the young, edgy and classic aesthetic I seemed to exude. Look, I was at fashion week, so of course the attention was exciting. I was among legends and this could be my big break. I was at the centre of the reason why the countless designers, models and coordinators had tirelessly planned towards for months to be perfect for the four day affair.

It seemed and felt as though Johannesburg was born anew each time Fashion Week happened. Venues such as The Sandton Convention Centre, Museum Africa and the like became sacrosanct and holy grounds of sorts as the gods of fashion from every imaginable corner gathered in killer heels, fitted suits, bright lights and cigarettes to congregate and take it all in.

Opening night saw corridors and foyers of the venues looking and sounding like a scene taken straight out of the cult film, The Devil Wears Prada. We, well, I came alive as all my dreams saw realisation. Time on the open runway belonging to the attendees saw happenings that could only be found within the confines of the industry. A stealy model running late could trot past all flustered like Caster Semenya to make the make-up rooms just in time for the dimply lit auditorium to begin the show.

If one listened carefully, they could hear people’s hearts racing in anticipation. It was all about to happen and I had the best tickets in the house to experience it in all its glory. Fantastical and fun days in fashion, those were.

This is why I find it sad how recently that unimaginable hype is anything but the same as when I first experienced it all those years ago. Fashion Week is no longer what it used to be and even amidst the dead vibe and near detrimental procrastination feel of being there is no longer the same. It’s as if it has lost its lustre.

The front row seats alongside the runway have been desecrated. How back then they had been reserved by the special guests of the designers, big clients, fashion buyers and magazine editors because of their contributions to the industry and the very success of the shows and designers, they are now filled haphazardly by nobodies in borrowed clothes and over the top homosexuals claiming to be fashion bloggers or whatever other made up title that crossed their heavily glossed lips when asked after.

These posers often haven’t the foggiest idea who the designers are or even which season is being shown. The prospect of being in the front row alone sounded like too glamorous a thought to pass up. As though to confirm their ignorance and lack of couth they go on to take endless #Selfies using their oversized Samsung handsets acquired on contract or credit so they can post endless and out of focus photos on Instagram which more often than not result in no more than six ‘likes’.

 

It is for this reason that the designers, models, photographers and all the other people who work hard for their crafts to be showcased no longer get the coverage and publicity that they absolutely deserve.

In the reviews, all you see is irrelevant individuals in soft porn costumes and concrete make-up. This then deviates the focus of the purpose of this platform.
The days when Fashion Week was about the business of fashion or at least about the designers are gone. The designers themselves are also getting shadier by the day. But that's a topic for another day altogether.

So now what must happen? Who is to blame for the betrayal of the art of fashion and the unwanted onset of the fabulous, air-blown kisses generation? How do we remedy an industry and a platform that many don't seem to see fault with?
What happens to an industry that so many strive for daily? To the individuals who work so hard to feed into this industry in an attempt to let it feed them?
How do we repair the notion that all that is fashion is stupid and fickle when in all honesty all you see there are posers and unoriginal pop art ambassadors?

Do you not think that if we [the ones who actually consider this a job] don't protect our own art, then it cannot feed and sustain us?
Can we not claim our rightful place from the ones who only know and understand fashion only from the diluted collections of designers in departments stores as opposed to the art and the business that it really is?

Fashion is not by far a solution to wars, the homophobic killings in Africa or an aid to AIDS, but for some of us, this is our life. Its how we pay our rents and TRY to feed ourselves.

There is a whole new generation of talented people who actually deserve the thin publicity in the fashion industry. Instead, mediocrity is what claims the spotlight in 2014.

With that being said, how do we protect a platform that is meant to showcase the crafts of designers, models, buyers etc?
How to we protect a platform that is inviting and welcoming to the open public from exploitation and mediocrity?
Can we even still protect it or do we just succumb to the its terrible standards even though its sole purpose is to protect and escalate our craft?