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?
