Working in fashion means that you have to take note of what goes on during the various Fashion Weeks around the World (although no one follows Paris Fashion Week; it’s the equivalent of a tramp doing a soft shoe shuffle for coppers compared to the Royal Variety Performance) because eventually the more commercial aspects will filter down to your shop. It’s an inevitability. It’s how we got military styled fashions and that boho chic bollocks that Jennifer Lopez seems reluctant to ever let go, despite it making her look like a Romany prostitute.
Unfortunately London Fashion Week is the High Street’s major Apple event. You might think that it’s full of preening and posturing fashionistas that seem to believe that they are influential about fashion, who parcel off any old trend as the Brand New Big Thing for Autumn/Winter, and you’d be right. These are the people who brought us the poncho. The one piece of clothing that will intentionally turn any woman into an jacket potato on legs, without having the decency to be a cape or batwing something or other. The poncho is fashion’s version of the Holocaust: a devastating piece of history that should never be forgotten.
Yet as new Fashion Weeks come around, and sprouting more and more progeny like Gremlins being watered after midnight, there’s always a new thing that is the biggest thing EVER.
Obviously it’s just a ploy to keep fashion journalists and people like Donatella Versace in Nutella bronzing powder year after year, and that’s fine. It’s how the World goes round. What makes me want to reach for my £8 Primark joggers in a disgusted and fitting rage is how self involved and pretentious the entire thing is. It revolves on it’s own arse of awfulness.
There’s a culture of extravagance built into being a fashion designer. You can make as many dresses as you like, but there’s more chance that you’ll get remembered by having suspended paraplegics circling the room to the music of Rod Stewart. Or having cows accompanying the models down the catwalk. Or having each model wearing Tutankhamun’s death mask. Extravagance begets extravagance and easily influenced morons suck in every self involved fashion fart.
Long swathes of unwearable satin with extravagant brocade could walk down the catwalk, with chunks of flesh being shown to all of the World’s interested press, and people will coo about how avant garde it is; it isn’t avant garde. It’s Eastern Bloc prostitution.