Saturday October 24, 2009
Project runway
By LOUISA LIM
Ever wondered what it feels like to be seated next to fashion editors, stylists, celebrities, muses and society girls? One of our own got unlimited access to the front row of the Pasarela Cibeles Madrid Fashion Week, and discovered that it’s the perfect spot to troll for some of the best (and worst) moments in fashion.
Monday, 10am: Bleary-eyed and wan, I was lounging front row at the Pasarela Cibeles Fashion Week when it hit me that I had got more than I bargained for when they ushered me to this coveted corner.
No, I’m not talking about boobs and skin here, although I got eyefuls of those in the past few days. I’m talking about the oh-so-horrifying, run-for-cover, you’ve-got-to-be-kidding phenomenon called cellulite.
A model in an Agatha Ruiz de la Prada design. — AFP PHOTO It was right there on Model No.14, who was doing the strut in front of me with nothing on but an itsy bitsy white bikini; her dimpled bits jiggling up and down in a free-for-all performance.
In such an instance, what are you supposed to do?
A) Look away and pray it’ll disappear as quickly as it appeared B) Savour the moment with a kind of unrestrained glee C) Make eye contact with your neighbour and grimace or D) Shrug, because models are humans, too.
I went with option D, but I saw that the politically correct thing to do was A, B or C.
The pulsating techno music could not conceal the tsk-tsk-tsking of the mini skirt-wearing journalist beside me, who stopped her frenetic jotting down of the day’s show for a moment to stare. She then turned to her pal, an effeminate man who looked as if he’d just stepped out of the cover of GQ, to convey her disapproval.
This was the 50th edition of the Pasarela Cibeles Fashion Week in Madrid. Over five days, more than 20 critically-acclaimed Spanish designers presented their Spring/Summer 2010 collections to industry bigwigs. The shows were held in a huge, stark white, clinical-looking warehouse, but this facade completely betrayed the creative energy that coursed within.
The writer (left) in the Kissing Room with another guest and Turismo Madrid Asia Pacific delegate, Ana Garcia (far right). While Spain has already made its mark on high street fashion with labels like Zara and Massimo Dutti (incidentally, that’s what most of the audience came dressed in), it has yet to leave an indelible imprint on high fashion. But that’s what’s so great about it. You never know when this greatness might burst forth, and the anticipation was enough to keep even the most apathetic onlooker on the edge of their seats.
That morning, cellulite wasn’t the only subject on everyone’s lips. There were also numerous speculations on who might turn up.
“Anna Wintour? Forget it! She only goes to the big four!”
“Do you think the Cruz (Penelope) will show? Oh, is that her??”
Agatha Ruiz de la Prada and her design. - Reuters It was only later that I learned that “the Cruz” did not show but another A-list celeb did: Gwyneth Paltrow (and I missed her by a few days!).
In the end, however, there were more unfamiliar faces than familiar ones . . . though, that didn’t make the crowd — with their pouty faces and gym-honed bodies — any less stunning. Thanks to a Good Samaritan, I wasn’t all that ignorant. She gave me a crash course on Spanish pop culture — the TV actresses, rock stars, politicians and editors who walked past us.
Seated directly across me was Pedro Jose Ramirez, the director of Spain’s largest national press El Mundo, who was there not on assignment but to offer his wife, designer Agatha Ruiz de la Prada, a show of moral support.
Ruiz, of course, had no need for it. Already one of the country’s best-known personalities, she opened fashion week with a big bang. As usual, her collection had everyone bowled over. Her first dress was something Lady Gaga would wear, with its exaggerated, multi-coloured tube-like train that resembled a caterpillar. Although no one would know what to do with such an outfit in real life, runway fashion was hardly realistic (if it were, I would be hailing a cab by now). The applause — before, after and in-between — was deafening.
This shock-value, however, paled in comparison to what several guests wore. A handsome 20-something-year-old bloke made onlookers gasp and shutters click as he pranced around in towering heels and the latest “It” bag swinging from his shoulders (“Ooh, I wish I could walk in heels like that!” one society girl exclaimed).
Mr Sexy Stilettos was, however, either completely unaware or unconcerned with the hullabaloo he was causing. Within a few minutes, the attention shifted to another spectator, a middle-aged, over-botoxed lady wearing a dress constructed entirely of rubber bands — very likely a vintage Agatha Ruiz that would’ve otherwise never seen the light of day.
All that people watching had made me oblivious to the fact that I had (horror of horrors) become the subject of scrutiny. A broadcast journalist, who introduced herself as May from Spanish TV, assuaged any doubts I initially had about my outfit (sunshine yellow BCBG dress with black Pedro Garcia heels . . . too dull perhaps?) by requesting an interview with me, which — although flattering — I turned down promptly. Unperturbed, she flitted on to the next Asian journalist.
“You think they’re strange, but they think you’re a lot stranger,” whispered my neighbour, a woman who I assumed was from the media herself.
“Asian faces are such a novelty to them. Everyone in Europe knows Asia is where it’s at right now, and they’re dying to read your minds.”
Once the last model took to the catwalk and the lights dimmed, the crowd filed past the exit to the main hall where they sipped free lattes and soy shakes, indulged in a little tête-à-tête and waited patiently for the next show.
The VIPs, meanwhile, headed straight for the very mysterious and provocatively-named “Kissing Room”. The organisers were thoughtful enough to place big, burly bouncers outside to thwart any non-VIPs (like yours truly) who were intent on crashing the party.
But the more they stopped me, the more curious I got. What do they do in there? Why are they so secretive? Is this some sort of conspiracy?
After three futile (and not to mention, embarrassing) attempts, I was finally able to parade smugly past the velvet ropes, thanks to Turismo Madrid’s Asia Pacific delegate Ana García de Barañano (who is also the Spanish ambassador’s wife to Malaysia), who flashed them her VIP card on my behalf.
The “kissing room” turned out to be a beautiful, Baroque-inspired place with plush couches and crystal chandeliers where designers, celebs and models air-kissed and mingled over cocktails for a post-show celebration. These drinks, I’m told, were concocted to coordinate with the colours of the particular collection. This time, it was electric blue vodka.
Before the social butterflies knew it, however, the moment came to hit the shows again. It was Alma Aguilar’s turn on the catwalk. As I observed the proud unveiling of her new collection — a fairytale offering composed of floaty dresses and slouchy suits in delicate fondant hues and deep emerald greens — I realised that Spanish fashion is at the brink of a revolution and we were right in the heart of it all. And maybe, just maybe, Anna Wintour or even Suzy Menkes will one day walk through those doors.
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