Viktor & Rolf, the Dutch design duo behind some of the most elaborate and awe-inspiring couture pieces of our time, currently have a retrospective of their 25-year collaboration hosted at the National Gallery of Victoria. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? I mean, by now every Australian fashion blogger and their dog have commented or reported on the exhibition. Most of my go-to fashionistas had already been, seen and posted about the exhibition before I got the chance to go this weekend past, and so I had a pretty good idea of what I was in for.
What I didn’t anticipate, however, was just how much I wouldn’t enjoy the exhibition.
Now don’t get me wrong, there is no debating that the creations are breathtaking in their vision and construction. The genius of the design duo cannot be understated, and the way in which the garments are pieced together shows a real mastery of craftsmanship. I cracked a huge smile seeing the red carpet gown in person (a beautifully sculptural piece crafted from actual carpet), and I was honestly moved seeing pieces in person that I had viewed in magazines and being able to dissect them with my own eyes rather than through someone else’s lens.
However, as someone now in his thirty-first year on this planet, and as someone who is (reluctantly) being drawn into the minimalism movement, I had to stop and ask myself what the cost of these garments (and more over the cost of couture generally) actually is. (more…)
When I was growing up, there was a lot of emphasis placed on turning thirty as some sort of metaphysical gateway between adolescence and post adolescence, and finally entering the ear of responsible adulthood. Movies like Reality Bites suggested that everything up until this birthday was a sort of dry-run before the real games began. My diet of American film and television lead me to believe that when the day finally came, I would undergo some sort of metamorphosis and become one of these mystical beings who possesses the skills to own property, manage finances or even to be responsible for the care of another life. I have truly believed that turning thirty would usher me into some sort of self-renaissance where I am miraculously a more considered and capable human being who will automatically take control of his life, kicking arse and taking names.
What I realise today, on my birthday, is that it has been happening slowly but surely in the background of my life and I have been completely unaware of it. I also realise that becoming a ‘proper adult’ isn’t anything like I thought it would be. (more…)
As I’m sure that you’re aware now, I’m turning 30 in under 30 weeks. As such, I have compiled a list of 30 things that I am supposed to have done or to have stopped doing BEFORE I turn 30.
Each week until I actually turn 30 I will be discussing/ranting about one of the items on the list, and deciding whether I agree with it or not.
This is week seven of the list, and the topic is Number 7: You should have stopped wearing thongs with jeans!
This is actually what gave me the idea for this whole 30 Before 30 project, thanks to a comment from my best friend that we are too old to be wearing thongs and jeans. For this video I’m searching for what sort of summer footwear I can wear instead.
Fashfest night three has drawn to a close, and instead of the exhilarating high and desire to relive the collections that nights one and two left me with; I find myself despondent, and frankly a little pissed.
Let me make this blatantly clear before I go on—this has nothing to do with the wonderful Fashfest team who have put their all into every night and element of the event and who have, for what it’s worth, blown my mind.
No. The anger I am feeling tonight is directed firmly at my fellow audience members. Specifically, this is aimed at four men seated across the catwalk from me, who went ahead and ruined my perfect streak of meeting interesting, lovely people seated in the front row, with a catty and raucous attempt at living up to every ‘bitchy-gay-fashion-guy’ stereotype ever penned in the most basic of sitcoms.
Guys, your behaviour tonight was appalling.
I get that you were cold, and a little tipsy (if the continually knocked over champagne glasses were anything to go by), and you were out with your friends and you wanted to have some fun. I even get that there’s a sort of cultural assumption that there will be bitchy gay men at fashion events, because on some sad level I have wanted to be that bitchy gay man at fashion events myself. That’s all great, but it doesn’t excuse your constant and loud criticism of the models, the designers, and the event.
I could hear you from the other side of the bloody catwalk!
When was the last time you organised a four night event? When was the last time you designed and created anything more arduous than a Grindr profile? When was the last time that you walked in front of a crowd of over 850 with the sole purpose of displaying the clothes on your back, or lack there-of as may be the case (and no boys, Grindr doesn’t count here). Honestly, outside of throwing together the admittedly awesome outfits you wore tonight, what have you had to do this week that even remotely compares to the colossal undertaking of planning and executing Canberra’s only fashion festival?
No one expects you to like every single outfit, or to sit in stony silence while you let the show wash over you, or even to get a smile out of you when something you actually DO like struts past. Chances are, like me, you paid for your Front Row ticket out of your own pocket and have taken time out of your life to be here, with the rest of us, watching the show.We do, however, expect that you will observe these basic rules of Front Row Etiquette.
1. Do not rest your feet on the catwalk. It’s a fashion show, not your lounge room, so a little decorum and proper posture for 60 minutes shouldn’t be too much to ask!
2. When you’re done with your champagne glasses/beer bottles, tuck them underneath your seat, rather than leaving them in front of you. It tidier and less likely to get knocked over/spill.
3. Keep any ‘witty’ criticisms that you might have about the models, the clothes, the designers, the event; tucked safely away in the poisonous miasma of your mind.
Because you may have paid for a ticket, but you were not sold the right to be a grade-a cock.