London: Betty Jackson, Nicole Farhi, Christopher Kane, Eley Kishimoto and PPQ Fall 2009
On Day 3 of LFW, Sunday brunch is a wistful memory. It’s a grey and early breakfast instead, then a black cab to Betty Jackson‘s 9:15 a.m.(!) show in the tents. Thankfully, it’s all very nice: buttercup and baby blue knits (love the cropped sweaters!) and wildflower or woodgrain-printed silks. The prim schoolgirl effect is achieved with knee-high nylons and fuzzy knit backpacks (better than they sound).
Tea or champagne? That’s the tricky question at Nicole Farhi‘s presentation at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. But of course. Farhi does the “haute tea” look for her blue-blood clientele, incorporating a few this-decade trends into her forties tailoring (like mutton sleeves à la Lanvin, shoulderpads, transparency or metallics) and polishing off all the edge.
I’m entranced by the dichotomy of old and new London: the old is so very old, stately, lovely; the young so very young and dizzyingly new and hip. It’s best seen in these ten minutes: from the white columns of the Opera House, we’re shuttled to the Topshop venue, a massive rave-worthy warehouse only accessible through gates and then a badly lit walk down an industrial concrete ramp. On arrival, I spot Jessica Stam looking speed-chic (pale and rangy, with the most intense ice-blue eyes) and inhaling a cigarette. There’s a strict no-smoking rule, enforced by security guards who glare down anyone who so much as *looks* as though they might light up, but Stam is exceptional.
Canadian designer Todd Lynn and rad Londoners Nathan Jenden and Ann-Sofie Back all showed here Saturday, but yesterday, the zenith of LFW: the Christopher Kane show. Over only, what, six seasons? Kane has gone from “the one to watch” (and so fun to watch!) to “the one to beat,” at least, if the queues of fashion students hoping to get in are any indication. Though, with the collection I saw and adored, he’s pulled far away from the pack. Gone are the too-cool contrivances (remember spring’s experiments with dinosaur-sized paillettes in safety orange?) that made him the star of London; this was a tightly visionary collection sure to fix his star in the international firmament.
The show began with a black blazer, tartan sweaters, cashmere in concrete colours (this, from a designer whose signature used to be scrawled in neon). The stripes, black velvet ribbons appliquéd with absolute precision, began on the shingle-hem of a chiffon skirt. They worked their way up to dresses, outlining pockets and panels. They were done in iridescence: shades of gold, pink, blue, green. Sewn tightly on hems, they made skirts ruffle up stiffly. At the end, they turned a series of cream dresses, these lightly tailored slips of chiffon, into graphic geometricity drawn in a magic black marker. The finale was stunning, like watching a work of art appear, flip-book style, in seconds.
Afterward, we lingered to watch the second-best show of the day, the style icons making exits: Anna Piaggi, looking brilliant as usual (literally; is there a colour she won’t wear?) and Diane Pernet, the great eccentrics; Kate Lanphear, taking twenty minutes to move half a block because *everyone* wants her picture; V founder and visionaire Cecilia Dean; one of my favourite style bloggers, Susie Bubble (stylebubble.typepad.com), looking bored by all of them because, as she says, “anyone can dress well if they really want to!”
Eley Kishimoto was truly British, from the riding hats and military red that opened the show to the, ahem, colonial influences (tiger prints, lots of bangles, and tribal beats on the PA) that wrapped it up. Prints were mixed and remixed; colours went from primary to pure seventies, i.e. teal and burgundy with orange.
The long day’s last venture was to the Burlington Arcade, a place disappointingly void of pinball machines. Instead, it’s a looong, narrow aisle lined with shops: a perfectly cheeky place for the PPQ show (they’ve also got a pop-up shop there now), at least in theory; in practice, not so much, as the wait was nearly an hour long. (In fact, a noticeably impatient Hilary Alexander of the Telegraph abruptly abandoned her seat just before the show started. That’s the kind of disaster that makes us so glad we’re not in PR.) Was it worth it? Well, there was certainly enough colour. The show kicked off with rainbow-striped dresses (echoed in the straps of platform pumps throughout), went on to Beatlemania (think psychedelic, patchwork prints and the like) and at the end, there were kinda cool coats (black with embroidered flowers). All very cheap and cheerful. Only problem? Not cheap.
For the after-party, guests jetted to Paris–or rather, the Café de Paris. One look at the queue of club kids in competitively outrageous modes of dress (Gareth-esque goth, that Luella style of punk-prep clash and nu-rave… still?) told me everything I needed to know. Time to go back a temporary flat and write home about Christopher Kane.
VIEW: CHRISTOPHER KANE | ALL FALL 2009
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