Cocaine Nights | S/S 99
Twinkle, Twinkle, Raising Star
The Times
"Welcome," it intoned, "to the last of the London Fashion Week shows, that of the much talked about rising star of design, Andrew Groves." In past years Groves has drawn on mental asylums, disease and pain as inspiration for his collections, and attracted some of the most respected names in fashion to his shows. Yet much of the immediate reaction to his latest and first official fashion week event — held last Tuesday night this week in an East London art gallery —has been disappointment mixed with criticism for the tired and unoriginal choice of title and theme, Cocaine Nites. But while the powdered path may well have symbolised a giant trail of illegal substances to most of those present, surely the taking of any drug allows its user to make his or her own interpretation of what they see. The following is mine. The enchanting fairytale set, with a strobe of turquoise laser lighting the catwalk end, was suddenly stripped away. The fuse having fizzed and fumed its slow way up to the models' gateway reaching a backdrop of jewelled coloured lights, the show erupted amid a sulphur smell and drifting clouds of smoke. Their faces plastered with anonymous plastic masks, two models — one male, one female — paraded the first of a stream of off-white outfits. Net vests, jackets and skirts matched with same shade imitation silks cut into long, hanging togas for the women and loose, creased baggy trousers for the men, swayed aZilkha their bodies. Without much contrast in how theywere dressed, atten- tion soon focused on how the models were made up. Hair piled into beautiful bundles on top of their heads, the women exuded serenity. The men, with whom they paraded alternately, limped and sported black eyes and neck bruises. Sharply cut jackets flapped freely, revealing shoulders, stomachs and naked chests on the women, while the sleeves of the men's shirts were frayed at the seams. Do men not care about how they look? Does nobody care about how men look? In this age of the ascendant female, this must sometimes seem to be the case. But huge metallic straps, worn on the wrists, around the necks and across the shoulders of the male and female models alike suggested otherwise: despite appearances, we are all bound and weighed down in some way, most often by ourselves. But this is fashion, frivolity, fun. Why not simply let your hair down? Eventually, they did. Now with their locks back-combed and lips painted in brilliant reds, pinks and browns, the female models waltzed on with flares in their trousers and skirts and colour everywhere. Heavier, longer dresses wrapped around the necks and gathered at the bottom of their backs, with the occasional draping shawl. From speckled, close-dotted coloured triangles on white cloth to multiwidth rainbow stripes, checks and zigzags in satin-like dressing-gown fabric, the show and the music became psychedelic. Looking at these outfits could well make a person feel dizzy — some might say that only those who were could wear them. The models certainly seemed to be starting to smile. Then the music zipped up. There was a hush, then bright lights. The choral humming returned, reintroducing a sense of quiet. And to rising applause, on walked Andrew Groves's Snow Queen. Scaled like a mermaid in strings of silver razor blades, her crown like half a cast-iron lampshade shaped in mirrored stained-glass diamonds, she closed the show with the mood, mystery and music with which, for me, it had all begun. Magic.;)
Cocaine Nights