Vice Style

Ones To Watch is basically a round-up of new designers worth paying attention to according to some bigwigs at Vauxhall Fashion Scout. The panel, including Katy England, David Koma, and Marios Schwab, describe themselves as a “critically acclaimed springboard for the next generation of design talent”. Whatever. Whether or not Vauxhall actually participate in the judging process is unclear. I don’t know if it was the front row seat I was shuffled into, or the presence of fashion icon Kate Nash across the room, but this felt like a real fashion show. You know, like actually important. Not just pumped up PR chicks waving their asymmetric chiffon at you. Exciting!

Since the end of the world as we know it supposed to come soon—maybe—we might as well get the party started. At least that’s the reasoning behind Carri Mundane aka Cassette Playa’s FW12 collection K_A_R_M_A_G_E_D_D_O_N. In lieu of traditional—read: “boring”—runway shows, Mundane gravitates towards creating experiences that have a virtual or interactive component, whether it be AR T-shirts, or presenting a line via GIF booth.

On Sunday, she screened a film as part of London Fashion Week’s Fash/On Film program and we caught up with her over the weekend via email to get the skinny on the shoot and all the wacky people that made it possible. She answered our questions in ALL CAPS, so, in light of her loud collection and “cyborg nature,” we decided to keep it.

Even as you pull that flak jacket over your camo trousers and stuff a sequined sweater into your knapsack—there might be a dance party after the demo—even as you draw an A on your arm and circle it or tattoo meat is murder on your vegan-sleek tummy, the ghosts of progressive fashions past are cheering you on.

Every generation of rabble-rousers believes it has invented its own unique style and negotiated its own sartorial relationship with the larger world, but those activists who have gone before, on whose incendiary shoulders we proudly stand, also had their special ways of signifying to one another. Without saying a word, they were members of a larger movement.

The subject is far too vast to tackle in one little article, but as natty dressers around the globe prepare to suit up and carry the tumultuous messages of 2011 forward—from Occupy Wall Street to the streets of the Middle East and collective actions in the squares of Leicester, Tahrir, Red, and Pearl—it could be a fun exercise to take a moment to examine the outfits favored by our illustrious activist ancestors over the past 100 or so years.

Herein is a brief, deeply personal, resolutely non-exhaustive, highly abbreviated look at a century of great moments in our shared revolutionary sartorial history.

OK, so I am gonna level with you here. Before last night's Pam Hogg show, I had never been to a "proper" catwalk show before. Why, I am not entirely sure. Fashion has always been of interest to me, but more on a scale of buying Jordans and old metal shirts and leather jackets, not spending $700 on some socks made out of the uteruses of dodos. For some reason buying outrageously expensive items of clothing has never really been my thing, but there sure were a lot of people at this show rocking thousands of pounds of outfit. Saying that, I didn't really see anyone who looked amazing, amazing, but, I have NEVER SEEN so many hot chicks in all my life in one place. It was almost like my dick versus reporting from fashion week. 

Luckily, I knew that Pam Hogg makes booty-enlarging multi-panel catsuits—so I was pretty psyched for both my dick and fashion week. I do not in any way look like the type of guy who should be at a top tier show as I am not gay, a model, or rich-looking. This seemed to be pretty obvious to all inside, where my ticket was checked by maybe six-to-eight different 'attendants'—about five more than had checked my boarding pass at the airport on the way back from Norway last week, seriously. Anyways, here's some of what I saw, once inside.

Okay, so Topshop were not fucking about. We were met at the door of the Topshop space with a tray of champagne and a foyer full of It-Girls with names you wish you didn’t know were parading their Topshop skinny jeans. They also had a Topshop café, which was giving out things that sounded pretty fancy.

Fam Irvoll is a Norwegian womenswear designer who's known for her innovative, playful approach to design. By that, I mean she usually makes clothes that would almost be on a par with Jim Henson's creations, had he used a tiny bit of his visionary genius for fashion, rather than wasting it all on brightening up the lives of children around the world, the selfish bastard. Last season, Fam's runway show was all knitted dresses with bulbous, knitted 3D heads where boobs and shoulders should be, children's party make-up, and fuzzy cyberpunk hair, so I was looking forward to seeing this year's collection strut down the runway in an inevitable barrage of colorful weirdness.         

Pierre Cardin is one of those names everyone knows, even if you have no idea who he is or what he looks like. For the clueless, he is the man behind and the designer of one of the most famous logos in fashion—the entwined pc splashed across more than 800 products: neckties, collapsible bicycles, car upholstery, chocolate, cigarettes, ice buckets, frying pans... You get the idea.

Art is gay compared to Ed Hardy.

A couple of seasons ago a friend of mine posted a photo from a Betsey Johnson runway show and offered up a one-word review: STOP. I get it, the clothes haven’t been memorable for about a decade and the only items of hers I’ve wanted to purchase in recent memory have all been punk label archive reissues. Saying that, she was the first designer I identified with as a weirdo punk rocker in high school, and for that reason she’s kind of sacred to me. At this point, the designs are all pretty much the same from one season to the next, but who cares? A world without Betsey would be a world without glittery pink cupcake dresses, skull sweaters, neon floral peplum skirts, and cabbage rose-printed leggings.

Years ago, I worked for a fashion designer who had a penchant for fur dyed in bold colors that ranged from acid-green to plum. Most of them were for very expensive jackets that looked like they were made of Muppet skin. Only fox fur—specifically that of the American red fox—was left in its natural state. It was perfectly gorgeous on its own. And while I admit that I’m somewhat vain—I like fashion and will endure uncomfortable clothing on the right occasion—with fur that discomfort goes deeper. The thought of farm-raised animals being executed via anal electrocution is hard to shake once it enters your mind. Surely, there had to be alternatives.