Taking place in the salubrious setting of the Paul Hamlyn Hall at The Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, this show was the most auspicious of my London Fashion Week outings thus far. I was off to see the coveted collection of Nicole Farhi. My eyes were peeled for celebs and my chest accessible for autographs.
Though I consider myself one of London’s many cosmopolites, one place I still feel lost in is fashion circles and this show definitely upped the ante; I was unhealthily concerned about ‘what to wear’.
After careful consideration and a perusal of my less-than-adequate wardrobe choices I opted for my traditional jeans and T-shirt, though courageously (for me) I tried out a little scarfy number; but even that left me feeling like a young child in a story who’s strayed from the path, and I fiddled with it annoyingly throughout.
If the men who attend these things are the supposed fashion cognoscenti then I now live in fear of a future filled with large black shiny corsages and the return of the undercut. It is cases like these, and the resurgence of the skinny jean, where I’m thankful for the evanescent nature of fashion.
Where I tend not to appreciate the ever-evolving catwalk is when it comes to my wallet. I have a million plus cardigans that I rarely wear now, so they better not go out of fashion just yet.
Is it just me or does crazy high-fashion look worse on boys than girls? Men like Gok Wan seem to have gotten dressed whilst half cut, in the dark, and with one arm tied behind their backs; but the women they style continue to look great.
Whilst the setting was pretty amazing it didn’t feel as authentically ‘fashion’ as the previous shows at the Natural History Museum. The glass atrium provided too much natural light, there were wooden chairs instead of cool black stools and the catwalk was on seat level and arranged in an S shape. The whole thing seemed a little twee. It was like taking afternoon tea in an upper class conservatory and the attendees seemed to mirror this with their twin-sets and understated clothing.
This whole quintessentially British tea party feel was enhanced by the collection. An abundance of similarly-cut conservative dresses in varying gross floral designs; teamed with over-the-top wicker hats and giant bows.
The models themselves looked like emaciated grandmas in their aged dresses, it jarred. It was like the upper class children at high tea had dressed up in their mother’s (and grandmother’s) dresses and pearls and were playing at catwalks. I half expected the models to be wearing shoes that were four sizes too big. Long sleeves worn under the dresses further enhanced the anachronistic look of the clothes and the difficult to look at wire-cleaner-arms of the models.