I don’t know what I expect, shivering in the winter chill outside the Covent Garden tube station. Part of me is scanning the crowd for Mike Judge in a skirt. Then I get a text: ‘I will be the one wearing a silly white hat with a purple jumper and I’m Chinese!’ She turns up, and she is! She’s also short, opinionated, chatty and one of London’s most promising illustrators. Meet Alison Tang.

Littleclouds, as she’s known around the web, is a fascinating product of formal education in graphic art and illustration, cross-cultural experiences and a healthy dose of cynical humour. Her designs, weird, funny and wonderful, find their way onto anything that isn’t coated in Teflon, from screen-printed totes to embroidered cushions and postcards.

Although she slates her university experience with graphic design studies (‘It was a really bad course – I want that written down!’), it must have instilled a certain sense of marketability, as her designs are both trendy and professional. Crisp, linear images of chubby children and speech bubbles with weird witticisms smack of modern pop-culture magazine illustration.

So where do you get your inspiration? Do you look at others’ work, go to galleries, things like that?

‘When I was at university we were always told to go to museums and go to galleries, but I always found it really hard to “catalogue” the ideas. You can’t just come up with an idea; you have to show the process. But I get them randomly.’

Not a fan of the art scene then?

‘I quite like a lot of student work, like they have the uni nights in East London. I like looking at things without knowing who they’re made by. I like fine art, but if you look at Damien Hirst, Andy Warhol, it’s not made by them, it’s made by fifteen students. How is that your art?’

Far from employing a team of minions to ghost-produce her designs, Alison creates hers from scratch and by hand, all from her home studio. ‘It’s really nice,’ she smiles. ‘Wake up, have a cup of tea - just chill out.’

One creation, from start to finish, can take about a day. Suddenly, the knick-knacks on her Etsy page take on the warm glow radiated by all things unique and hand-crafted. I carefully prod the surface of how potentially phony the gimmick is.

Would you ever want your work to become commer-…

[interrupting] ‘No.’

…So you wouldn’t want to see your designs on, say, a TopShop T-shirt?

‘Well, I quite like making it myself. My stepmom’s nephew has a factory in China. I was really surprised by what it was like, just a normal working place. If you think of a warehouse or factory here in the UK, it was like that, but cleaner. My dad and brother offered to have my designs manufactured there, but I don’t want to do that.’

Alison goes on to talk about her family, and the support they have shown her over the years with her involvement in the fine arts. Trying not to sound prejudiced, I ask how this works, seeing that she’s not only female, but also Asian.

‘When I was young they wanted me to do stuff like medicine or accountancy. You know, very sensible academic subjects. [But now] they’re really up for it. My dad always used to say when I was younger: “Have your own business, because even if it’s a small business it’s still yours.” You can never get fired.’

She cites Tatty Devine as an inspiration. Not so much for the creative style, but the powerful (and sadly rare) concept of two women running a successful design business. ‘I like how two females, quite young, just wanted to do something and did it,’ she says.

Although Alison never overtly discusses hot-potato topics (racism, sexism, capitalism), she shows fiercely intelligent opinions of all of them. She’s right about Tatty Devine when she points out that it isn’t that crazy to think about a female-driven business anymore. That’s just something to think about.

We chat and we sip our tea (both with milk). Alison talks loads, unprompted and un-self-conscious, laughs in liberal doses and makes politically incorrect jokes (‘They call us bananas, Like, we’re white on the inside but yellow on the outside. I find it funny, [but] don’t go around saying that!’). She talks about her love for travel and how the concept of copyright doesn’t seem to exist in China. She talks about lovely mail she gets from fans of her creations (shh, it all goes into a specially-designated folder on her Mac!). And then it’s over; we put on our coats and leave the comfort of the café, and I sit dreamily on the tube home, trying to imagine the magical whirlwind of thoughts and ideas that careens through the mind of Alison Tang, designer extraordinaire. (‘I don’t see myself as a designer,’ she corrects me, ‘I just say I make things.’)

www.littleclouds.co.uk
http://littleclouds.etsy.com

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If you were to let folk singer Ralph McTell take your hand and lead you through his Streets of London you would expect to see a few fruity fashion statements around town. But those old, daft, ironic fashion movements faded when the UV shellsuits and high-tops appeared in High Street chains (a sure sign they’re not cool) and now even the ubiquitous, checked lumberjack shirts are looking a little passé. So what’s next?

No one tries to conceal that fashion is often brazenly arbitrary and runs on a lazy 20-year spin cycle, regurgitating whichever item or style has been gone just long enough to warrant plundering (regardless of any enduring sense of taste). But there are times when it responds to shifts in public consciousness and listens to the prevailing mood.

Now is just such a time. In response to our current sense of uncertainty, chaos, over-indulgence and subsequent frugality, fashion has literally run to the hills for safety. Where? Well, just look at what is being let loose on the catwalks. Have you ever seen a more conservative, reactionary and, frankly, scared set of ‘trends’? Head shawls? Tartan? Plaid? Has the world gone mad?
 
The obvious answer to this question is ‘no’, but to qualify that answer it is necessary to remember that fashion is not only cynical and vacuous but can also be, when forced to, cunning (in a lazy sort of way).

So when Dolce & Gabbana finally dropped the tired old shtick of leather, ripped jeans, oiled Italian bodies and cheap sex this year in favour of the kind of garb commonly worn by the Queen, the surprise should not be that they have finally had to get up off their backsides and do something a bit different, but that people actually swallow it, praise it.

It’s not even as if their offerings are modern or innovative - the colours are muted and traditional, with demure greys, blues, browns and greens: traditional materials, traditional palette, nothing new here. However, the current climate has changed the status of luxury and the designers simply have to follow, pardon me, suit.
 
No need to reinvent the wheel, the luxuries of our time are comfort, security and stability. This is not groundbreaking, it is simply pandering to our needs, commercialising weakness and vulnerability by shamelessly pillaging styles that already exist. It so happens that this is, ironically, being achieved through the mining of one of the few resources ideologically opposed to the vacillating shimmies of the fashion seasons, English countryside wear.
 
Although country clothing and its figurehead, the royal family, is not fashionable (it is based on years of practical evolution), it could be said to be stylish. And, while style is permanent, fashion is transient. So when the transient fairy, the fairy that is in its own way responsible for the whole house of cards coming down (and is most certainly a totem of it), scorches its wings, it sneaks back to solid ground, spying a way to keep itself flying and the wheels of consumerism turning. This is, of course, run-of-the-mill commercialism, but the obviousness and hypocrisy behind the whole farce should, perhaps, strike more people than it does.
 
Whether it looks good in either the town or the city is a question we could have decided any time in the last hundred years, given that we have seen it all before. However, the strange truth is that this fashion only works as a fashion within cities like London - if you wore these clothes in the country you would simply be wearing country clothes and nobody would bat an eyelid.

Conversely, those brave trendsetters who start wearing this clobber too soon may be mistaken for toffs from Henley on the way to visit a rich aunt in Grosvenor (for this reason, I also suspect that it will be impossible for people much over the age of 30 to pull it off). It will be interesting to see how much the image captures the public imagination, keep an eye out around London in the next few months. I suspect it may do rather well.
 
Regardless of their success, what is certain is that these collections are just another passing fashion-fart and will not debase the solid currency of country wear. However, the whole thing is so cheap and leeching that it is hard to understand how anyone can see it as creative or novel when, in fact, the jaded underlying instinct is evidence to the contrary. Show me something to make me change my mind.

Images courtesy of Catwalking.com

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A few years ago, Sofia Coppola gave us Marie Antoinette. She gave us lavish dresses, exquisite delicacies, frivolous parties, gorgeous sunsets and absurd, gauche hairstyles. The curtain fell with the guillotine, and that was the end of that. Sharon Kivland picks up where Coppola left off, in a tiny gallery tucked away behind the Tate Britain, to tell us the rest of the story.

A Wind of Revolution Blows is a strange, disjointed sort of exhibit. Here you’ll find carefully printed and framed excerpts from French texts, embroidered aprons and doctored postcards, all brought together by two concurrent themes: Women and Revolution.

At first glance, the artworks are a nostalgic nod to femininity in the past. Kivland recreates ink and watercolour drawings from an 1848 fashion magazine; it’s all petticoats and bonnets and healthy blush on plump cheeks (how very different to the lanky, tanned models of today!). Elegant gloves are carefully arranged under a glass case.

But look a little closer and the metaphorical rose is in reality made of metaphorical stone, the foundations of the class revolution. The petticoats, they’re from the same year as the first publication of the Communist Manifesto. The pretty pastel gloves, they scream in embroidered defiance: liberté, fraternité, egalité. A black velvet pair solemnly concludes: ou la mort. This is an exhibition to make us question the distinction between conformity and rebellion, femininity and feminism.

You need to pick up a flyer at the door. Kivland makes strong, anthropological statements with her work; unfortunately, they are concealed under a layer of focused historical study and foreign language. A silver necklace carefully nested in a velvet box appears out of place and redundant, until the accompanying description explains that the word pétroleuse means both ‘cock-tease’ and ‘a woman who voices her political opinions too vehemently’. If you went to university, you’ll remember your favourite lecturer, the one who interspersed a boring stream of facts with anecdotes and stories. Kivland is that lecturer, reaching out through the medium of art and metaphor.

Academics who turn their attention to women in society tend to go down one of the two available routes: either the observational, matter-of-fact approach, or the bra-burning, how-could-you approach. Kivland is probably the only person in the world who has achieved a happy middle, rejecting neither female beauty, nor female strength.

Despite this, there is a certain sadness in her work. A large tableau at the exhibition’s entrance contains excerpts from On the Education of Women, a 1783 text. ‘Abandoned at birth,’ the tableau reads, ‘neither slaves nor tyrants. Their only resource was to seduce. A smooth skin. Inflamed blood.’

‘Look how far we have come,’ Kivland seems to say. Yet when the delicate pleats and rosy cheeks and r’s that effortlessly roll off your tongue fade from memory, when you’re walking home in the dark and frosty wind of December in London, you have to ask yourself: So how much further do we have to go?

A Wind of Revolution Blows, the Storm is on the Horizon
Until December 13, 2008

Chelsea Space
16 John Islip Street
SW1P 4JU

Tel: 07841 783129

www.sharonkivland.com

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When I rocked up to the Natural History Museum for the last day of London Fashion Week yesterday I knew I was fully indoctrinated into the fashion massive when I was caught bitching in the queue for Ashish.

But to be fair to me it wasn’t exactly bitching. I was merely remarking on a ‘look at me and comment’ outfit that had just strolled past. Somebody with a head tattooed like a garden conceived on acid - complete with little decorative butterflies glued to it - simply holds no desire to blend in (unless they were supposed to be wallflowers on his head). 

Inspired by this ‘trendsetter’ panache I tried enticing a grey squirrel to spend the day sitting on my comparatively bland and unadorned cranium, but alas it ate the bait-nuts and fucked off, leaving me with nothing but crumby dandruff and the overwhelming desire to get a tetanus jab. 

Since my first fashion blog, in which I wasn’t entirely complimentary about the supposed ’stylist’ I met on day one, I have been dreading bumping into her in case she had gotten wind of my venomous bile. But as if to bookend the fashion week experience I saw her on the first and last days. This time she was wearing an ill-fitting purple bowler hat, held high with tight blonde ringlets entwined with orange wire cleaners, Johnny Depp circa Pirates of the Caribbean eye makeup, and a floral suit jacket. She was like a Batman baddy on a severe budget. 

Ashish’s work kicked off with some pretty agreeable urban glitz and army glamour: military bomber and trench jackets cut from bold camouflage print and emblazoned with thousands of shiny sequins. This was pretty cool and some trendy forthright individual could certainly pull it off in the outside world. 

Baggy pants were the order of the day (and the week) and each piece was topped off with a big accessory made from the branded ‘A’ (for Ashish): gold medallions, baseball caps, medals, broaches etc. Whatever happened to sleeping with models to leave your mark, or pissing on them even, heaven knows they could do with even those discarded nutrients? 

The military wear stepped back to adolescence with one poncho/overcoat that looked as if it belonged to a particularly diligent Girl Guide. There were dozens of patches sewed on but heaven knows what that frizzy-haired, pouting, five stone model did to achieve them, she certainly didn’t look very outdoorsy. Perhaps fashion week gave out alternative awards like the ‘scowling’ patch and ‘commitment to the binge/purge cycle’ patch.
 
A piece that got my attention was a black two-piece covered in white handprints. The model looked like a businesswoman who’d been molested by decorators on her way to work, which I assume is a bad look for anyone.   

Achieving maximum points in the ‘what the fuck’ category were sequined square dresses designed as playing cards. Whilst they would make amazing stage costumes for a glitzy production of Alice in Wonderland I‘m not sure you wouldn‘t attract odd looks in Pizza Express. I know it must be boring waiting backstage but finding an excuse to use the models as playing cards is just plain cruel. Yes they are flat and light enough to be used as cards. Yes they’re subservient to the point that they will accept being shuffled as part of a deck, but really, shiny playing cards? What a piss take. 

The pernicious side of fashion was most apparent at the Modernist show at the Mango clothing store on Oxford Street. The VIPs with their ‘stickered’ tickets were unapologetically late; fully exploiting the weight of their ‘coloured sticker status’ to hold-up the show and turn a blind eye to their tardy rudeness.  

The aspiration cattle were left to graze (or as the holding area was the first floor of the shop I guess ‘browse’) in the heat whilst a tiny voice occasionally whimpered ‘those with green and orange stickers please move forward’. It was like a 21st century form of social segregation; where certain colours hold greater rights than others. Fashion has created its own hemisphere in which to sift out the less worthy with a colander of pretension. 

Will Young, having been with the herd for some time, had managed to sidle up to someone who could whisk him through; giving a plumy ‘well done’ to his new found meal ticket as he sauntered past me. The insanity of the fashion hierarchy was already getting on my nerves, and I wasn’t even inside. 

Once the ‘coloured’ people had finally taken their preferential seats and the rest of us had been nonchalantly ushered to ‘stand anywhere at the back’ the show finally kicked-off. 

The bulk of the first lot of outfits were white futuristic dresses perfect for getting married in the matrix. There were some incredibly striking designs using ruffles that looked as though they had been beautifully stenciled from a pile of fluffy napkins using the sharpest knife possible; 3-D design at its most beautiful.
 
Unfortunately there seemed to be a lot of last minute hemming.  Some of the skirts looked like my mum’s curtains: huge lazy stitching by non-fussed aesthetically challenged persons. Overall it was a touch too purple and white for my tastes. Perhaps Silk Cut was trying to advertise under the radar since tobacco is no longer viable for legal promotion. 

Half way through the collection I decided I couldn’t take anymore and left. Fashion week has been like holding my breath underwater for an uncomfortable amount of time. Finally coming up for air was incomparably relieving.

Despite spending a week swimming alongside the current best and rubbing fins with the catch of tomorrow I feel that my fashion gills will never set in. I will never survive in these waters. I am destined to fulfill my needs with low-cost clothing from the cheapest outlets, ignorant to the ‘hottest’ trends and ten steps behind the cognoscenti; and after seeing the vile industry people this week I’m grateful for my shortcomings. 

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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. 

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Caroline Charles knows how to put on a good show. Opting for a live band instead of a banging soundtrack was a great way to enhance the quality of her collection at London Fashion Week. Though, when the band was announced it wasn’t clear if we were told ‘to clap’ or if the band were called The Clap. Either way I thought it best to avoid my usual behavior and try not to get backstage to bone the cellist.

Kitted-out in some nice swimsuits the models grouped at the opening end of the catwalk feigning conversation like a cluster of attractive ‘50s housewives at a pool party. The live jazzy music fitted the scene perfectly and it was probably the best conversation those models had ever had; even though they were most likely just mouthing ‘rhubarb’ and smiling. 

The playful interaction continued throughout the show as the models acknowledged each other along the catwalk, crossing paths mid-walk. One particularly gorgeous specimen filmed the paparazzi on a handheld camera whilst she walked, turning the camera on the press and putting a rare smile on the concrete camera monolith. This playfulness definitely did more for the clothes than the traditional sour-faced stalking. 

The bikinis themselves were like safari disco-wear: lots of bright orange, pink and yellow animal print. Unfortunately they were a bit cheap looking. If I was a fashion mogul my coin toss would always land on the side of real fur; spray painting the animal, making it dance for money and then skinning it in the name of fashion. That would definitely have looked better. 

After the big flesh and colour parade it all went a bit Working 9 to 5 on acid. More bright colours but this time it was ‘look at me’ officewear, mini-shorts and suit jackets worn unbuttoned over bras; office attire for horny anorexics basically. Can’t wait to see Evans pull off their own version for size 18+ women. 

My fashion companion particularly liked Charles’ line of dresses, and I must admit they were pretty; the kind of stuff you could see making an easy transition from robotic model to ordinary girl. 

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Sunday morning I arrived bright and early at the Natural History Museum to peruse the opening collection of London Fashion Week spring/summer 2009. It was like a scene from The Wizard of Oz (if the yellow brick road had a tedious queue). There was an abundance of backcombed lion’s manes, a lot of brainless chatter and the obligatory heartlessness; despite the rare sunshine you could still feel the chill of vacuous eyes dressing you down (and then up again in different outfits). Also, much like Dorothy, when I finally reached the end of the road I felt a little fucked over; there were no goody bags.   

Whilst queuing patiently to have my satiable thirst for fashion quenched I was set upon by some overdressed relic with more self-worth than a lion ruling a jungle consisting entirely of earthworms. She force-fed me her companion’s business card like an angry gaoler would a suffragette and then insisted on telling me a tedious story about her collection of £40,000 worth of vintage clothing and her lavish LA parties. Being unemployed I received these tales of grandeur as well as the most adamant of suffragettes; it stuck in my throat and was hard to swallow.   

I don’t think she could decide which piece of her expensive collection she should wear so she removed all the zips and wore them instead. Her young ‘stylist’ friend’s (I think daughter) fake tan was so alarmingly patchy she looked like a jersey cow with impetigo. Not fully content with that eyesore she had scraped a year’s worth of crusty old eyeliner from Russell Brand’s unwashed linen and shovelled it around her own eyes (‘trowelled on’ isn’t the appropriate analogy here as that would have suggested some semblance of aim). A piece of red rag that was once perhaps a make-do curtain tie-back was oddly fastened around her forehead to complete the budget pirate look. You would trust her to be your stylist as much as you would hire a racing car driver who turned up drunk in a rusty mini-metro.  

Once I had endured the queue I felt fully deserving of the six mini bagels I unhinged my jaw to consume, and headed to the catwalk for London Fashion Week’s opening show of Paul Costelloe’s spring/summer 2009 collection…   

I was slightly distracted throughout by a lady with a ‘Sarah Jessica Parker does robotic alien-contacting headgear’ (see SJP SATC premiere hat). It was so much like a tinfoil antenna that the plasma screen started beaming in images of little green men. Still, good for her if she can get a signal on the tube.   

Costelloe’s collection consisted mainly of casual wear. Some of it was pretty cool. The overuse of rope made it a little bondagey but I liked the general cut and the excess buttons, though I think this stuff looks better on men (see Rex’s exit outfit Big Brother ‘08). 

I wasn’t sure about some of the drab khaki materials and baggy bottoms; he left room in the bum area of lots of his pieces, inflating them to look like a baby who’s been dipped in the swimming pool wearing its nappy.    

My other head-scratcher was the misuse of black feathers and beads. It was as if he was an accomplice in a mass raven murder and was gradually siphoning off the evidence. The feathers were so out of place and ruined what would have been otherwise nice, amicable outfits.    

Also, I am aware that high fashion and comfort can’t always holiday together but one outfit looked particularly itchy, and so not worth it. It was like a short grey mini-robe with a hood, and made out of this gauzey see-through cheap stuff. The only appropriate person and occasion for this piece would be a slutty lesbian brown owl on camp trying to be down with the kids and pork one of the other leaders. 

A neat little design trick he played with a lot of his stuff was that he designed it to create an hour glass female figure. On the models it looked a bit like a plastic bag tied to a pole and inflated by the wind but at least it gave them a nicer, less sub-human shape. So that falls on the side of good say I. 

So it was a military, puffy, feathery, urban mix which had some high points and some 60,000 thousand leagues beneath the sea points; there was definitely a sense of incoherence but perhaps that was the point. Whatever the case he sort of pulled it off.   

When he walked out at the end to take his bow he looked so much like a mad old professor that I think he may have created his collection with the use of the periodic table and a couple of test tubes. I was expecting a funny little camp fella in ridiculous garb: black rimmed specs with a strategically placed measuring tape worn as a scarf.    

Given the queue, the air-kissing and the odd robot woman it would be easy to dismiss it all as pretentious bull, to denigrate it completely on the grounds of its air-kissing and the rest of its shiny polyester veneer of social self-importance.   

But, this stuff will eventually filter down through the various levels of malnourished foreign kiddies to H&M and then to its final stop on my poor ass and no-other-choice back. Much like the annoying woman I encountered in the queue, fashion is difficult to avoid completely. I’m not exactly sans fashion myself. I do have style of some sort, and just because I’ve fallen flatter than the model’s chests, my life as empty as their plates and my cashflow as powerful as the penile blood flow of a sugar daddy pre-Viagra, does not give me the right to throw stones.

Also ever tried aiming a stone at a lampost?  I’d have very little chance of hitting one of the models then.

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The retro clothing market is becoming increasingly cluttered, hence the epidemic of lacklustre stock sweeping London. One time exemplar traders are now attempting to pass off last season’s retro pastiches from the ubiquitous Gap and H&M as original vintage wear; a somewhat radical interpretation of original stockists.

Enter stage West: Beyond Retro has long been supplying the East End with top-end vintage threads, but it is not widely known that the finger-on-the-pulse Canadians, who import from warehouses in their home country, have opened a store in Soho.

This is not an uninspiring regurgitation station, but a plethora of high quality gems. Creaming off only the best-handpicked items from all over the globe, you can expect to find hundreds of one-of-a-kind garments.

Beyond Retro clearly has an eye for the current trends (employing trend analyists to maintain the quality for which it is known) with its highly selective stock tipping its hat to the High Street. Prices are what you would expect: reasonable but not extortionate for the market.

Whilst there’s the familiar foraging specific to second-hand retail, finding something great is more penguins-in-a-zoo than needle-in-a-haystack; the best garments will always favour those prepared to rummage.

The store has an amazing collection of 1930s Bakelite, an endless supply of vintage boots, and of course the old favourites: Western shirts, college sweatshirts, chunky knits, printed Tees and accessories.

Also, whilst I’m sure it may not be the intention, some of the more flamboyant garments will make for excellent fancy dress if you need to get kitted out for any of this summer’s music festivals.

Beyond Retro
58-59 Great Marlborough Street
Soho
London
www.beyondretro.com

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You’ve gotta hand it to Betty Jackson. She’s got chutzpah for sticking King Henry VIII’s mug on the crotch of her catwalk model’s hotpants. This act of impudence pretty much sums up the attitude reflected in the veteran Fashion Weeker’s show on Tuesday: flamboyant, colourful, unconventional, fun.

The BFC tent was packed to the gunnels on Tuesday afternoon with Jackson’s old skool front row fashion set: Jennifer Saunders, Victoria Wood, Laura Linney – all looking relaxed and understated, despite the large scale event. Expectantly the odd ex-pop star and supermodel loitered around, and the papz had an overwhelming presence, but it wasn’t a pretentiously glam affair, which made for a welcome change.

The collection was chock-full of contrasts: the classic and contemporary, the casual and elegant, with clashing colours and differing fabrics/fits: a ribbed polo neck with a satin dress; an oversized jacket with tights. The models donned sequinned bonnets and strutted down a catwalk blanketed with patterned rugs.

Knitted jumpers and cardigans were beautifully crafted for everyday wear; the evening dresses were divine. One little strapless number threatened to fall off the tiny frame of its fragile model, barely concealing her cleavage as she worked the room of expectant fashionistas.

So what’s next for Jackson? Will she bring her Royal-wear to the present day? Prince Chuck handcuffs? Queen Betty’s face emblazoned across bare breasts? Watch this space. In the meantime Jackson has designed an exclusive campaign t-shirt for the Environmental Justice Foundation (EJF), which is 100% organic and fairly traded.

The EJF’s residence at the London Fashion Week exhibition at the Natural History Museum forecourt is again thanks to estETHICa, London’s sustainable fashion initiative. This acclaimed platform is entirely devoted to the best in eco-sustainable fashion, and this year welcomes some fresh newcomers to the fold including Mark Liu, Pibiones and Green Knickers.

Wednesday’s highlights included Afshin Feiz at On/Off, The Royal Academy of Arts venue. Shiny fabrics, frills, flowers, puffs, ruffles and metallics prevailed throughout the audacious collection that boasted bold colours, sharp suits and feminine jackets and dresses.

Models wore tribal eye make-up and black daises in loose hair. Pounding house music bounced of the four walls of the venue that was totally white bar for a giant butterfly projected onto the wall at the catwalk entrance.

London Fashion Week autumn ‘08/’09 is drawing to a close, with the Godmother of punk, Vivienne Westwood, showing off her Red Label tonight, her first appearance in eight years.  It’s being billed as the highlight of what’s been a week of an exciting and eclectic mix of influences and inspirations, and some unexpected Royal glamour.

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London Fashion Week is back. And before we mere mortals have even contemplated pedicuring our indecent claws and exposing those pasty hobbit feet to the world in time for the forthcoming spring/summer ’08, the powers that be in Fashion Land are prancing about in wool knits for autumn/winter ‘08/’09.

Oh it’s hard keeping up with the style set. Just when you’ve finally St Tropez’d those neglected wintery bits, and psyched yourself up for the chiffonny, floaty, floral tea dresses of the here and now (or the ever-so-soon), those scrawny Kate Moss wannabes are donning high-waisted denim bootlegs and cosy cashmere-wear. Bitches.

But all is not lost. Despite the seasonal confusion Feb fashion week is currently kickin’ ass, and it’s about to kick even more butt in anticipation of Luella Bartley, Vivienne Westwood (for her first appearance in nine years) et al’s shows this week.

On Sunday I saw Modernist in Mayfair where big hats and bad hair ruled the queue outside clambering to get into the Music Rooms of South Molton Lane via a back alley and a fire escape (all those princesses in platforms having to scramble up the stairs – priceless). Inside a single beat pulsated throughout the entire show as androgynous models with scraped back hair pounded the floor with slow, deliberate steps (there was no actual catwalk in the warehouse space) in anti-aesthetic, slightly punky, almost Gothy, kinda rocky ‘80s-inspired style clothes.

The atmosphere was electric; the crowd a mixture of your prerequisite glam gals, Hoxtonites and electro kids. The collection, by duo Abdul Koroma and Andrew Jones, was dominated by stark shapes, long columns and block colour – mostly black with the odd splash of scarlet. It was a dark and beautifully tailored collection with an exceptional knitwear range.

Earlier in the day the Sloaney ponys were out in full force at Caroline Charles where a classic collection prevailed throughout to a jazzy live string quartet. Neatly tucked away behind a white mesh veil near the catwalk entrance, the Dylan Howe Quartet entertained the relaxed crowd with their moody swing, lending a distinctly sophisticated ‘country on Sunday’ air to the proceedings.

Charles’s show was carefully divided into six themes: Trophy Wife, City Slicker, Country Gig, El Morocco, Mood Indigo and Jazz Age. It commenced in bright pink, ended with a bridal gown, and featured power suits and bead work in between.

Ben de Lisi appeared next at a tighter controlled BFC Tent. There was a big international crowd, and some recognisable faces, with a collection that was sharp, glossy, classic, and commercial.

Core looked like it was going to steal the show on Monday. I was most grateful for the champagne and the ostentatious surroundings of the Landmark Hotel, but all this build up made for a greater fall when the collection itself proved to be cheap and lacklustre.

This post is from The London Word and should not be republished elsewhere without prior permission. Please check out our site for more great stories and features.

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