Fashion and Vanity

The mind wonders, a labyrinth of false persona’s and strange ‘un-normal’ people. Me, myself am not a good looking. Yet when placed Infront of a crowd that’s been told I am, The dynamic changes. A power shift. I think we ‘the crowd’ have been give an idea of reality just because someone else has told us such. A strange, strange dilemma of humanity and conscious thought. Beauty concerts and serious bull shit. Honestly, the only thing cool about them is the clothes’…Obviously.  I guess that’s literally the point of a catwalk. To show off the garments a designer has crafted. I guess I’ve been caught up in the semantics of it all. It’s hard not to see it. Stood this close to Vanity and not smell the foul taste of Desperation. That strange lonesome gay guy who just isn’t blinking. Or even the middle aged dino-whore who has overstayed her welcome in your eyeline. Kinda like it though…In a weird self-obsessed way. The free pass people acquire to stare too long and too deeply.

Cardiff-based fashion designer. Nathan Palmer. Tailored, bespoke suits. Never heard of the guy, but I suppose there’s an endless list of supposedly cool people I’ve never heard of. That’s just how it is. Anyway, his styling had something intriguing about it. A kind of post-modern twist on traditional tailoring, if you can call it that. I’m not exactly fluent in the language of fashion critique, but from what I saw, there were holes where holes typically shouldn’t be, patchwork slapped on like some sort of abstract statement, and collars that seemed to be fighting gravity. All blended into otherwise tight-fitting, classic suits. It was bold, it was weird, it was... kind of impressive, if I’m honest.

But that’s the game, isn’t it? Take something ordinary, tweak it just enough to make people think it’s genius, and then slap a ridiculous price tag on it. Call it art. Call it innovation. Really, it’s just a clever con. Convincing the self-obsessed and style-conscious that they’re seeing something groundbreaking, when it’s really, just a suit with holes and some stitched-on chaos. Makes me wonder why I’m not doing it myself. Playing the game, milking the pretentious out of their cash. Spoken like any man, ever.

I was a part of the ‘lucky’ group of lads participating in showing these garments off. A group full of various types of people knob to jack the lads. Sound and vicious. All in a room together and all striped down to the very anxieties and insecurities everyone suffers from.  So, in this brief meeting everyone was on the level, and everyone was living in compatible understanding.  It’s a special thing to be in that position. Unsettling, discomforting and be a common unity found within it.

A curtain drawn back, a pulse of bass, and we’re told to line up. Told like cattle getting led to the slaughter of scrutiny, forced through the mill of ogling eyes and unwarranted opinions. Someone sprays something into the air. It smells like cedar and misplaced confidence. A coordinator with a headset barks instructions like he's running a military drill rather than a fashion show. What a prick. I glance at the guy next to me—a kid. Probably hasn’t even hit twenty yet. He’s definitely, thinking the same thing. We practice and practise. Count the steps. Pull the faces and try our hardest to put on the masks that this guy wants us to wear. Some of the models try a little too hard. Stare a little too long. Pout too hard. I can’t say I fall into this category I think my strategy was to get on and off the stage, as quick as possible.

We’re lined up now, waiting to walk. I feel a tap on my shoulder, a nod. Guess that’s the signal. Go time or whatever. The lights hit me, and suddenly I’m out there—just some guy in a weirdly cut suit pretending to be something more. A spectacle. A walking art piece. It doesn’t feel powerful. It feels kind of stupid, honestly. Like I’m being paraded around as part of some elaborate joke that I’m too slow to get.

I’m walking now. Don’t even remember deciding to move. You’re supposed to act like you don’t give a fuck, like you own every inch of that catwalk, because that’s what they’re expecting, like it’s some unspoken rule no one warned me about. Confidence, arrogance, whatever. They’ll eat it up because they’ve been told to. It’s all just theatre. Empty posturing in expensive fabric. Props, animated mannequins parading in someone else’s dream. I guess you just do.

The music thrums through my skull, each step falling into rhythm, each stare absorbed like they’re drilling holes straight through me. I catch glimpses of their faces. Some of them intrigued, some indifferent, some desperate to convince themselves they understand what they’re seeing. Spoiler alert: they don’t. Neither do I, but I keep walking. There’s no room for introspection under this spotlight. I think to myself… This event is more of a magic mike competition than a sophisticated artsy dress fest. Fuck this, mate. I need a drink.

I can’t shake this feeling that none of it really matters. They’ll clap because they’re supposed to. They’ll call it art because it’s been priced that way. And I’m just here, stuck in the middle of it all. It’s pathetic and cool at the same time. Maybe if this was higher fashion, I would understand the esoteric side of this whole thing, but this was something a lot more cringe and weird.

Backstage again, and it’s over. The adrenaline dies down, leaving a bitter residue of self-awareness. Someone hands me a drink. A cocktail in a plastic cup, I down it without tasting. The kid from earlier is already out of his suit and chatting to the first girl he see’s. Fair Play. I wonder into the wolf pit. My mother is celebrating on my behalf. I’m just glad to see her having a goodtime. Small talk is thrown around like pigskin and I think I’m sick of pork. Everyone around is in good spirits but I almost don’t know what to do with myself. All the lads are having ‘craic round the fire’ and celebrating the mental battle we’ve just waged and won.

My mother had one too many and we call it. With it my experience of ‘London fashion week’. Thank God it’s over.