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April 19, 1997 |
Boutiques are organising them. Airlines organise them. Even tractor
companies are interested. Some day, you might even hear that the
numero uno politicos of Bombay, the Thackerays, are organising
a special saffron do.
Some of these "extravaganzas", as they are now dubbed,
are interesting.
Mostly, though, they are not so interesting.
But when we heard that a famous, but fashion-show-weary, columnist
had cancelled a previous engagement to attend the upcoming Lakme-Hero
Honda show (sponsored jointly by a lipstick and a motorcycle company;
strange marriage, that) which would have real, live French models
and clothes from the houses of YSL, Nina Ricci, Ted Lapidus, Jean
Louis Scherrer and Paco Rabanne, we were a wee bit curious. Especially
since it is rather difficult to get the required sponsorship for
such shows. In fact, it took show organiser Sheena Singh almost
three years before she could give Bombay a glimpse
of asli international fashion.
Suddenly there was burst of deafening crackle on the mike and
a radiant Singh clad in a slinky grey silk sari, trimmed with
gorgeous zari, appeared from the wings. The former model
from the house of Yves St Laurent in Paris invited the show sponsors
- who, for some reason, included painter M F Husain - on stage.
And the show began.
A very fit, but slightly anorexic, dancer, trained by the Martha
Graham School of Dance did a whirling, extremely arty, number.
In accompaniment to dramatic, haunting, hair-curling music -- the
kind one might hear during the most crucial moment in a film --
she pirouetted through the air and did athletic manoeuvers that
left her sweating and the audience breathless. Her most classic
sequence, though, was to wriggle herself into a very long, billowing
silk kaftan-type garment before spinning herself around until
the kaftan transformed into a sari. She exited with a namaste.
And the couture began to flow. Eleven models, including the sleek
Sheetal Malhar, strutted their stuff. The entire show -- clothes,
models, choreographer, music, chef de cabin and even the hairdresser
-- had been imported from France or, rather, Paris.
The first line of clothing came from Paco Rabanne
and they
were not really the kind of garments that could withstand the
steamy heat of a Bombay cocktail party. Most of it resembled haute
couture rain gear. Varieties of what appeared to be PVC had been
fashioned into minis, bicycle shorts, nighties. The colours were
vibrant enough to sear the eyeballs. And the material was rather
shiny. It could be handy in the Indian context because there would
be no problem with those awful yellow and red curry stains that
one collects at an Indian party; the stain would wipe off as easy
as a Mothercare plastic bib.
But no, Paco Rabanne's stuff, despite the built-in advantages,
was a bit hard to take... It was the kind of outrageous stuff
one only sees in a fashion show. Singh pointedly informed the
audience that each garment was worth a minimum of $ 20,000 and
some 200-odd man hours had gone into producing them. Except that
one couldn't see even an Ivana Trump or a Liz Hurley shelling
out that kind of moolah for this kind of stuff.
The work of Jean Louis Scherrer was another matter altogether.
Slick suits, interesting cuts, neat, clean lines. Something that
the likes of businesswomen Tanya Godrej or Pooja Ebrahim nee Bedi
could quite easily don for a business appointment in our very
own Brihanmumbai.
The Ted Lapidus collection deserved a prize for one dress in particular
- a frothy, sea-green, romantic number crafted from rustling,
billowing taffeta. The Lapidus line of clothing appeared very
Indian. The heavy embroidered choli-lookalike tops were teamed
with full silk skirts uncannily like ghagras. Wonder where
Tedsaab's been lately?
Nina Ricci, and the show was definitely warming up. The music
had now broken into song. Beautiful opera arias floated in the
air (incidentally, the choice of music was great). And the models
were rosy-cheeked from the exertion of floating up and down a
stage bathed in tropical temperatures.
Ricci's dresses were a dream. Timeless black numbers embellished
with gold or silver zari and lace. Feminine-feminine clothes
that made the models bloom and look quite Victorian. Perky silk
'n' feather tu-tus. A cool, platinum blonde swept the stage in
a stiff, scarlet red, silk outfit. All the clothes were deeply
womanly, frothing with lace, embroidery and frills.
The legendary house of Yves St Laurent was evidently meant to
be the high point. Unfortunately, Nina Ricci had already captured
that slot. Minutes before. Nevertheless, the YSL guys displayedsome fine creations. The colour combinations were quite stunning.
I mean who would imagine that fresh lime greens, sparkling yellows
and royal blues could match with a gaudy gold cummerbund? The
stark black sequined outfit spelled class. And the bright white
lacy wedding dress, matched with a rich, black felt hat and a
white veil. Mmm, nice
!
And then, the stage went dark. The dancer returned for a quick
adieu. While the who's who headed either for the buffet dinner
- "Only for those with the blue invitation cards, please"
- or back to their deshi manufactured Opel Astras, Fords,
Mercs and mobile phones.
Photographs: Jewella C Miranda
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