LGFW: day two

Posted July 1st, 2011 by Brock Cumpston No Comments »


Denis Gagnon delivers a “tragic” follow-up to his brilliant spring 2011 showing; Label goes nu-grunge; Chloe comme Parris’ sisters do it for themselves; Pink Tartan enlist in the military; and Joe remains forever Fresh.

Last LG Fashion Week, no show thrilled more than Denis Gagnon’s. What happened? I’d heard from Montrealers that this season was quite… something else, but hoped he would make amends ‘tween their A/W11 fashion week and ours.

“It was tragic,” said Jeanne Beker yesterday, post-Gagnon. I nodded, imagining she meant the show, but she was talking about its poor attendance. C’est vrai: Gagnon is the most interesting designer in Canada. More people should’ve come. But it was lunchtime.

If I can say this without being sued for libel—writers don’t have money!—it looked like a collection made on bad MDMA. There were too many ideas, all executed at fever pitch, each fine but flawed. His zippered, asymmetrical jackets—signature Gagnon, albeit a bit Rick Owensian—were done in waxed linen that looked more like wax paper. “Inexpensive” is the kind way to put it. Razor pleats were beset by thick black stripes, like overlarge grids demarcated in duct tape. Colour is welcome for fall, but not in the form of fun fur, or erratic bursts of tulle, or haphazardly wrapped chiffon tops. Besides, the colours were too CMYK, too flat-screen.


It’s strange. Gagnon’s last show, an extravaganza in prismatic fringe, was fantastic and practically unwearable. This one had separates you could work—zippy vests and parkas, long sheer pleats over pants—but with all the wackness, little to wish for. If he could reach a medium, buyers might be happier.

It was strange, too, to go from the designer-iest designer to a label called… Label. But any fashion week depends on a balance of both. The highly unGoogleable Label is all easy, girlish sportswear, co-designed by Shawna Robinson and Natalie Sydoruk and made locally—not expensively—with sustainable fabrics. It’s for trendies who shop at Zara, but will spend a little more to feel as good about clothing as they do in it.


For fall, Label did nu-grunge. Bit late to that game, but they played it well. A great grey cape had raw edges, an exposed zipper and black leather patch pockets , while slinky cable-knit skirts and jersey maxis were styled with waist-tied shirts and, duh, patent Docs. There was a little Courtney Love in a cream slip over soft henley. Best: a dusty blue shirt-dress with sheer panel, a simple white silk tee with raw-edged pocket, and a topaz velvet frock under a black cape. Worst: a miniskirt with attached, tied shirtsleeves—like the 2-in-1 shampoo-and-conditioner of clothing—and the leather panelled leggings. Even Zara isn’t doing those anymore.

Predictably, I like the trend of young women-about-town making clothes for themselves, girls like them, girls like me: Rita Liefhebber, Amanda Lew Kee, Diepo, Label, etc. And then there’s Chloe comme Parris. These are literally sisters doing it for themselves, and necessity must be their mother, ’cause this was one wickedly inventive, bravura show.

Chloe Gordon, older at 23, works more with textiles and patterns, weaving historical references into a brand-new spin on the urban-warrior look. Parris, the younger, specializes in jewellery—or, as it appeared here, heavy artillery. Chains of arrows, or crystals in the rough, were slung over chests like rifle-belts. Amulets dangled from a cape or two. Western buckles gleamed bright where epaulets might lie on great coats and vests, while belts flapped jauntily from their edges.


Last season, the Gordons hinted at cool Victoriana, mixed with chic utility. Now they’ve gone full Austen. The overriding silhouette is of long coat-tails with skinny pants, all in glimmering velvet or satin or textured pinstripes; hello, Mr. Darcy! But it’s not unfeminine, or unsexy for that matter: shirt hems were cut high to reveal hipbones, and diamonds of skin were set into a black-velvet gown. Petal skirts, floating alone or ingeniously attached to vests with hook-and-eye, opened dangerously close to, uh, that other flower.

I worry how well some of this would look on non-models, but want desperately to believe I could pull it off. I’m not alone. Exiting with two of my friendlies, Kiwi and Randi, we nearly came to fisticuffs over who wanted to pre-order more. That’s a first.

To be a successful commercial designer, you must have: taste, originality and skill, better still if that skill can be called craft. At most shows here, two out of three is good enough. But Chloe comme Parris has it all. They’re true and talented designers, but they’re also a viable, valuable label. These girls get it. They are it.

I didn’t want to spoil my sudden appetite for home-cooked fashion by watching, ahem, a rug show. Yes, I know the FDCC needs money, from wherever they can get it, but it’s this kind of thing that makes a sham of our industry. Earlier in the day, there’d been a show of Shan swimsuits on the catwalk. Y’all heard. Fall/winter swimsuits. In Canada. What’s next, I tweeted: a merkin show? FASHION‘s beauty editor Lesa Hannah replied she’d “totally cover backstage beauty for that.” Enterprising PR firms, take note.

When I returned for Pink Tartan and Joe Fresh, tongues were aflame with talk of the runway’s special guests. Not, this time, a model or celeb , but a professional lover of both: the fashion-famous, the infamous, Derek Blasberg.

“Did you see Blasberg?” asked writer Fraser Abe. “I ran into him in the bathroom,” said Ryan Cheung, a Flare blogger and smartypants who’s reporting LGFW for Fashionista. I waited for the rest of the story. Nope. We’re just so eager to hang with New York City, like little girls begging to stay in big sister’s room when her cool friends come over. I’m glad Joe Mimran has the money and smarts to fly in some boldface pros—rumours had it Sandra Ballentine of T magazine was there too, and someone from American Elle—but ambivalent about whether it means anything, or should, if they’re not paying their own way.

Anyway, Pink Tartan. Kimberly Newport-Mimran had presented a variety of new, though not particularly new-feeling, looks on mannequins during New York Fashion Week, at her whitewashed Chelsea space. It’s truly something to see the paradigm-shift from reality to runway. From the pile of luxe basics, stylist George Antonopoulos pulled one idea and marched with it: military. As the Devil in The Devil Wears Prada might say: “Military for fall. Groundbreaking.”



There were heavy-duty leather harnesses and belts over silky-crisp shirts and leather pencil skirts, or flak vests over shimmering tulle. Soulja-girl caps and tight-laced boots toughened luxe standbys, like a fur-collared camel coat. The newest thing was a suit, cut like one of Richard Nicoll’s, in glittering black-on-black camouflage, and a ballgown made of same: for what, blending into the night? She also tried a ballgown in pale olive nylon and succeeded in making it look, from the end of the runway, like parachute silk. But the best thing was the minimal-est: a soft, clinging grey turtleneck , cut out at the shoulderblades and tucked into a long, grey, side-peplum’d skirt.

Newport-Mimran called it “couturitarian,” which means… nothing. I’d call it “army wife.”

As for the kids, they’re off to college in another time. Joe Fresh Style was that ’70s show we’ve been waiting for: it’s the decade of the year for trending designers, and Joe is nothing if not the simplest, sometimes cheeky, “interpretation” of the trends. Classic white shirts remained, but trousers loosened and skirts came a-line or short like Ali MacGraw’s. At the end, they were incredibly embellished; how exactly could these sell for $39.99? Likely, they won’t.



Ditto for the laceless oxfords, painted gold, but you can probably scoop up some chocolate suede loafer-pumps come fall or, if you’re completely silly, tangerine patent kitten heels . I’d also like to see in stores the neat sweaters knit bright with nature scenes, like Lego landscapes. But the big hits were neoprene coats in artificially happy colours: Sunkist orange, fake-plant green, pool blue or cobalt. These are dreams of Jil Sander at the most realistic price.

But I do wonder how it’s possible, how Joe could do colour in a rich, meaningful way, and Denis Gagnon, a “real” designer, couldn’t. I know this isn’t how it works, but one day, I wish the design team at Joe Fresh Style—some of the most talented fashion-school grads in the city—would come out for a bow, and get the claps they deserve.

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