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LIFESTYLE: IFW
Kitsch And Tell
Unexciting clothes, copycat design and brittle
egos were the motif of the Mumbai India Fashion Week
By Ravi Shankar with Natasha Israni
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ILLUSIONISTS: (from Left)
Malhotra, Dhaka and Bal at the IFW Grand finale
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Indian fashion,
mostly, is a fool's paradise. Its illusion may have dazzled many with
sparkle, shimmer and shine at Mumbai's India Fashion Week (IFW), but ended
signifying little. The usual birds of paradise in sequinned colour and
dazzling textures did their iambic parade on racehorse ankles-gazelle-limbed
and silken-haired, donning the wares of clothiers who took their bow to
different octaves of applause.
Colourful and entertaining? Yes. Even spectacular
at times, like the swarthy Latin-jawed Manish Malhotra's exquisite colours,
cut and fabric, the innovative Rajesh Pratap Singh's denim overcoat and
Tarun Tahiliani's white quilted Chinese jackets.
Shocking? Meaninglessly so: Rina Dhaka took
off on Dior-her campy costuming of the zaftig Yana Gupta in a skin-flick
version of Delilah with a few strands of waist-strips and plumage was
as ridiculous as her choconut moussing of models' hair.
Loud? Sure, like Aki Narula or Savio Jon who
decided to mock wearable fashion by being irrationally outre, and Rocky
S invoking inspiration from street chic-it's more of borrowed High Street
than anything else, despite Hrithik Roshan and Preity Zinta endorsing
him by their presence.
Naffily provincial? Yes, in spite of the ever-sexy
Rekha cheering the Nabob of Couture, Muzaffar Ali's kurti-pants with tukdi
borders and predictable chikan looked bhaiyya-town fusion where even the
ramp music sounded like Vividh Bharati.
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Rudolf
Valentino would blacken his face and wear sackcloth at the absolute
travesty of elegance at the Fashion Week.
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Original? Hardly ever.
But then, designers like Jattin Kochchar protest
they had a clear brief from the Fashion Development Corporation of India.
Business of fashion was the weeklong Veda, and the presence of Selfridges
was proudly tom-tommed as proof enough of international interest in India.
But that is sheer delusion-the main market for Indian clothes abroad is
the NRI population, and not all shop at Joseph's or Prada. Selfridges,
which haunted the Week with its team of six, is likely to get something
going with Puja Nayyar, Singh, Anshu Arora Sen and Rocky. Desi darzis
have reason to rejoice-next year, for two whole months, the £518
million (Rs 3,522 crore) turnover Selfridges & Co's flagship store
in London will be morphed into a mega Bollywood set a la Moulin Rouge.
What seems to have tickled the Brits about Indian fashion is that they
often came across better finish than they had expected and that they discovered
a modern, funky India quite contrary to the traditional perception of
the country. Read bra tops, hot pants, sheer skirts, leather pants, and
loads of oomph (at least on the catwalk), courtesy designers like the
Mumbai sister duo Aaliya and Arshiya Fakih.
But Selfridges alone does not a couture make.The
hoopla around international buyers often distracted the supposed raison
d'etre of IFW: developing the domestic market for Indian fashion. While
the stalls which drew buyers and gawkers alike and elicited Rekha's shy
curiosity (Ooooh, what is all that inside?) were an attempt to break into
the 1-2 per cent organised segment of the Rs 40,000-crore retail market,
it is still hiccup time. The pret line pricing was thoughtlessly done-Rs
600-10,000. Fashion commentator Meher Castelino feels it should have been
between Rs 800 and Rs 3,000 instead to make it more affordable.
Disorganised amateurism was rampant: some of
Ritu Kumar's ramp ensembles were not available for buyers at her stall
during the first part of the week. And Pratap had locked up his exhibits
in a churl of paranoia, and many designers whose shows were slated for
later in the week did not have displays ready at all. Kiosk attendants
were more into celebrity-gawking than being clued into the clothes they
were manning. Vinod Kaul, Raymond's designerwear product director, felt
the need for more clarity, though he felt this Fashion Week was better
organised than last year's. "Ideally the ramp shows should be just
for showcasing designs and the focus should be on the stalls, not vice
versa."
The fiat to make money seems to have inhibited
minds. Krishna Mehta's show, from a designer considered classy and great
with menswear, was a disastrous flapdoodle. It was a couture hell of ennui
as Mehta kept repeating herself, and Simone Tata's aristocratic, timeworn
face matched the glazed expression of IMG's Fern Mallis. Male models with
kohl-lined eyes and jasmine around their wrists invoked caricature and
what was meant to be timeless chic (Rudolf Valentino will blacken his
face and wear sackcloth at this absolute travesty of elegance) in Mehta's
case was perfunctory embroidery or embellishment. What was meant to be
flawless menswear, and which has been originally touted as her forte,
was just a motley collection of sheer kurtas with a bit of filigree on
the collars with patialas and jodhpurs which looked ideal on the sculpted
male bodies on the catwalk.
To design clothes, whether it be couture or
pret, the creator needs an understanding of anatomy and should be possessed
with a cunning intelligence for both fabrics, cuts and folds. The Indian
male, unfortunately, the prime victim of Mehta's creations, is given to
early adiposity and would find this line unsuitable. Some of her clothes
on female models had a certain Indofusion chic in mind, though the boned
corsets would have had Alexander McQueen crying out in anguish. With zari
on long-sleeved georgette and beading and sequins on chiffons, Mehta proved
a worthy David Copperfield of teletransportation: bringing Chandni Chowk
to the Mumbai catwalk.
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