Fashion comes to “the people” in Newtown:: Jo’burg Fashion Week

The organisers of Jo’burg Fashion Week have prided this year’s event on its relocation to the sticks of Jozi. Apparently they wanted to take fashion back to “the people”. And so it was that this “people” dusted off a pair of high heels and that one-day-I’ll-find-a-reason-to-wear-this dress, and headed down to Newtown for Spero Villioti’s show.

After parking under the dank and gloomy haze of the M1 flyover and battling to balance my heels on the wonky cracks of the pavement, I found myself immersed in the throws of “the people” who eat fashion for breakfast, who had all paid very handsomely to find themselves seats along the shiny runway at the Bus Factory.

Sandton is dead, they say. So the couture addicts are moving south. But only in big crowds, safety in numbers and all that. And so they found themselves lining runways and sipping cocktails at the Rand Club, Randlords (nightspot for the rich and famous, overlooking the tracks and high rises of the cities below), the Bus Factory, and the Jo’burg Art Gallery.

While I could carry on about the ironies of taking unaffordable fashion into the city where you’ll trip over bums and make deals with God while stopped at red robots on the way to your venue, I must admit that by the time I’d witnessed Spero Villioti’s first design sachet-ing across the runway, I was sweetly intoxicated by it all.

It could have been the wine, or the Mr Fabulosity who was sitting next to me, reflecting flashes of light into the models’ eyes with his disco ball scarf,  or even the blood that was rushing from my brain to my feet on account of the heels. But I wanted to be part of this world of orange lipstick and ankle cuffs and feather crowns and gold confetti falling from the ceiling, even if just for a night.

I had no idea what to expect for design giant Spero Villioti’s show, as the bra is known for avoiding the media’s spotlight and rather spreading the good news through an army of devoted followers who put in good words for him in all the right circles.

His show was dominated by metallics and the kind of workaday wear that you could actually picture hanging in your cupboard. It’s called “commercial sensibility”, I’ve been told.

And even though I may never wear gold blazers or sequenced hot pants to work, in the fantasy evoked from well-chosen big band swing accompanying silky-legged models had me reconsidering.

With a few nipples here and there for the boys, and for the girls gatsby-inspired cuts, lace and leather, high wasted belts, tassles, flared blazers, feathered skirts, faux fur (I hope…) and all things metallic, there was a little something for all “the people” to enjoy.

Plus, the shiny glitter and the havoc it brought models trying to skate across the runway oh-so elegantly made up for all the self-esteem issues that come with the absolutely overwhelming glamour of Fashion Week.

The glitzy sense of purpose and superiority that is created by pretty clothes is dangerously infectious, and thankfully, fleeting. By day two after the show I was back to eating, taking the lift instead of the stairs, and leaving my gym clothes in the wash basket again.

Enough shop talk. Here are some of the pics from the show. Hot ladies and some pretty cool designs. Take a look.

Photos by Pieter Van Jaarsveld

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