The Pakistan Fashion Design Council in collaboration with Sunsilk presented the fourth and final day of the eighth PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week. Indeed the 8th PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week marked the twelfth fashion week platform initiated by the Pakistan Fashion Design Council [with eight weeks of prêt-à-porter and four of bridal fashion] and was a direct manifestation of the Council’s commitment to sustainability and discipline within the business of fashion and the facilitation of Pakistan’s retail industry. Indeed #PSFW15 endeavoured to define and present trends for 2015, focusing specifically on fashion for the regions’ long hot summer months. Day-4 featured High-Street Fashion shows by the House of Arsalan Iqbal, Erum Khan, Chinyere and Hassan Riaz and designer prêt-à-porter shows by Sana Safinaz, Republic by Omar Farooq, Syeda Amera, Huma & Amir Adnan, Sania Maskatiya and HSY.

Speaking about the PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week platform, Chairperson of the PFDC, Sehyr Saigol said: “With the 12th iteration of our critically acclaimed fashion weeks, the PFDC is always working to streamline our prêt-à-porter platform to make the PSFW experience more beneficial for all stakeholders in terms of show experience, exposure and ultimately, retail value. To that end, each year we look inward to find the best possible formats and categories to benefit the very trade and business of fashion. In this vein, we introduced 3 separate categories for Luxury/Prêt, High Street and Textile at PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week, giving each entirely separate show space, times, audience exposure and viewing power. Our High Street fashion brands had been given a standalone show time on two separate days as early evening shows and Textile brands a separate dedicated day for Voile shows on Day 3 of PSFW 2015, a measured step to further highlight Pakistan’s textile prowess and high street fashion strength which are of significant importance to national and international fashion markets. As per past tradition, we continue to work closely with all our emerging designers and mainstream brands to help hone their collections for the runway through mentorship by senior PFDC Council members and with retail support through the PFDC’s own stores and network. We are grateful for the committed support of our sponsors and partners which provides us the stimulus to further enhance our fashion week platforms and put forth the best face of Pakistani fashion on a consistent basis.”

“The Sunsilk girl is an achiever, with an air of enthusiasm and positivity. Great hair can give her the extra dose of confidence so with Sunsilk by her side, she is empowered to take on life. Fashion is very close to this aspirational Pakistani girl making the PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week a highly valued platform for us. We recognize PFDC’s efforts to promote the fashion industry and experienced and upcoming talent alike. Sunsilk has been a part of this fantastic journey for 6 consecutive years and continues to shape aspirations, taking contemporary fashion directly to the homes of consumers and encouraging them to script their own stories of success” said Asanga Ranasinghe, VP Home and Personal Care for Unilever Pakistan.

On the concluding day of #PSFW15, the Chairperson of the PFDC Mrs. Sehyr Saigol also made a special announcement on behalf of the Council and its Board Members, where she shared the Council’s plans to establish Pakistan’s first ever craft based Design District, a multi-purpose specialized facility that would assist in developing and enhancing the arts and crafts industries, which are an integral part of Pakistan’s rich cultural legacy. In addition to being a centre for skill improvement and capacity building, the Design District would also house a first of its kind Textile Museum.

The official spokesperson of the PFDC, Sara Shahid of Sublime by Sara also announced the official dates for the Council’s next fashion week, PFDC L’Oréal Paris Bridal Week 2015 which is scheduled to be held from 15th September to 17th September 2015.

Indeed the success of PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week continued to prompt private sector associates to grow in their engagement of the platform to launch new marketing campaigns and promotional activities. To this end, the PFDC’s evolving partnership with Sunsilk grew exponentially this year whereby in addition to their title patronage; Sunsilk also took over the coveted PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week red carpet and the Green Room/Backstage, as sponsors. This extension of their support is indeed a manifestation of the brand’s belief in and commitment to the platform. Also in continuation of their support for the platform, Fed Ex – GSP Pakistan Gerry’s International returned to PSFW as the official logistics partner, offering the PFDC a special arrangement for international designer consignments.

PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week 2015 was styled by the creative teams at Nabila’s and NGENTS. Light design, set design, sound engineering, video packaging, choreography and show production from concept to construction was by HSY Events, front stage management by Maheen Kardar Ali, backstage management by Product 021, Sara Shahid of Sublime by Sara as the official spokesperson for the PFDC, logistics and operations by Eleventh Experience and photography by Faisal Farooqui and the team at Dragonfly, Hum TV/Hum Sitaray as the Official Media Partners, CityFM89 as the Official Radio Partners with all media management by Lotus Client Management & Public Relations.

High-Street Fashion Shows

The House of Arsalan Iqbal

The afternoon High-Street Fashion Shows on the final day of PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week 2015 were opened by leading fashion brand The House of Arsalan Iqbal, who showcased a collection titled ‘Devolution Chic’. Inspired by street art across the world by various artists, European high-street trends and technique of quilting, Arsalan Iqbal garnered personal portfolios of graffitists from myriad urban cityscapes such as London, New York, Tokyo, Barcelona and Cape Town, juxtaposed with some unique in-house created patterns including those of Pac-man, calligraphic flourishes and aqua and tangerine bands and circlets. Based in chiffon, the ensembles were molded into voluminous structured silhouettes including draped tunics, edgy jumpsuits and wide palazzos dovetailed with off-white and ecru charmeuse silk jackets created with a revolutionary quilting process. Along with menswear pieces, the collection also included in-house footwear and jewellery made in collaboration with pioneering Karachi-based street artist SANKI.

Erum Khan

Designer Erum Khan followed next and made her PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week debut with ‘The Untainted Shine’. The collection took its inspiration from the sparkle of twinkling stars, a walk on pearl dew in the morning and the enchanted glow which is produced when “a magic wand” is waved around the body, making it glow in a pearlescent white and exhibiting a jewel themed lustre on the body. With neat and straight structured cuts, Erum had used fabrics such as organza combined with silk, 3D flowers, patch work and antique katdanna in a collection which was based in a white colour palette. Trends highlighted in the collection were high waist skirts to button up pants and sheer long dresses. Acclaimed Pakistani musician Goher Mumtaz and his wife Anam Ahmed walked the ramp as the designer’s celebrity showstoppers.

Chinyere

Following Erum Khan, fashion brand Chinyere showcased its Spring/Summer 2015 High-Street collection ‘Mizaj-e-Shahana’ at PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week 2015. An ode to the era of the Mughal royalty and their imperial aesthetic, the collection comprised of modern silhouettes and traditional embellishments with organza skirts paired with cropped tops, angarkha-peplum tops with embellished cigarette pants, sheer knee-length jackets paired with structured digital printed bustier-jumpsuits, diaphanous wrap-around boot-cuts and embellished boxy sleeves with soft A-line silhouettes. Chinyere also showcased ten menswear pieces comprising of waistcoats, jodhpurs, knee-length sherwanis paired with gossamer sheer kurtas. The colours used had been divided into a collection of distinctive Mughalesque pastels and jewel tones. The pastels included the classic marble ivory-on-ivory, the bold black, saffron, gold and ivory. The colour segments also included metallic gold and grey sections, with accents of bronze and black. The jewel tones included jade, emerald, ruby and sapphire.

Hassan Riaz

The concluding High-Street fashion show of PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week 2015 was presented by Hassan Riaz who showcased his ‘Contained Shadows’ collection. Inspired by the diverse facets of the human soul that explore both the dark and light sides of human nature, taking into account yearnings, desires, and anxieties that make us distinctly human, Hassan had based the collection in summer twill, organza and summer denim in shades of blue and white with a gold accent to reflect upon his inspirations. ‘Contained Shadows’ made use of structured and drifting silhouettes, cage crinolines with corsets and bustiers with distinct trends featuring cropped tops, nautical accents, experiments with transparency and patchworks of metal mixed & matched with flowers.

Designer Showcases

Sana Safinaz

PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week 2015’s evening [rêt shows on the fourth and final day was opened by premier designer label Sana Safinaz. Sana Safinaz’s PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week collection was inspired by monochromatic structured looks with pops of color. The collection was based in luxe fabrics such as kattan, silks, fine silk organza and dutches satin in a colour palette majorly based in black and white with strong vibrant pop infusions.
Key trends being highlighted were the oversized T, constructions-clean lines, simplicity of cuts and effective embellishments.

Republic by Omar Farooq

Following Sana Safinaz, acclaimed menswear brand Republic By Omar Farooqshowcased a collection titled ‘Que Sera, Sera!’ (whatever will be, will be!). Omar Farooq had used a variety of luxe fabrics such as suede, linen, chiffon, cotton, cotton silk and wool silk. A collection for all seasons, the ensembles built upon the label’s signature aesthetics while providing a new take on contemporary menswear. Acclaimed media personality Fawad Khan walked the ramp as the brand’s celebrity showstopper.

Syeda Amera

The third Prêt show of the final day of PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week 2015 was presented by designer Syeda Amera who made her ramp debut with ‘The World of Sea’. Inspired by love for the enchanting underwater, the collection was based in premium quality organza, jersey, nets and silks with delicate cuts and embellishments consisting of beads, sequins and feathers to reflect the collection’s aquatic theme. ‘The World of Sea’ featured a palette of aqua marine, scupa blue, powder pink, grey blue, tequila sunrise yellow, orange and lagoon green with trends that employed skirt layering, frills and ruffles and flared pants.

Huma & Amir Adnan

Following Syeda Amera, Huma & Amir Adnan showcased a joint collection for the first time at a fashion exhibition. Both Huma and Amir feel that as a couple they share their lives and draw synergies and their collection ‘Symphony’ was an epitome of how two people can revolve around the same concept in harmony, while maintaining their individual distinction. Showcasing both menswear and women’s wear at PSFW 2015, Huma and Amir had used a mix of fabrics, textures and embellishments with a complex collection of weaves, prints and embroideries in silk, linen, cotton and microfiber. The color palette included midnight blue, emerald green, wet earth, aubergine, ivory, old paper, turmeric, leaf and magenta. Key trends highlighted in the collection were long shirts, double layered shirts, printed vests and jackets, textured pants, colored shoes for men and layers of multi-textured fabrics, tighter silhouette, vests and jackets for women.

Sania Maskatiya

Designer Sania Maskatiya showcased the penultimate Luxury/Prêt collection of the evening at PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week 2015. This S/S ’15, Sania Maskatiya took audiences on a fashion journey to ‘Paristan’ – a place of fairytale whimsy at PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week. With a colour palette ranging from the softest shades of daybreak to the deepest hues of nightfall, ‘Paristan’ was a collection of playful, dreamlike prêt ensembles. Featuring luxury fabrics like silk, organza, charmeuse and crepe, the pieces followed the brand’s signature silhouettes, both structured and fluid. Beads and sequins embellished varied hemlines and multiple layering, all set against captivating scenes of mirth and magic. Motifs ranged from the sublime to nonsensical; friendly mice and naughty elves, clocks and teapots, flowering fields and star-filled skies, princesses and ponies.

HSY

Day-4’s finale was presented by acclaimed couturier HSY who showcased a collection titled ‘INK’; a collection inspired by Asia and specifically HSY’s journeys to The Land of the Rising Sun. INK represented the essence of Langkawi, Indonesia, Nagasaki, and Yunnan with natural and indigenous yarns, hand-woven to perfection. The collection featured the traditional dyeing techniques of Shibori from Nagasaki, Batik from Indonesia, and Gara from Sierra Leone infused with mackintosh, saffron, aubergine, eggshell, rosette, indigo and ochre. Created with the scorching sub continental summer in mind, INK channelled versatile hemlines to suit a diversity of younger, older, working men, women and homemakers alike.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane

Veteran fashion designer Tarun Tahiliani believes that the Indian fashion industry has become more organised and a little more professional.

Best known for his ability to infuse Indian craftsmanship and textile heritage with European tailored silhouette, Tahiliani believes that the Indian fashion industry has become more strategised and cemented over the last 20 years.

"India's propensity to consume is gaining an international audience and this is changing the competitive landscape," Tahiliani told IANS in an email interview.

"It has certainly become more organised and a little more professional, and obviously the market has exploded, but I think that we still have a long way to go in terms of being more business oriented and there's still room to get more organised and professional," the designer added.

Eulogizing the new and younger crop of designers, Tahiliani, who has over two decades of experience in the industry, believes that they are doing well in terms of the handloom and textile industry.

"What's really heartening to see is that there are so many younger designers who are going places and are doing so well in terms of the handloom and textile industry... it has become more organised. I think handloom was very localised in terms of weavers with a certain look from a certain area sold through certain channels," said the Co-Founder of Ensemble -- a multi-designer boutique.

"There has been a lot more creative freedom and other regions are experimenting with textile alien to their region, especially if they are more lucrative. As long as people appreciate traditional craftsmanship and embroideries, machine work will never replace the richness of hand embroidery," he added.

Asked if the plus-size models are yet to move into the mainstream industry in India?

"Well, they should have moved into the mainstream long back. But are not normally associated with very expensive high fashion and couture," Tahiliani said.

Having draped most of the leading ladies of Bollywood like Priyanka Chopra, Aishwarya Rai Bachchan and Madhuri Dixit-Nene in his creations, Tahiliani says that fashion is his muse, not a Bollywood star.

"Art, architecture, interiors, history, travel and maharajas... My inspiration comes from many things. Sometimes it's from beautiful inlay work that I've seen in a fabulous monument; other times my inspiration can be something as simple as a beautiful kanjeevaram weave," he said.

"Ultimately, however, my inspiration comes from India's rich traditions of craftsmanship, particularly when it comes to things like embroideries that we have in India. Nothing is more amazing than beautifully executed, intricate and fine technique. I don't design clothes keeping a Bollywood star in mind, but rather for the new age contemporary woman," he added.

Tahiliani is all geared up to showcase his collection The Last Dance of the Courtesan at the FDCI India Couture Week 2016 on Thursday here. He has artistically blended fabrics like cotton jacquards, cotton silks, crepes and cutwork jamdanis with Swarovski crystals for the range.

That's not all. He will next participate in the Vogue Wedding Show and then the prestigious Lakme Fashion Week, to be held in Mumbai in August.

"I will present my Ready to Wear Autumn Winter 16-17 collection at Lakme Fashion Week. It has been inspired by the works of Mrinalini Mukherjee (late sculptor) and the journey only gets bigger and better from here," he said.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney | www.marieaustralia.com/pink-formal-dresses

(France -- Ancient Regime.)

I.

Go away!
Go away; I will not confess to you!
His black biretta clings like a hangman's cap; under his twitching fingers the beads shiver and click,
As he mumbles in his corner, the shadow deepens upon him;
I will not confess! . . .

Is he there or is it intenser shadow?
Dark huddled coilings from the obscene depths,
Black, formless shadow,
Shadow.
Doors creak; from secret parts of the chateau come the scuffle and worry of rats.

Orange light drips from the guttering candles,
Eddying over the vast embroideries of the bed
Stirring the monstrous tapestries,
Retreating before the sable impending gloom of the canopy
With a swift ****** and sparkle of gold,
Lipping my hands,
Then
Rippling back abashed before the ominous silences
Like the swift turns and starts of an overpowered fencer
Who sees before him Horror
Behind him darkness,
Shadow.

The clock jars and strikes, a thin, sudden note like the sob of a child.
Clock, buhl clock that ticked out the tortuous hours of my birth,
Clock, evil, wizened dwarf of a clock, how many years of agony have you relentlessly measured,
Yardstick of my stifling shroud?

I am Aumaury de Montreuil; once quick, soon to be eaten of worms.
You hear, Father? Hsh, he is asleep in the night's cloak.

Over me too steals sleep.
Sleep like a white mist on the rotting paintings of cupids and gods on the ceiling;
Sleep on the carven shields and knots at the foot of the bed,
Oozing, blurring outlines, obliterating colors,
Death.

Father, Father, I must not sleep!
It does not hear -- that shadow crouched in the corner . . .
Is it a shadow?
One might think so indeed, save for the calm face, yellow as wax, that lifts like the face of a drowned man from the choking darkness.


II.

Out of the drowsy fog my body creeps back to me.
It is the white time before dawn.
Moonlight, watery, pellucid, lifeless, ripples over the world.
The grass beneath it is gray; the stars pale in the sky.
The night dew has fallen;
An infinity of little drops, crystals from which all light has been taken,
Glint on the sighing branches.
All is purity, without color, without stir, without passion.

Suddenly a peacock screams.

My heart shocks and stops;
Sweat, cold corpse-sweat
Covers my rigid body.
My hair stands on end. I cannot stir. I cannot speak.
It is terror, terror that is walking the pale sick gardens
And the eyeless face no man may see and live!
Ah-h-h-h-h!
Father, Father, wake! wake and save me!
In his corner all is shadow.

Dead things creep from the ground.
It is so long ago that she died, so long ago!
Dust crushes her, earth holds her, mold grips her.
Fiends, do you not know that she is dead? . . .
"Let us dance the pavon!" she said; the waxlights glittered like swords on the polished floor.
Twinkling on jewelled snuffboxes, beaming savagely from the crass gold of candelabra,
From the white shoulders of girls and the white powdered wigs of men . . .
All life was that dance.
The mocking, resistless current,
The beauty, the passion, the perilous madness --
As she took my hand, released it and spread her dresses like petals,
Turning, swaying in beauty,
A lily, bowed by the rain, --
Moonlight she was, and her body of moonlight and foam,
And her eyes stars.
Oh the dance has a pattern!
But the clear grace of her thrilled through the notes of the viols,
Tremulous, pleading, escaping, immortal, untamed,
And, as we ended,
She blew me a kiss from her hand like a drifting white blossom --
And the starshine was gone; and she fled like a bird up the stair.

Underneath the window a peacock screams,
And claws click, scrape
Like little lacquered boots on the rough stone.

Oh the long fantasy of the kiss; the ceaseless hunger, ceaselessly, divinely appeased!
The aching presence of the beloved's beauty!
The wisdom, the incense, the brightness!

Once more on the ice-bright floor they danced the pavon
But I turned to the garden and her from the lighted candles.
Softly I trod the lush grass between the black hedges of box.
Softly, for I should take her unawares and catch her arms,
And embrace her, dear and startled.

By the arbor all the moonlight flowed in silver
And her head was on his breast.
She did not scream or shudder
When my sword was where her head had lain
In the quiet moonlight;
But turned to me with one pale hand uplifted,
All her satins fiery with the starshine,
Nacreous, shimmering, weeping, iridescent,
Like the quivering plumage of a peacock . . .
Then her head drooped and I gripped her hair,
Oh soft, scented cloud across my fingers! --
Bending her white neck back. . . .

Blood writhed on my hands; I trod in blood. . . .
Stupidly agaze
At that crumpled heap of silk and moonlight,
Where like twitching pinions, an arm twisted,
Palely, and was still
As the face of chalk.

The buhl clock strikes.
Thirty years. Christ, thirty years!
Agony. Agony.

Something stirs in the window,
Shattering the moonlight.
White wings fan.
Father, Father!

All its plumage fiery with the starshine,
Nacreous, shimmering, weeping, iridescent,
It drifts across the floor and mounts the bed,
To the tap of little satin shoes.
Gazing with infernal eyes.
Its quick beak thrusting, rending, devil's crimson . . .
Screams, great tortured screams shake the dark canopy.
The light flickers, the shadow in the corner stirs;
The wax face lifts; the eyes open.

A thin trickle of blood worms darkly against the vast red coverlet and spreads to a pool on the floor.

I MADE my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But he fools caught it,
Wore it in the world's eyes
As though they'd wrought it.
Song, let them take it,
For there's more enterprise
In walking naked.
1
Notorious, till all my priceless things
Are but a post the passing dogs defile.

Happiness is like,

grandpa's smoking pipe,

breathing tranquil frequencies,

like grandma's needlework,

knitting sweaters with embroideries,

like a radio,

antenna of thanksgiving,

the harvest of beautiful melodies.

Swallows' games
in the summer sky.
They ****
flutter
play
drawing wefts
with black and white colours
and with embroideries
the blue vault
seems to be painted.
My eyes follow
but chasing them
they get tired
until exhausted I close them
and in the darkness
the swallows
still fly about.

30.6.'13

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 1, 2016)

Pitchforks gather,
Chinese made,
The red embroideries.

Autocrats swagger
Trumpeting
Bile hyperboles.

And wicked blather
Resurrects
The soul amputees.

By my standards,
he is a ten.

I'm sure you're
laughing right now--
"ooohhhh, she think's
he's a TEN"--
but that's not
what I mean.

What I am trying to say is that,
on a scale from one to ten,
one being indicative of
experiencing little to no pain
and ten being indicative of
experiencing a pain whose presence
is capable of knocking the wind
straight out of me--
a pain that I do not
dare to fathom
for fear of prolonging it--
he was a hurricane.

My hurricane.

The eye of the storm,
his aloof ignorance
paralleled against the
violently cyclonic nature
of this heartache--
cacophonic in its impact
and blasphemous in
every context of the word
Love.

I don't think
getting caught in the rain
has ever hurt quite this much.

Yet,
I surrender to this hurt
the way the sea surrenders
to the Almighty Poseidon;
the way my feet surrender
to the rocks
tied round my ankles;
the way my soul surrenders
to its contusions
(so is a casualty
of a broken heart).

Still,
I imagine what it would be
like to kiss him
when I wake up in
the middle of the night,
lucid dreaming and
shivering against the bed sheets
(must be hypothermia,
I think;
the coldness of his
absence settling among the
loneliest parts of me).

I try to remind myself
that he was never
any happy ending of mine--
just an ending.
And something tells me
kissing him would feel
a little less
like thimbles
and a little more
like sewing needles.

After all,
he always did have
a way of silencing me,
my lips stitched together
into the most morbid
of embroideries.

Because god forbid
you dare question
a tempest--
even when he has
left you
to stew in your
own ruin--
for fear of provoking
his stormy wrath.

Part of me has
always been
afraid of him,
you know.  
Looking back now,
that should have been
my first indication
that I had been entertaining
an abusive relationship.

No,
he never laid a hand
on me.

But
I was terrified that
there would come a day
when he would eventually snap.

I can envision it--
ribs crack like lightning;
bruises congealing beneath
my eyes like grape jelly;
fingerprints seared
across my cheek;
my head held underwater
until I've stopped
breathing altogether.

Of course, there exists
more than one way
to destroy a person,
though he will claim
that he has done nothing
to wrong me.

Surely,
he would tell me that
I am just reading
too much into things.

S'pose it's your turn then,
darling.

Trace the brailed veins
of my shattered heart,
and feel all the ways
you have broken me so.

Let your eyes flit
across the expanse
of these water-logged stanzas--
and tell me,
does the poetry not speak
for itself?

Or does my drowning not suffice?

I found myself rooting for the tiny ant
The spider was trying to trap in its webbed snare,
No thoughts did I spare before swiping a finger,
and helping it make a dramatic escape

As I looked at the spider, left food-less,
Rearrange itself in its meticulous net,
I wondered at the strangeness of this
Little world of ours, and also its pointlessness

We make it seem so rosy and pretty,
Embellish it with garlands of emotions,
But underneath lies the truth of its existence,
Made up of cruelty, chaos and commotion

The Designer painted it beautifully,
But gave it finer embroideries of pain,
He threw in an entire cosmos together,
And arranged it into a food chain

Compartments and more compartments,
Of colour and country and gender galore,
Hustle and bustle to stay put in a labile balance,
That is forever tipped at the cusp of war

We fool ourselves with the sham that our lives
Depend on friendships and love and such stunts,
When what we are, if we think about it,
Is a part, of one gigantic hunt

A hunt for alimentation,
And monetary satisfaction,
And physical satiation,
Does being conditional deserve glorification?

I wonder if I've turned into a permanent cynic,
It may very well be just a phase,
Though the spider would be cursing me for sure,
Not too romantic it is, sabotaging a prey!

The sky is about to make you a liar
because
to the moon and back
is utterly impossible.
I still believe you
even if the universe never did.

And danger was closer and closer with each passing moon
but anyway
we turned to stargazing.
But even the stars fall from the sky
and no dream of mine could make you love me;
Or you for that matter
but I do
I love you.

You look good in blue,
it imitates my eyes
which mirrors my heart
that is yours
forevermore.

I weaved something beautiful for us both
but life is not a loom.
Its a series of complex embroideries
and our patterns never
matched.

At least you're honest,
that's something I've never been much good at.

The streets of Paris were clogged by rallies and demonstrations on the Sunday of fashion week. At the Trocadero, a pro-rally for embattled French conservative presidential candidate Francois Fillon, blocking the route between the Valentino and Akris shows; at Bastille, an anti-Fillon demonstration.

The French elections — and ever-increasing security — were providing a tense backdrop to the autumn-winter collections, much like Donald Trump, Brexit and Matteo Renzi did on the fashion circuit of New York, London and Milan this season. Politics and the changing of the guard, women’s rights and diversity may make fashion seem irrelevant until you add up the value of the industry to the world economy. In Britain it is £28 billion ($45bn) — and that is small fry next to France and Italy.

Perhaps politics and social change have influenced the French designers for there was much less street style this season and a lot more tailored, working clothes on the catwalk. They used mostly masculine fabrics but worked in such a graceful way. You need only look at Haider ­Ackermann, Chanel, Alexander McQueen, Christian Dior, Lanvin, Akris and Ellery to see this — lots of great wearable clothes.

Karl Lagerfeld wanted to fly us to other worlds (to abandon the mess here perhaps) in his Chanel space rocket. There were checks, cream, silvery white and grey tweeds, for suits and shorts and dark side of the moon print dresses that cleverly avoided the 60s’ ­futuristic cliches. Silver moon boots, space blanket stoles and rocket-shaped handbags were as space-age-y as it got. There was quiet, seductive tailoring at Haider Ackermann — tapered silhouettes in black wool and leather softened with a knit or the fluff of Mongolian lamb for a blouson or skirt. At McQueen the asymmetric lines of a black coat or pantsuit were ­inspired by the fluid lines of ­Barbara Hepworth’s sculptures, whereas David Koma reclaimed the soaring shoulderline of Mugler’s 80s silhouette for pantsuits and mini-dresses for the brand.

Christian Dior’s uniform-inspired daywear was produced in tones of navy blue with 50s-style navy belted skirts suits, long pleated skirts and some denim workwear. “I wanted my collection to express a woman’s personality, but with all the protection of a ­uniform,” explained Maria Grazia Chiuri before the show.

There was more suiting at ­Martin Grant with voluminous trousers, cummerbunds and men’s shirting. The cut was more mannish at Ellery and Celine with ­Ellery balancing her masculine oversized jacket looks with feminine bustier tops with giant puff sleeves. The mannish look at ­Celine was styled with sharp ­lapels, slim-cut trousers under crushed textured raincoats, whereas ­double-breasted jackets (a trend) and peacoats over loose-cut trousers appeared at John Galliano.

Checks jazzed up the tailoring at Akris where there were more sophisticated double-breasted jackets and swing coats, and at ­Giambattista Valli from among the flirty embroidered dresses a dogtooth coat emerged with a waspie belt and a suit with a peplum skirt.

Stella McCartney displayed her Savile Row skills in heritage checks for her equestrian-themed show. Of course, she is crazy about riding and her prints featured a famous painting by George Stubbs, Horse Frightened by a Lion. It turns out Stubbs was another Liverpudlian, like her dad Sir Paul.

Of course Hermes’s vocabulary started with the horse and there were leather-trimmed capes and coats that fitted an equestrian, or at least country theme worn with woollen beanies and big sweaters, offering a different way of tailoring, in an easier silhouette with a soft colour palette.

The highlight of the week for Natalie Kingham, buying director at MatchesFashion.com was ­Balenciaga. “Great accessories, great coats and great execution of ideas,” she says of Demna Gvasalia’s off-kilter buttoned coats, stocking boot and finale of nine spectacular Balenciaga couture gowns reinterpreted in a contemporary way. “It was wearable, modern and the must-see show of the week.” It was also, she pointed out “the must-have label off the runway with every other person on the front row decked out in the spring collection”.

Although tailoring worked its subtle charms on the catwalk, there were flashes of brightness, graceful beauty and singularity. Particularly bright were Miu Miu’s psychedelic prints, feathered and jewelled lingerie dresses and colourful fun fur coats with furry baker boy hats. Then there was the singular look evoked by Austrian-born Andreas Kronthaler in his homage to his roots, with alpine flowers, Klimt-style artist smocks and bourgeois chintz florals worked in asymmetric and padded silhouettes for Vivienne Westwood — some of it modelled by the Dame herself.

Pagan beauty, the wilds of Cornwall, ancient traditions such as the mystical “Cloutie” wishing tree led to Sarah Burton’s enchanting Alexander McQueen show, which was another of Kingham’s favourites with its unfinished embroideries inspired by old church kneelers and spiritual motifs. “I loved the artisanal threadwork and the spiritual message that was woven throughout,” she says. The artisanal and spiritual she considers an emerging trend around the shows. “It had a slight winter boho vibe but much more elevated.”

Chitose Abe shared that mood for undone beauty with her Sacai collection of hybrid combinations of tweed and nylon for an anorak, and deconstructed lace for a parka, and puffers with denim re-worked with floral lace for evening.

There was more seductiveness at Valentino and Issey Miyake. The latter’s collection shown in the magnificent interiors of Paris’s Hotel de Ville, shimmered with the colours of the aurora borealis and used extraordinary fabric technology to create rippling movement as the models walked.

Valentino was a high point. On a rainswept Sunday Pierpaolo Piccioli cheered us with high-neck Victoriana silhouettes and long swingy dresses in potentially (but not actually) clashing combinations of pink and red in jazzy patterns of mystical motifs and numerology inspired by the Memphis Group of Pop Art. The sheer loveliness of the collection was enough to drown out the world of politics only a few blocks away.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/blue-formal-dresses

This is not a poem to idealize you, but
I remember your body well.
I miss how soft your skin was, the way it smelled
like your bed, back home when we…when you
would hold and kiss me lightly.
I hadn’t loved you then.
You were a stranger, with new paint and gold embroideries,
a beautiful boat in a safe harbor.

No, I did not love you then.

It was when I could see my fingerprints on your windows,
the scuff marks on the floors,
and the nights I’d hear you creek and moan.
It was when I felt the dulling of the brass
on the railings I used most often,
the day I memorized the placement of every
chip of paint, and ugly barnacle.

I wish you felt the same.

When we met, I was far away
(I had not loved you then).
You saw my silhouette and imagined
a glowing vessel of gold and pearls,
delicate and wild.

I’m sorry to have disappointed you
with my wooden frame, and chipped paint.
The creaks and moans of a body at sea.
The parts I loved of you,
you didn’t wish to see in me.

So let me set aside the flowery words
the alliteration and simile.
Let me speak plainly.

You are a miserable self-fulfilling prophesy
riding on the coat-tails of sympathy
with an ego so self-righteous, so blind
that if you were handed a mirror,
you’d only see another stranger to criticize.
You wouldn’t know love if it hit you in the face,
And it has, on several occasions.
I now fully understand the stories
of women running you over with cars,
and screaming profanities from 2nd story windows.

You called them crazy, but,
I only wish I had the nerve to join their ranks.

You are a judgmental, emotional leech
squirming in your own self hatred and soiled clothes,
imposing your disparaging insecurities
onto the ones who try to clean you up.
So please believe me that when I say

“*******”

It is only because they have not created a word
powerful enough
to describe the sour taste your name leaves in my mouth,
or the sparks of hot metal it leaves
when it crosses my mind.

When I say “I never want to see you again”

It is only because I am so embarrassed
by your appearance in my recent past
that if you were to:

fall into a hole,

float out to sea,

or disappear into your own puckered ****

I would breathe a sigh of relief.

So, yes- I miss the way your skin smelled;
like your bed, sweet and sour.
but there are beds
with more loveable personalities
than you.

By Nabs

The well of words
Deep down in this breathing heart
Are drying and cracking before they reach,
This sinning fingertips.

These words
Taste dry, musty. Parching throats.
Crackled in the air
Louder than thunder and your screams.

As the spinning wheel
Stop.
Stopping forever.
Stop. Pricking blood from your vessel.

Embroideries, tapestries
weaved from the threads of life.
Unbound, unraveled
Marveled in the way they are being broken down.

Set fire to us,
And you'll see.
How prettily we all would burn
Inside this tomb, we called home.

Occasionally, fashion shows start late because the designer is still working on the collection. There are some persnickety types out there who would happily keep tinkering until it’s markdown time.

Maria Grazia Chiuri and Pierpaolo Piccioli decided they would throw in the towel whenever they felt each item in their spring collection was finished just enough to reveal the beauty of the craftsmanship at the heart of a couture house like Valentino. They explained that they had borrowed the concept from the “Unfinished: Thoughts Left Visible” exhibition at the Met Breuer in New York, which showcased some 500 years of paintings still in progress.

The highfalutin’ explanation had one searching for examples beyond the brogues with exposed staples and undyed edges they plucked off a table backstage. But apart from a bit of sagging lining here and a few dangling threads there, here was a collection with that familiar Valentino polish.

The camouflage coats and military-influenced ensembles had a sense of deja vu, too, albeit with more irregular splotches and ruff-hewn embroideries. What felt newer were the monochromatic ensembles, layers of featherweight coats and zippered shirt jackets tucked into tapered trousers. They came in Army green, a deep blue or black — the latter peppered with silver grommets — and were chic from start to finish.Read more at: www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth | http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-canberra

Skin to skin,
Bones to bones;
I love you with every
fiber of my soul.

You weaved your place,
Your Persian blue
Into the tapestry
Of my amber hue.

How picturesque
Our sunset sky,
With embroideries
of amaranth divine,
like Venus’ blessing in disguise.

You're a floated Liver of sins, my friend
When you disrobe in-front of the mirror-unmarred
You find yourself bloated and ill hued
The excess soil in your cuss
has stoppered
What you’ve amassed in free wanting
has driven you into a clot
Your consumption has padded you to reach a total
and all you can do is amount upon the scale of mammal judgement
and feast upon your grave
Look to your pillow and it’s embroideries !
Can you make out the words ?
‘A pleasured out beast of glut and ego
Unwealthy and devoid’

I caressed the wings of sunrise
diaphanous and vague
against the morning light
while it embraced me
with a remote grin
while it taught me
to speak to my soul
looking each other
bound together by clouds threads
faint like frost
impalpable like spider's embroideries
regardless of distance
regardless of time.

In the past
passion
used to wake me up in the morning
caressing my hair,
stirring the senses
which in the torpor
were delighted.
Imagination
was her friend
and together,
holding hands,
would stroll on my body.
In the past
passion and imagination
used to kiss me in the morning
filling my bed
with memories and hopes
and allowing the desire
to make me see
even in the dark.
They would call fantasy
who still young
loved dreaming
and with the most beautiful embroideries
would adorn my heart.
In the past,
passion, imagination
and fantasy
used to wake me up in the morning.

In the past.

5.2.’14

A Coat
By William Butler Yeats

I made my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But the fools caught it,
Wore it in the world’s eyes
As though they’d wrought it.
Song, let them take it
For there’s more enterprise
In walking naked.


TOBIAS

Took the train north
to capture the star gaze
Didn't say if she would come back
Where is her boyfriend now
The one she believed in


She chooses her colours for pleasure
Russett sunset
and embroideries for you
surrounds herself with friends
To learn the truth
Summer fade
Leaves a smile

Will the apocalypse be one of fire?
Will it have the aftertaste of sulfur and asphalt?
Beware the madness and the mania and 8 eyes on a face…
Quick! fill the bathtub with water - I hear sirens.
I saw a wheelchair and it was on fire - rolling down the avenue,
certainly an omen, if nothing else.
I sat on a bus with three strangers leaving Point Loma, California.
One guy was reading the same book as me.
Wild Comanches, Lords of the Plains, Enemy of Everyone.
It was the taste of sulfur and asphalt when the Comanche horde came
riding over the hills like Genghis Khan, kicking up dust devils with their horses' hooves.
It was a smoky plume of final endings way out on the staked plains of the high Texas prairie.
-10 degrees celsius and the rain is liquid, still.
It's been raining warm milk and ambrosia.
We’re feeding from the Breast of the Sacred Mother.
We’re gnawing on the bone of the Law of the Holy Father,
His Holy Word tumbling down into our ear holes.
65,000 national landmarks strewn about a major American City,
And even all the row homes’ tofu facades fell off and crumbled into dust
like the expression on my face once I learned the true scope of what I’ve done.
3 shakes of a lamb’s tail doesn’t cover the time it takes the
man in the mirror to skin my whole hide.
Sometimes the honesty of my reflection is the scariest part.
3 shakes of the snakes rattle and I'm already off into the Astral,
floating half lotus on a sheep skin.
Sulfur and asphalt?
No.
I’ve climbed and transcended that frequency’s ladder.
The Bardo is in my rear-view with eight legs and
my silver cord dangling from behind.
I’ve hosted my egregore for four o’clock tea and crumpets.
I slid down my silken sutratma
back into my heart
and I can smell only
flowers and embroideries.
Songs of grace and truth sifting through my ivory grill
welling up from the living wellspring of my devotion and
smack dab onto instagram.
Only 3 grams short.
I found my heart in the upper room,
hoisted up by the feather at the opposite end of the scale.
10 sleeps from here to the Black Madonna.
What came first?
The ego or the ****** Birth?
There ain’t no apocalypse gonna scare me
I break a 3 day juice fast with a bowl of sulfur and
there’s flowers growing up through the pavement.
Three ***** of a crow’s wing and
the smoke of my sage fills all the lungs of the World Mother,
the Black Madonna and a can of gas.
Ain’t no apocalypse gonna scare me.
I fly to the Comanche moon and back on a set of butterfly wings.
One bottle of Bufo Alveris and I blew straight out the top of the Causal Egg.
Hardened and vitalized by the sheer weight of the cocoon.
Sometimes to let them struggle is to save their life.
Three hairs plucked from Shiva’s Body and planted like apple seeds
and you get a grove full of
fruit trees that will never
go fallow,
whither
and die.
I’ve been to the Bardo.
And you wouldn’t believe how loud a man can scream.
I rode all seven stars of the Pleiades back down into my body;
crashed the car somewhere along 81
near Goldsborough exit, Lackawanna Co. PA.
All I wanted was a blanket to shield me from the shrill howling
of the wind.
But Orion got to me first and I came close to truly losing my mind.
But what is heaven for the spider…
is chaos to the fly.
And there ain’t no apocalypse that ever scared me.