An Oddly Timed Ode to the British Empire at Jenny Packham
It's freezing cold outside and there are photographers peering into furry hoods to see who's worth shooting. Their faces fall a little when they don't recognize me. I'm like, "Whoa-don't you guys listen to podcasts about immigration?"
I guess not.
The rain slants in sideways, ruining my eyeliner and giving me that "deserted bride" look that suits me all too well. The whole scenario-disappointed strangers and persistent rain-reminds me of England, where I once lived. Turns out the impression this weather leaves me with is completely appropriate for the show I'm about to see.
The program at Jenny Packham's autumn/winter show outlines the inspiration of "the idiosyncrasies and clichés that define the British identity" and is accompanied by a Magda Archer print of a young Queen Elizabeth II, the words "God Bless You Ma'am" splashed across the front. I don't think the label is being ironic, or subversive, with this devotion to the British monarchy-those extraordinarily wealthy white people who claim a right to rule. But any sensible person knows that there is but one queen, and her name is *whispers* Beyoncé. Actually, what am I thinking? Her name is *screams* Beyoncé.
Any sensible person knows that there is but one queen, and her name is *whispers* Beyoncé.
I have concerns about "the British identity." I mean, isn't it all tied up at the moment with, well, that awful little Nigel Farage, spewing hatred and drinking lager? But I suppose this is fashion, not politics, right? And maybe this show will reflect the creativity and diversity I saw when I lived in London! The 159 bus from Brixton is a fashion show, girls bright like parrots, blending thrift-store blazers and Primark miniskirts; black boys with fresh fades; and just youth, youth, youth.
My neighbor looks like a Kardashian. Not sock entrepreneur Rob-one of the girl Kardashians. At the end of the room, a bank of photographers waits, cameras glowing. Along with the program, we're given a printout of a photo of Gillian Anderson in a white Jenny Packham halter-neck dress. I bloody love DSI Stella Gibson. In fact, part of me wants to move to Belfast and start serial killing just to get her attention. The Duchess of Cambridge is on the page, too. She is much praised for her safe, elegant outfits, and looks perfect in Packham. Come to think of it, that's pretty much all she seems to be noticed or praised for. That, and her fertility.
At the top of the runway stands a stone doorway, wreathed in ivy-one you'd see on any broken-down castle in the Highlands. The lights dip and flare back up again. Billy Bragg's "New England" blares, and the models start to march, careful to avoid eye contact as they swish past each other. They seem focused, on a mission; I imagine a dagger glinting someplace in their fabulous gowns, determined to draw blood. Then, at the last minute: a change of heart, turn away. Let them live.
The show flies by: crystal-studded corsets and satin skirts, tartan tulle dresses, pastel blue leather jackets embroidered with the Union Jack, a corgi-print T-shirt. I sense that it's supposed to be fun, cheeky, something beautiful. It's definitely the latter. But with a city taking to the streets outside, 21st-century fascism on the rise, and a country convulsing, the relatively uncomplicated celebration of quintessential Britishness feels a bit like weak tea.
You Might Also Like
