All images: David Pike/The Bay
Unfortunately I have had a lot of time to “just think” recently. Fists and forkfuls of time that shrink away into the corners of the day, folding themselves away neatly before I can figure out where they went. “Just thinking is the worst thing about your generation,” says Ray on Girls. He might be right.
“I just think it’s hard to meet people in a big city like this. Ever since I moved back from London I’ve been trying to get back into the scene here– the Toronto scene,” a lady says as she inspects me with wide eyes. Her sentences sound recycled and rehearsed. They are of the ‘it’s hard to meet people in a big city’ variety. Being one of my favourite self-fulfilling prophecies, it’s a concept which I reluctantly identify with. I don’t fail to reiterate it to myself on a daily basis. “It’s fine I have no one to call to come over.” “Dinner alone with my computer sounds nice.” And the imminent, “Who’s on Facebook chat?” I just think it’s hard to meet people.
Now, the people I have failed to meet, like the salads I have neglected to eat, stand before me on The Bay’s glossy platforms. They are gathered in “The Room” which is the area of The Bay usually reserved for Balmain, Proenza Schouler, Ralph Lauren Black Label, Erdem, and the like. Designer pieces continue to line the walls and drape off plush hangers tonight while they meet their new neighbours: Viktor and Rolf’s Fall/Winter 2013 line. T.V. screens with images of the Fall/Winter 2013 show are propped up against walls, tumbling out the entire collection look by look. On them models stride down a runway in black numbers, ripped and scuffed up with white threads and fringe. Their hair and makeup is minimal, only further emphasizing the stark looks– the pop of a patent burgundy loafer, black ruffles in a hydrangea-like bouquet, and the ultimate oxymoron: Sharp silhouettes with movement and space. The line, which debuted at Paris Fashion Week in January screams the best kind of scream: A French scream. Sprinkled around the party are the pieces The Bay’s buyers selected from the line. I walk into a mannequin wearing one of the looks. “Sorry,” I say, and quickly realize I just apologized to a mannequin, leaving me with the verdict that I am definitely not half as French as the collection, but instead all too Canadian.
The scene gathered in the room is crawling and swollen: Red lips, David Yurman bangles, thick rimmed tortoise shelled lenses, furs and sunglasses inside. Everybody’s smokey eyed from Diorshow mascara– that particular way the day smudges the edges of it away. Champagne flutes and caviar act like ribbons, tying everyone together with accents of black and gold. It is one of those rare occasions where you can almost convince yourself that this must be what *it* is all about. The truth is, of course, that it isn’t. But everyone should allot themselves a short amount of time to pretend.
Suddenly Viktor and Rolf appear behind a curtain of people who try to snag a second of their time. In the centre I preen my way through the sides, “Hi! I love your work, I just have a couple questions for you if you don’t mind,” I stammer to Viktor. He turns, giving me the “one second” motion with his right hand. “Great thank you!” I nearly shout over the excited fuss. But as soon as one shoulder-padded, iPad-carrying fashion blogger parts ways with the duo, three more enter. I begin to realize stealing a second of their time is going to take more than a polite “I just have a few questions” paired with a curt nod. Yet it’s all I can summon together. Like the champagne bubbles I’m clutching I feel hollowed out. What could I have even said? They were Viktor and Rolf; their party spoke for itself. Genuine excitement was sandwiched between cocktail trays and quail eggs. It was on full display. Fashion was dancing. In a store. To Jay-Z.
“Oh my god… Claudia?” A familiar voice shouts.
I look up to see Justin, my oldest friend in Toronto standing by the DJ booth.
After our “What are you doing heres” Justin says, “Let’s get drunk.” I give him a look.
“I’m here for work,” I say.
“Hahaha whatever this is fabulous,” he says, grabbing two champagne flutes.
The DJ blasts “Empire State of Mind” as fashion pecks at mint pea ganache, and truffled potato souffles. The party guests, being nearly sardined together, appear content with Oyster Bay as marinade. A photographer comes up to Justin and I and asks if he can take our Polaroid.
“Great! A souvenir!” I exclaim while mustering up my “coolest” photo face as he snaps. I reach for the Polaroid as he turns on his heel and walks away, Polaroid in hand, having seemingly forgotten he’d even taken a photograph in the first place.
“I’m just a little bit confused as to why exactly this party is happening exactly. I know it’s to celebrate Viktor and Rolf’s F/W 2013 line but this isn’t their first line…” I trail off mildly confused to one of Justin’s friends who says he’s friends with one of the organizers.
“Yeah yeah same, don’t worry I’ll send my friend a text and ask… But he probably won’t get back to me I mean realistically…” He says with black ringing eyes and boozy breath, gesturing to the trays of liquor being brought out.
I beat the notes app on my iPhone like a velvet drum, telling myself to remember. Remember. Remember. Remember. And in an effort to remember, I forget, for a second, how hard it is to meet people. I forget how rare a fashion party like Tuesday night’s Viktor and Rolf preview party is to come by. I remember the F/W 2013 line and my yearning to call even a fraction of its Frenchness my own. I remember falling into a cab on my way out as the cab driver said,
“No, I’ve never had a drink in my life. I’m Muslim. But what matters is that you’re a good person. Like when the sky is clear like this it means the gods are rewarding someone for being a good person.”
I looked up at the April sunset to see the city, like The Room, lit up in sheets of flickering images and light. Although my relationship with the world of fashion is still in its embryonic stages, I know the pure excitement that could be found flinging out of mouths or as crumbs on the curtails of shirt sleeves was a rarefied and honest occurrence this past Tuesday night. They knew how to throw a party. That is something they knew.
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Claudia McNeilly writes for Toronto Standard. You can follow her on twitter at @claudiamcneilly.
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