I’m not really one for fashion shows. I’m not one for clothes, either, I think that if it were the social norm, I’d be perfectly happy walking around in the nude. As it is, however, that’s not the social norm; far from it. So it’s kind of strange, how I came to be involved with my school’s fashion program. I found myself, this evening, at a show put on by Grady’s Urban Couture, and in order to improve upon my oratory skills and whatnot, I decided (while standing at the foot of the runway, mind you) to dramaticize the entire thing into something of a essay. Or memoir, whatever you choose to call it. So, here goes.
As I mentioned, I’m not all that into the clothing scene. I don’t really get it. I shop at target, which is really good enough for me. Sure, it’s slightly unsettling sitting in algebra, the two students on eather side of me rocking the same shirt I am, but at the end of the day, a shirt is a shirt. About a year ago, I made good friends with Vincent Martinez. He directs our school’s fashion program. I’m a graphic designer, so I’m supposed to be incredibly artsy, but I just like sitting infront of my laptop all day. And I make pretty things. I’ve done lots of work for Martinez in the past couple of months, and he invited me to attend a show of his, Remixed. Which was where I spent my evening.
The show was in Atlanta’s posh, artsy west end. On Marietta Street, if anyone knows where that is. I went alone, and I realized why people take dates to these things. I didn’t really know anyone there, and felt just a tad outside my social realm. I’m sure it’s the kind of thing where I’ll end up in a couple years, but the people were interesting enough. I stood in the corner, attatched to my phone, swallowing shrimp coctail after shrimp coctail. Eventually, my friend Sam showed up. I somehow convinced her to come, or so I’d like to think. I never actually spoke to her directly about it until this afternoon, but the idea had been planted in my head around the beginning of the week. So we browsed this fancy, posh shop, full of women’s clothes and little impulsively bought books, candles, and other whimsical items. The fashion show, though, was like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.
My brother watches project runway, or he did for a short period. So I’ve got an idea of what goes on at these sorts of things. Women walk about in skimpy dresses, slut it up a bit for the cameras, and their dresses sell for thousands at posh boutiques not unlike the one at which I spent my evening. I knew not what to expect, since this is my highschool’s fashion program. These models can’t legally drink. I watched them parade down the runway, an artistic representation of Atlanta’s Old Fourth Ward. One at a time, they’d show off their dresses, the one male involved in the show flaunted his skin-tight, silk pants and man bag, and they would all do this blank stare into the distance. Sam and I were positioned at the very foot of the runway, so perhaps it’s for the best that these girls, dressed in less material than would be used for my various pillowcases, didn’t look me straight in the eye, but I couldn’t help but feel that these poor designers felt, perhaps, a bit dejected. They stared off into deserted Marietta street, an expressionless look on their face, as if to say, “Oh yes. I wear something this lavish every day. Now, please, let me get on with my business.”
The harsh realization that I came to was that, despite having put almost a month of work into the email flyer sent out, that these clothing designers in the making really, truly put so much effort into these clothes. They’ve spent three, maybe four months on a dress to be shown off at one show, since you can’t wear it anywhere else. But if this dress were at Target, I’d give it a glance, and head for the screened t-shirts.
Remixed
I’m not really one for fashion shows. I’m not one for clothes, either, I think that if it were the social norm, I’d be perfectly happy walking around in the nude. As it is, however, that’s not the social norm; far from it. So it’s kind of strange, how I came to be involved with my school’s fashion program. I found myself, this evening, at a show put on by Grady’s Urban Couture, and in order to improve upon my oratory skills and whatnot, I decided (while standing at the foot of the runway, mind you) to dramaticize the entire thing into something of a essay. Or memoir, whatever you choose to call it. So, here goes.
As I mentioned, I’m not all that into the clothing scene. I don’t really get it. I shop at target, which is really good enough for me. Sure, it’s slightly unsettling sitting in algebra, the two students on eather side of me rocking the same shirt I am, but at the end of the day, a shirt is a shirt. About a year ago, I made good friends with Vincent Martinez. He directs our school’s fashion program. I’m a graphic designer, so I’m supposed to be incredibly artsy, but I just like sitting infront of my laptop all day. And I make pretty things. I’ve done lots of work for Martinez in the past couple of months, and he invited me to attend a show of his, Remixed. Which was where I spent my evening.
The show was in Atlanta’s posh, artsy west end. On Marietta Street, if anyone knows where that is. I went alone, and I realized why people take dates to these things. I didn’t really know anyone there, and felt just a tad outside my social realm. I’m sure it’s the kind of thing where I’ll end up in a couple years, but the people were interesting enough. I stood in the corner, attatched to my phone, swallowing shrimp coctail after shrimp coctail. Eventually, my friend Sam showed up. I somehow convinced her to come, or so I’d like to think. I never actually spoke to her directly about it until this afternoon, but the idea had been planted in my head around the beginning of the week. So we browsed this fancy, posh shop, full of women’s clothes and little impulsively bought books, candles, and other whimsical items. The fashion show, though, was like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.
My brother watches project runway, or he did for a short period. So I’ve got an idea of what goes on at these sorts of things. Women walk about in skimpy dresses, slut it up a bit for the cameras, and their dresses sell for thousands at posh boutiques not unlike the one at which I spent my evening. I knew not what to expect, since this is my highschool’s fashion program. These models can’t legally drink. I watched them parade down the runway, an artistic representation of Atlanta’s Old Fourth Ward. One at a time, they’d show off their dresses, the one male involved in the show flaunted his skin-tight, silk pants and man bag, and they would all do this blank stare into the distance. Sam and I were positioned at the very foot of the runway, so perhaps it’s for the best that these girls, dressed in less material than would be used for my various pillowcases, didn’t look me straight in the eye, but I couldn’t help but feel that these poor designers felt, perhaps, a bit dejected. They stared off into deserted Marietta street, an expressionless look on their face, as if to say, “Oh yes. I wear something this lavish every day. Now, please, let me get on with my business.”
The harsh realization that I came to was that, despite having put almost a month of work into the email flyer sent out, that these clothing designers in the making really, truly put so much effort into these clothes. They’ve spent three, maybe four months on a dress to be shown off at one show, since you can’t wear it anywhere else. But if this dress were at Target, I’d give it a glance, and head for the screened t-shirts.