Fashion for the field

As Mother Nature begins to tease us with a hint of sunshine poking through her perpetually lifeless trees, a tribe of seasonally affected festival followers have turned out their winter savings for the summer’s promise of life under canvas and musical venture.

But as recent years have shown, the festival season isn’t purely about the music or fresh air anymore. The accompanying fashion trends have taken hold of fields, parks and beaches around the world with an effortless nod to the Godmothers of easy-chic, Kate Moss and Sienna Miller.

It’s their attitude towards the trends that makes their style work so well – fashion almost becomes an afterthought to the practicalities that they first take into account. And summer 2010 is looking like another hot year for trends that are combined so gracefully with the awkward confinement of wellies and waterproofs.

‘Underwear as outerwear’ will continue encouraging trendsetters to flaunt a bit of skin, and with the delicate silks and sheer fabrics seen at Donna Karen and Michael Kors, dreams of the stifling heat needn’t be hampered with perspiration nightmares. Predictably following this trend, hemlines have crept higher than ever with the return of hot pants, boy shorts and looser fitting tap pants. While the same assortment of soft, feminine fabrics have crept into these styles, denim is still a viable option for those festivalites wanting a more practical garment.

In fact, denim will be back with full vigour this summer. Whether it’s ripped, patched or doubled up, there’s never been a better time to experiment with those 90s favourites that you never had the heart to throw away. After all, where would rock and roll be without the iconic trend that saw a whole generation pull on their Levis and let their hair down? This summer is harnessing that young, carefree attitude once again with the frivolous scatterings of faded patchwork. And the best bit is, the more home-made it looks, the better its style-credentials.

Three days without access to a shower or full-length mirror will play havoc with anyone’s ability to appear fresh and free-spirited. But this summer, hair accessories will be the perfect distraction from the unruly, unkempt tresses that will adorn campsites the world over. Exaggerated bows, bunny ears and feathers will be the only way to keep your hair looking neat this season, and – whilst dry shampoo will continue to provide a more ‘just-washed’ feeling – this year is all about the up-do. Aim for a quirky cross between vintage and ‘girl-next-door’, with attention grabbing proportions and a palette of sugar sweet shades.

Ultimately, however, festival fashion is what you make of it. It’s the perfect opportunity to step outside your comfort zone and experiment with styles you’d never look twice at on a day-to-day basis. This season there are trends that will make you giggle, shake your head and smile for all the right reasons, which – after all said and done – is the perfect accessory to any outfit.

Models on the border line

There were no words of rejection I hadn’t heard by the time I left the modeling industry. I was forever “two inches too small”, or “half an inch too wide”, which is why – as a plus-sized size ten – nothing ever added up. I’ve never fully understood the logic, as – while the hanger-like proportions of runway models are consistently scrutinized for their ‘unhealthy’ body image, and the boom of the plus-size industry is fuelling constant debate on the principles of fashion – the girls with the healthiest figures are being completely ignored.

Is ‘The Perfect Ten’ still something we strive for, or must we now go either way? I for one – who eats a balanced diet and exercises regularly – think that sacrificing my health for a quick buck is probably the reason I ended up behind the lens. But the industry is awash with girls that are, right now, weighing up the options between slimming down to compete with the super-waifs, or fattening up for a cereal campaign that only casts clinically overweight girls.

It’s hardly the image of perfection we’re led to believe. Part of me even wonders if this new fuss over the plus-size market is really just an extension of the way political correctness is heading. Are designers trying to prove a point by hiring bigger girls? Is it because they strongly oppose the size-zero? Or is it because the press will be living on their doorstep for the following few weeks if they do?

It baffles me that the initiative hasn’t yet been taken to launch an agency that specifically represents the girls from the in-between. It’s all well and good wanting to appeal to the masses by showing how clothes can look across the spectrum, but wouldn’t it make sense to find a happy medium? That way at least, people can strive for a healthy weight without conforming to the extremes that we’ve grown so used to.

Lara Stone is a prime example of how successfully this can be done. When she erupted onto the scene with her unique features and hint of curvature, industry professionals were bending over backwards to be at her side. Obviously, her looks are outstanding, and it’s not often that someone with such magnetism comes along, but is that because they’re not given the chance? The industry advises that measurements of 35-25-35 are the maximum that would be considered in fashion. Therefore Gwyneth Paltrow, Paris Hilton and Angelina Jolie would all be bypassed if they were unknowns, trying to launch a modeling career.

When it’s put like that, it’s difficult to imagine how designers can expect to find their muse. Isn’t that what they strive for in their models? Clearly there are plenty of beautiful girls out there that fit the ideal size requirements, but surely there are tricks being missed. There are probably hundreds of Angelina’s or Lara’s that aren’t being given a second look right now, purely because of their waist to hip ratio. And that’s the saddest thing. Despite all the hype about casting or not casting plus-size girls, they still fit into a category that has closed itself off. I’m just looking forward to the day that it will be OK again to wear a decent size ten.

The Rabbit in the Moon

“Just there. On its side. Almost upside down.” Chris spoke with playful irritation as I stared intently into the glowing mass. I couldn’t believe how redundant my eyes had been for almost 16 years as I squinted them tighter – rotating my head in adolescent frustration.

The stale air that hung outside the Centro de Placement felt hot against my hungry, sun-kissed skin, and the more I tried to see with his eyes, the more I felt them prying deeper into me. I dared not look.

I’d never seen the moon like that before. Never really studied it like I had the faces of my closest friends; the family that were slowly building around me. Instead it had always acted as a superfluous entity – the kind of accessory that you’d only ever notice when someone pointed it out.

And that’s exactly what Chris did. He showed me beauty in the things I’d forever taken for granted – the way that fields of sunflowers rose with the sun, following its steady journey before bowing west at twilight. His manner of explaining things, with such softly spoken prose, made my hopeless heart reach out to him in a way that I never imagined it could. And it hurt. Unbearably so.

Our nightly exchanges became a welcome release from the daily despondency of the orphanage. We’d watch carers unpack shoeboxes, only to share them out amongst themselves. We’d witness fully-grown men running naked across the courtyard when sunlight glittered through the trees. We’d mother the helpless babies of Ceausescu’s aftermath, when what we really needed was mothering, ourselves.

I grew used to it after a while – the melancholy lifestyle. Or maybe it was the contradiction I was offered after dark that became so familiar. Either way, Chris became a vital distraction – providing the guilty gratification that my reticent nature could never admit to.

Some nights, the bitter taste of vodka would burn at our throats. Its simple luxury was easier to come by than clean water itself, and the effects it offered were always eagerly welcomed. It lifted our spirits, and moved our thoughts back to where they should be – quietly reminding us of the fortunate hand we’d been dealt. Other evenings we’d watch thunderstorms in the distance, willing them to move closer, to dance underneath their powerful downpour. The night I remember the most, however, was when he showed me the rabbit in the moon.

“I see it.” The shrill excitement that ran through my undernourished body filled me with the most heartfelt of triumphs. I was so intent on pleasing him. As I turned my face to meet his, the glare from the dully-lit kitchen cast shadows over his gently ageing face, highlighting the fear in his eyes as he stared back at me with such shameful admiration. His thoughts were almost visible as my fickle frigidity teased him once again.

“I was beginning to think you were blind!” He broke the silence with the same lighthearted tone that I’d grown so fond of, before reaching for his glass. I looked away to light a cigarette; its soft, heady fumes calming the butterflies as I held my breath, feeling the smoke travel through each cavity in my body, before I slowly exhaled.

When I was 15, it never struck me that I was still young enough to enjoy the pleasures of youth. I acted up in conversation, and read tabloids to keep up with current affairs – all in the effort to present myself as a lady. Not a girl. It took three weeks – probably less – for Chris to show me that age wasn’t about numbers. Our souls were brought together in the most heartbreaking of circumstances, purely because of the relationship we’d previously held.

The awkward confinement he offered as my teacher disappeared every night we spent on that ramshackle terrace. Instead, he liberated my thoughts by encouraging them to wander in their own direction; helping me gain a new appreciation for the world around me. I quietly welcomed his principles on what actually mattered – and finally realised that life was more than what scientists and historians had to say. We were there for a reason, and while we didn’t know what that reason was, I found a lot of comfort in imagining.

It’s been eight years since that summer, and I’ll often forget the wounded smiles of the children in care. I’ll often forget the mural on the staircase – the one that turned the sky into land, and the land into sea. I’ll even forget Chris. But one thing that draws me back there – sometimes when I’m least expecting it – is when the sky lights up with each full moon, and the rabbit looks down in sweet reminiscence of the furtive secrets it held that summer.

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The 'I' in iPod

It’s 08.36 heading westbound on the central line, and while I’m cocooned in the armpit of a rather portly middle-aged suit, the train stops in a tunnel to expose the clandestine musical influences of my fellow passengers. Eyes dart and ears prick. With no space to make the potentially grace-saving move of finding the volume switch, it soon becomes apparent as to which of these commuters is partial to a curry in front of x-factor and who will be slitting their wrists come home time.

The portly banker shifts, and as he turns his face to within inches of mine – his eyes filled with terror – I realise that Geri Halliwell’s cover of ‘It’s raining men’, is coming from his very headphones. I can see it in The London Paper now. ‘To the girl under my arm on the central line, I apologise for the unsociable use of the “shuffle” button. Maybe we could make sweet music sometime.’

This isn’t to say that I have the coolest collection myself. In fact the majority of my iPod is cluttered with a ludicrously high supply of musical theatre ensembles, and of my top 25 most played, there’s only nine that I will admit to. On closer inspection however, these top 25 ultimately create a fairly accurate portrait.

The airy folk songs of Belle and Sebastian sit in perfect juxtaposition with the intricate melodies of The Rolling Stones, while memories of desolate beaches flood through my veins as Jack Johnson strums his guitar. If a picture says a thousands words, then a song will be the harmony.

But in the dawning of a new age of applications, we’re unwillingly having our libraries pushed to anyone in a fifty-metre radius and the power of the playlist is quickly becoming an unfavourable tool that not only dictates our musical personalities, but can expose a lot more to potential acquaintances too. For example, on a calculated level, my library would paint me as a seasonally affected, itchy-footed theatre graduate. The accuracy is disturbing. But if you knew that the living Adonis from the fifth floor was in fact owner to the entire Elton John back-catalogue, how would you feel? There are no longer excuses for guilty pleasures and privacy is quickly becoming a nightmare of George Orwell’s - pushing the boundaries of technology to a new generation of undercover CD stashers.

It’s not that we find Elton John’s music unpleasant; it’s the fact that his popularity has become stationary in the changing face of the music industry. He’s lost the edge that everyone is striving to discover; the unknown band that will never have a number one, but will command the line-up of 2012’s boutique music festivals – much like the way fashion trends are being dictated for two years time. The Adonis has lost his mystery, and along with it, his magnetism.

Ultimately, the shape of current demographics are changing. We are no longer categorised by race, age or wealth but by the choices we make in restaurants, fashion and music. So as technology and advertising have evolved to better target these interests, we, in turn, have changed our perception of cool. Girl bands will always encourage young girls to wear make-up and whinge their way to theatre school, while Bono will relentlessly provide the soundtrack to embarrassing dad’s everywhere. Hence every song produces an essence; a target audience that it hopes to break so that when we hear it pounding from the headphones of a stranger, we can already determine their agenda. They’ve become artificial pheromones built on the physiological need to befriend those who most suit our tastes or status.

So to retain some dignity in this fickle society, playlists are made to create the illusion of cool. There’s no need for brandishing the skeletons that are hiding within that MP3 device if they are sectioned before they can escape. It is something to showcase your edginess and intrigue strangers when your foot starts tapping to an unknown beat. It’s the kind of impression that gives you that look of acceptance from the indie boy and his skinny jeans; an impression that, despite its pretentious connotations - we all rather like.

Miss conceptions at Miss Commonwealth

Preconceptions about the world of beauty pageants are something that have been installed into us, through the media, for a number of years. So when I was invited to the Miss Commonwealth International competition this October, I was intrigued to find out about this undercover world of not just beauty, but the characters that take part in such a niche industry of perfectly ­– if not surreally – turned out young women.

Representing the 53 countries in the British Commonwealth, some girls had flown from as far as Jamaica and Canada to compete in the event, having won prizes in their own countries that had lead them to great recognition within the industry – something that the girls strive for, far above the monetary rewards that they are often likely to win.

They believe that this recognition will help them towards the work they do with charities all over the globe. Tove Pearce, a 17 year-old English contender for the Miss Teen Commonwealth crown – and winner of Miss Teen Charity – was representing Great Ormond Street Hospital, and hoped that by winning a title, it would help to promote their work. In fact, it became clear that winning the ‘title’ was something that all the contestants I spoke to were certain would improve the publicity of their chosen aid organisation.

Jayne Taylor was competing for the Mrs Commonwealth title, and appeared to be quite a pageant veteran – having competed for 23 years and having gained a whole host of titles including Mrs Great Britain, Mrs England and Mrs United Kingdom. Despite her obvious achievements over the years, she clearly had the most refreshing approach to the competitions themselves – seeing them as a hobby, rather than a lifestyle – and keeps a regular job to fund the reality of having a family in the 21^st Century. Her four daughters also compete, and she was proud to comment on the travelling they’ve got to do whilst taking part in various competitions – being treated like royalty all the way.

First-time pageant competitor, Attika Choudhary was representing Pakistan in the main ‘Miss Commonwealth’ category – specifically for girls aged between 20 and 29. Her entrance into the competition was down to her talent agent, who, after noticing her interest in working with charities, recommended that she took part in the event – due to the recognition that a title could give her.

Four rounds of voting would determine the winners of each category, each displaying a different outfit including national costume, casual wear, sports wear and evening gowns. The girls were all glad to hear that the bikini round was taken out of this competition – clearly due to the variety of religious views that are held across the Commonwealth.

Ultimately, having the chance to take a peek into this heavily criticised industry was an eye-opener to what really goes on within it. All the girls I spoke to seemed very level-headed and keen to use their winning title as a stepping-stone to future plans. And whilst they were all keen to glam up under the guises of hair and make-up, it didn’t feel like this was to any further extent to any other girls their age. It wasn’t solely about looking pretty, or being part of a performance; it was more about gaining the recognition they felt was necessary to succeed in a future promoting world peace – the ultimate goal of the commonwealth committee.