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.

My Life-Style

Perched animatedly in the base of my Nanna’s decadently imposing wardrobe, I recall the first of many unforgettable moments that delightfully and whole-heartedly took my breath away. As I crouched amongst an array of opulent coloured firs, leathers and suedes, alongside rich brocade silks in hues of magenta, emerald and gold, my mother waltzed down the couple of steps that led from the en-suite, to the minimalist warmth of my grandparents’ bedroom.

 

The dress was timeless – a floor-length, figure-hugging gown in midnight blue. Around her neck sat the winter-white shrug that decades of elegant soirees had yet to tarnish; its feathers, softer than the blush of her cheek. I remember in that clock-stopping moment wishing for a future in those shoes, unaware of anything to contradict such romantic fathom. I have no memory of where she went that night – I couldn’t tell you the season, or the year – but I’ll never forget that smell of Yves Saint Laurent as she kissed me goodbye.

 

As the youngest after a generation of 17 boys, I was born into a great, and altogether rather daunting responsibility to be everyone’s little girl. My Nanna – probably the most glamourous and elegantly poised lady I’ve been blessed to know – was therefore most disappointed when, at the age of about two, I’d taken to wearing most of my closet at once. A classic collection of patchwork hand-me-downs would hang off my toddling frame – each day having personally taken the time to create fresh ensembles to greet my brother at the school gate. Mum always encouraged this slightly obsessive trait, objecting to my grandmother’s wishes of dressing me herself.  It wasn’t until I started school that I was stripped of that formerly unappreciated privilege.

 

Thrown into the uniformity of the British education system, it quickly became clear that the ranks of popularity were directly correlated to the length of your skirt, the height of your heels and the size of your bra. At this point, style was dictated by what Mizz and Sugar said would make dreamy boys take you to the movies – any personal expression, it was clear, would have to be put on hold for the next few years. I pleaded for Kickers, Adidas poppers and Buffalo boots. I made perfume out of buttercups and Palma Violets. I crimped my hair.

 

For my fifteenth birthday, Mum gave me a subscription to Vogue. I remember, as I peeled open its beautifully glossy cover, the overwhelming wave of intrigue that shot through me; a catalyst for the realisation that I no longer needed to conform. The models danced as the pages turned, and the features flowed – silk-like – as they conjured images of foreign runways and exotic shoots. I’d discovered a new place to escape to, unwind in, dream about.

 

For me then, style was about fashion, and the high street was my playground. Shopping became a substitute for all I craved in that unattainable world of flash bulbs and couture, and getting dressed became an art again. I was reintroduced to my two year-old self, this time armed with a teenage body and a £42 clothing allowance. At a time when throw-away fashion had begun to take flight, I’d meet friends outside Topshop and spend Saturday afternoons whiling away hours looking for inspiration in the mannequins – drawing us into every enchanting window. We inspired each other too, teaming together outfits that we’d never look twice at. Their eyes saw from the angles that mine couldn’t, and it created the eclectic style that we’ve all grown into – in our own inimitable ways.

 

It might be that all I needed was a wake-up call – a moment to slap me hard around the face and tell me that life revolves around more than understanding the latest trends, or having my favourite shoes lusted after. But even when Dad passed the phone over to my mother – to tell me the news that would completely change my whole world – I can remember exactly what I was wearing.

 

For two years, I watched her slip away, gracefully and heroically surrendering to the forces that sit just outside of this vulnerable existence. The fact that she never complained, never swore, and only shed a tear when she saw our grieving, highlights just another testament to her outstanding peculiarities. She fought, completely selflessly when she longed to give up, and took us shopping for make-up, hats, and wigs to keep her mind off things. She laughed when speech was too hard.

 

Today, my understanding of style is that it’s more of a presence – a feeling that can’t be offered purely through clothing or make-up or labels – but through projecting an honest image of yourself into your surroundings. Mum encouraged me to find my own style, never imposing, but gently guiding me to where I needed to go. She taught me about morals, elegance and inner-beauty before I knew anything about the tangible world of fashion and beauty. She taught me to read between the lines, and fall in love with the people that mattered – the ones that don’t need Chanel and Manolo to light up a room.

 

I’m sure in fifty years time, I will look back and cower at my curious attempts of staying at the cutting-edge. I won’t understand the newest trends, or the next generation of designers.  But maybe on the eve of my interment, my children will reflect in the same way as I do now – thanking their mother for every word of encouragement, every underappreciated submission, and every individual nuance that could be passed on, so that their life can be lived in the exact style that ultimately, only they can choose.

Welcome to a New Generation

In 1993 the British Fashion Council set up a scheme that, today, is considered by young designers and label heads alike, as one of the most influential stepping-stones into the fashion industry. The New Generation project ­– or NEWGEN – was the first of its kind to actively seek out and support emerging designer talent. 16 years later and the project has nurtured a host of famous names, whose career might not have been nearly as successful without the guidance and sponsorship that NEWGEN offered.

 

Sponsored designers fall into three categories – Catwalk, Presentation and Exhibition. Recipients of this sponsorship will then be given all the necessary tools to show their designs at London Fashion Week in the forthcoming season – in this case, SS10 later this month. NEWGEN acts as a promotional launch pad for these talented designers; who range from the newly graduated, to those with years of experience, yet still in need of a break.

 

It’s undeniable that the media profile built around the scheme is one of the strongest means to attract investment and orders, and whilst the monetary value of each sponsorship can range from between £5,000 to £10,000, it is the guidance and support offered to the NEWGEN scholars that holds the most significant importance.

 

The BFC won’t immediately back out after one season either. They recognise the support that young designers need at this stage in their career and can award sponsorship to the same designer for up to four seasons. It’s a refreshing approach. Especially compared to those with the sole objective of churning out new apprentices season after season.

 

In 2001, Topshop became sole sponsors of NEWGEN and have had a proactive involvement in it ever since. By providing show venues and commissioning special collections – available during fashion week – they have taken a particularly supportive role in promoting some of the most exciting design talent that London has to offer.

 

Alexander McQueen, Matthew Williamson and Giles Deacon are just a few of the designers that were once nestled under NEWGEN’s wing, and with this season’s plethora of vastly talented individuals currently adding the final touches to their collections, there is no doubt that we will see them take flight soon too.

 

The application process consists of three stages. After adhering to the eligibility requirements (being based in the UK, having a minimum of two stockists and a business that would normally have shown off schedule – as well as a collection consisting of womenswear or accessories), the designers are asked to provide two industry references along with their application. No samples, look-books or press material is required at this point, and it is from here that the panel will determine whose designs they will see in phase two.

 

The submissions process kicks off after the designer's application is accepted, and the guidelines are then sent out in the confirmation email. Up to six samples may then be requested from each applicant’s current collection, and it is these samples that will establish the final shortlist. It is only at this stage that interviews will be held, determining the final 14-20 designers that will be chosen to show at London Fashion Week.

 

A few things should be taken into account when applying for the scheme, such as that accessories designers can only apply to show in the exhibition, whereas ready to wear and millinery designers can show on the catwalk as well. Also, cash sponsorship will only be awarded to those designers taking part in catwalk shows.

 

The selection panel is comprised of an expertly-qualified bunch of industry professionals, including influential figures in media and buying, alongside a core panel of BFC insiders, of whom make the final decision.

 

If you are interested in learning more about this scheme, or the current sponsored designers, please visit www.britishfashioncouncil.com

We're hot on her heels

Already tipped by Vogue as being one to watch, Sophie Gittins – the 25 year-old Cordwainers College graduate, has much to smile about. After receiving a first-class honours degree in footwear design, the Essex-based designer sites being nominated as a finalist for the first ever Fashion Fringe Footwear Awards, as a highlight of her career so far. The prestige of this achievement is particularly impressive when you consider the early stage of her career. Pair that with the distinctive designs of her first and forthcoming collections, and it’s no wonder that she impressed the panel of top industry professionals, including Colin McDowell, Rupert Sanderson and Manolo Blahnik.

The success of her debut collection had industry critics dubbing Sophie as a definite ‘New Shoe Star’, and SS10 has the fash pack waiting with bated breath. “Opulent coloured suedes, leathers and snakeskins alongside rich brocade silks in hues of magenta, oche and green”, are the undeniably tempting words Sophie uses to describe her second collection – inspired by the Russian jeweler Fabergé. This season, 12 styles have been created, each with its unique stance on the 19^th Century luxury that Fabergé produced, and each taking the name of a key figure in the history of the Fabergé company.

Sophie is able to pinpoint an early interest in shoes as she reminisces over the beautiful quality pairs she wore as a child. "I've always been drawn to the creative process, and I love the idea of turning an initial flat sketch into something 3-dimensional that is not only aesthetically pleasing, but practically sound." Her fascination therefore with the heel-structure is something she is keen to explore in future collections. Due to the size and infancy of the company at present, her efforts must however, focus on creating simply stunning designs for the upper shoe.

With a dedication to, and love of research, Sophie's design process includes much more than just sketches. She draws inspiration from the arts, architecture, interior design and antiques – demonstrating her eclectic taste and influences that are reflected in her stunningly adorned Colchester studio. Dominated by a huge old haberdashery cabinet filled to the brim with antique trimmings and leather samples, the walls are kept simple to perfectly display her collection of vintage Vogue artwork and beautifully ordered swatches in a rainbow of delectable shades.

For the footwear followers amongst us, Sophie hopes to collaborate with more designers in the future. Her recent work with NEWGEN-sponsored Hannah Marshall, found her addressing new and exciting challenges that fitting someone else's design aesthetic brought. Chanel, Philip Lim and Yves Saint Laurent are top of the wish list as far as Sophie is concerned; and with the international recognition she is gaining from a string of key figures in the fashion industry, the dream is not unreasonable.

Sophie Gittins's Spring-Summer 2010 collection will be launched at London Fashion Week later this month.

Words by: Anna Harman