Last weekend was a busy time for South African culture – our journalists bring you the dirt from all over the show
Judith Watt on the Vukani awards
‘Fashion is not just an industry,” says British designer Katharine Hamnett. “It exists as a cultural phenomenon; it reflects the underlying thing – what Jung calls the collective unconscious.” If you take the premise that Hamnett is correct then the Saleshouse Vukani! Fashion Awards – “the ultimate in fashion design, showcasing the country’s most creative talented designers” – held at the carlton Centre on Saturday night, gave a clear message for the country’s collective unconscious: get thee all to a shrink.
The invitation clearly stated the starting times as 6pm, on the dot. Guest speaker, premier Tokyo Sexwale arrived at 6.45pm, with a cohort of black guys in suits, curiously reminiscent of Reservoir Dogs, and followed by his diminutive wife. With him came the arts and culture tribe: Themba Wakashe and Firdoze Bulbulia. Queen Mantfombi Zulu was present, with unctuous attendance being danced by Sonwabile Ndamase, president of the South African Fashion Designers Association.
But where was the pice de resistance, designer Marianne Fassler? “She absconded, per se,” says Ndamase. Fassler had told Ndamase by fax and phone that she could not attend.
A quick glance at the judges – which included Contralesa leader Chief Phatikile Holomisa and Sabrina Walker of Sales house – confirmed my worst fears: not one person who could tell the difference between Fortuny and Lagerfeld, darling. No editors, no stylists, no photographers – and no designers.
“We want a South African aesthetic to emerge from this country,” Wakashe told the predominantly black audience. “The members of the last government wore top hats and tails,” claimed Sexwale with rampant inaccuracy (cheers). “Nelson Mandela has broken the stiff ice of the suit,” (more cheers) he continued. “give support to the small designers not yet captured in Paris and Rome,” (near hysteria). Was this an ANC event or what? Of course, all this was forgivable if the “designers” were good. They weren’t. Gone was the bump and grind, the tension that should go into a ramp show. In came the tame creations of dressmakers.
It would be hard to make model Glen Fisher look absurd, but they succeeded time and time again, in garments ranging from Tyrolean cocktail to Mala Mala on acid. One model couldn’t get on to the ramp because her shoulder pads were too big; another tottered along pulling down a frock so short “pussy pelmet” would not be a misnomer.
Most of the finalists trotted out European fantasies, the kind of kitsch that does so well in Sandton: crinoline skirts and bodices.
“I think this event should be more transparent and at the grass roots level,” a splendidly dressed Zulu matron told me. Aaron Sepeng, a second year fashion student from Pretoria Technikon was the only one to make an original comment and to show real talent. Not that he won.
The prizes went to the creators of the most conventional statements because those were the ones the judges could understand: first prize to Elaine Buckwater, second to Irene Viera and third to Esther Nyatho-Mudao. Pity that poor Ms Buckwater was called up for a prize and then was told they’d made a mistake. Great relief when she won first prize.
And where, oh where, did she get that lovely Dralon frock?