Photo by George Pimentel/Getty Images for IMG
Due to my perpetually punctual father, I’m almost always on time for everything. There’s no great secret to it. You just need to plan on being early. That way, if something happens, you’re still on time. But usually nothing happens and you must not feel awkward when you show up and there’s a locked door or they’re still setting up the chairs.
True to form, I was seated early at the Christopher Bates show yesterday afternoon. For a little while, I was the only one on my row. It felt more and more strange as attendees filed in and it was clear space was limited. Although I usually keep my eyes peeled for local celebrities (the week’s not over until I spot Jeanne Beker), at that moment I just wanted to see a friendly face.
I got both when I spotted jazz singer Molly Johnson taking a seat across from me. I’m not one for approaching celebrities. I generally like to pretend they’re normal people who I don’t recognize–you feel much cooler that way. But when Molly shot me a priceless expression that implied ‘Oh look at you with the row to yourself!’ I had to get up and say hello.
“I’m Molly,” she said humbly. “This is my son.” I only noticed then that her companion was a tall teenaged boy. I explained the reason I felt comfortable approaching her was that we both lived on Brunswick Avenue when I was growing up. She was our friendly neighbourhood jazz legend.
“I remember your mother,” she said.
At this point I noticed how full the room was getting so I raced back to my seat. Two young women who looked like they were auditioning for Absolutely Fabulous: The Next Generation had extreme trouble finding spots. They ricocheted back and forth across the room until the lights dimmed and they grabbed spots directly behind me. As the show began I heard one ask, “So, are we going to see some lovely men now?”
Yes we were, starting with the designer himself. The handsome Bates entered wearing a smart tuxedo and looking like James Bond. Holding a microphone he introduced the themes of his “hyper-urban” “dress for success” collection. The statement that particularly stuck out–“This fall, we should own jackets that are not just black.” A simple charge, but a challenge for Torontonians none the less.
But the most surprising part of Bates’ presentation was that as the models came out he stayed on stage, describing and explaining each outfit like runway announcers of yore. He even referred to the models by name. Although once a cliché of stuffy fashion shows, that custom died out before many of us in the room were born. A narrated fashion show makes me think of nothing so much as the scene in The Great Muppet Caper featuring my first fashion idol, Miss Piggy.
A ripple of uncomfortable “Is he really doing this?” embarrassment passed through the crowd. He didn’t use notes so some of his descriptions felt a bit off the cuff. But the narration was useful when it came to explaining fabrics–would I have recognized that a number of pieces were made from waxed denim had he not informed us? Chambray has never looked so luxurious and sleek. Bates even sent a tuxedo made from denim and leather down the runway. “Great for the red carpet,” he explained.
The clothes were what people have come to expect from the Milan-trained designer. Slim-cut suits and jackets in somber hues with fashion forward details (the denim tuxedo was covered in zippers). As his introduction suggested, the story here was jackets, with Bates attempting to get us to ditch our black in favour of a teal raincoat or a hunting jacket, what he sees as the next evolution of men’s outerwear. The crowd favourite was a pair of bright blue goat skin gloves, which caused the women behind me to coo with appreciation. (They had a similar reaction when a full-lipped, smoldering model came out in a form fitting suit.)
The knock against Bates is that his look is too European and sophisticated for the average Canadian shopper. I noted that all the pants he showed were very snug in the derriere, and many were in leather. (“I’m not into fashion,” my German boyfriend said to me last night as I described the tight trousers. “But I’ve noticed men here are really strange about their baggy pants.”)
If Bates’ European perspective is his biggest weakness, it’s also what sets him apart. Bates has obvious talent that would be recognized in any fashion capital. The question isn’t ‘Are Canadian men ready to wear tight pants?’ The question, threaded throughout fashion week, is whether Toronto’s industry will grow to international appreciation by mimicking New York, London, and Milan, or by nurturing and celebrating a style that’s homegrown. Debating what that might entail would take us until Spring/Summer 2014.
“Did you like it?” I asked Molly Johnson afterwards.
“I did, yes,” she answered. “But the models moved too fast. There was barely time to see them. And I wanted to feel the fabric. I wish the models would come close so we could touch them.”
I doubt she was the only one who wished that.
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Max Mosher writes about style for Toronto Standard. You can follow him on Twitter at @max_mosher_.
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