Can I offer your giraffe a biscuit?

Toni Maticevski.

No, I've never heard of him either, but from the line outside The Altman building on W18th, you'd think he was the next coming of Christ.

When I finally get inside I am shoved a ticket with 'ST' on which I assume is industry abbreviation for 'standing'. I trudge over to another line and accept my fate as bottom of the fashion feeding chain. At the shows, who you are depends not just on where you sit, but if you get seated at all. Those given a standing position are pet food.



But 20 minutes later I hear the golden words from a PR- "Grab a spare seat if you can" I forget my Britishness and scramble frantically over a line of tightly packed fash people to claim my place in the second row. If there was room I would do the running man in celebration.

The show begins. A freakishly thin giraffe necked girl stalks down the runway in a full chiffon dress. Kinda grey. Then another giraffe in more grey. Not understated good grey, just dull, not invited to the party grey. I am fascinated by a model who is doing a kind of Monty Python walk in her 8 inch heels. The skinniness is breathtaking.

More heart stopping is what follows. Somehow the clothes have mutated into a incomprehensible mess. Stretch transparent Lycra with unfathomable sequin embellishment. Knickers on show at the back, more chiffon in a dollar store floral with a bunched up grandad jacket.




It's like boudoir met punk in a pub and had a one night stand...in 1986. At one point a Madonna-esque sequin bra floats by in a haze of my disbelief. It all screams cheap, market stall tat. Is anyone else thinking the same?





Right on cue the man next to be lets out a gigantic yawn.

''Oh god!" he laughs "Am I that obvious?"
I smile and put my hand over my mouth to address him "What do you think of this?"
"Do you know the designer? he whispers
"Fuck no!" I say
"It's a mess!" he tells me "It's like a student show. A bad one."
"Oh my god! I think the same! It's like a customising project gone wrong."
"It's a horrible miss match and only two of the models can even walk properly."

I smile at my partner in bitchy crime and then when the horror show ends we chat and introduce and shake hands.

I have made my first fashion friend.

Organic beginnings

10.30 a.m. a tiny warehouse on W36th street, Manhattan and I am stood behind a man with the widest wide angle lens I've ever seen. Despite his enviable girth even he's struggling to fit in the 13 models draped sulkily over boxes at the Organic John Patrick show-a man leading the charge in the green field of sustainable fashion.


So with the professionals struggling I have more than an excuse for chopping off a few heads or indeed entire bodies. I hold my camera at a jaunty angle quite a lot in an attempt to make my photos look edgy. It's a wonder I get anything at all mind you- wherever I stand I seem to be in someone's way. I've been asked to move about 25 times.



But my eyes are on the clothes rather than trained on the camera lens. To wheel out a fashion cliche, everything in front on me is eminently wearable. Harris tweed coats and loose blazers paired with Liberty inspired floral silks. The pants are peg leg and heels and hair are equally high. The berry tones are contrasted with some chocolate leather pieces. All the hide used is Vegetable dyed, which means no nasty chemicals are. So delicious looking you could eat it, but probably best not too.

John Patrick's vision is for fashion to be organic as a matter of course. Collections like these are undoubtedly the best way to move towards changing public perception.



As I develop a serious fashion crush on the wide leg plum pants I remind myself I am looking at sustainable fashion. I had forgotton that.

Just what John Patrick is aiming for.