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Authors: Daniel Hernandez
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says, patting my shoulder, then making me stand up for a deep hug. Julio ducks out, back onto the streets. I say good-bye to the people in the room, and they all say good-bye in return, nodding, toasting.
I make my way back to the metro in the steady gray drizzle, then decide Iâll just walk, see how far I can go. Microbus
peseros
roar down the wide avenues, and people pour out of the main chapel in the neighboring Colonia Guerrero, a spiky Gothic tower. I am pleased. I can be
banda
at El Chopo. And therefore, I have found my
patria
. But there is a catch. Its exact name, official language, and culture will not reveal themselves to me until much later.
Part II | TENSIONS
4 | Fashion & Facsimile
Zemmoa, queen of the night. (Photo by César Arellano.)
T he fashion show is held on a Wednesday in early November, at the old Casino Metropolitano downtown. According to lore, the ghostly former game hall first belonged to a socialite romantically linked to President Porfirio DÃaz, the former general whose corrupt rule over the country eventually sparked the Mexican Revolution. Today it is again a scene of decadence, but in a way tied not so much to extreme wealth and power but to a more discriminating kind of privilege: fashion.
The casinoâs downstairs is a long hall with poor lighting and paint peeling off the walls like skin on a banana. The runway consists of metal folding chairs laid out on the faded tile floor, facing each other. Waiters walk around serving shots of tequila in teensy plastic cups. Camera flash punctuates the air. Friends greet each other, posing and floating air kisses. People lustily stare at one another. The show is already two hours late, and a palpable sense of expectation and drama fills the room, a feeling that we are there to witness something spectacular and importantânot the fashion show, but one another.
The lights dim and a spotlight catches the rear of the runway. Red lighting from behind an opaque screen illuminates a logo in jagged punk-rock letters, MARÃA PELIGRO, and the show begins. The audience watches the models with determined severity. The line of clothingâsubdued large-print flannels in large, angular cutsâis by a young designer named Paola Arriola, who is pretty, has orange hair, and is from Argentina. When she walks down the runway to take her bow, camera flashes sizzle at her from all sides. It isnât Fashion Week, and no major foreign headliner is sweeping into town. Not a single celebrity is in sight, in fact. But no bona fide celebrity is necessary at the MarÃa Peligro show because in this world, everyone is a celebrity or behaves like one. It is an independent fashion show in Mexico City, and that means it isâto a certain set, to the fashion-party bloggersâthe most important thing happening tonight.
Earlier in the day I stop at Clinica, a small boutique showcasing young, independent fashion designers from Mexico, in the Colonia Condesa. The partners there, Enrique González Rangel and Denise Marchebout, designers from Guadalajara, tell me about the show. I tag along, taking pictures and taking notes. We stop for sushi in the Roma and meet up with more people heading out for the night.I imagine us as the cast of a droll art-house movie: the gay disco promoter, the strikingly beautiful kabbalist, the German graphic designer, the film-studio executive from Los Angeles and his young Mexican boyfriend. More than enough sexy sceney energy is here to go around already, and the sashimi hasnât even arrived.
We pile into a row of cars waiting outside and head downtown. At the Casino Metropolitana, the clothes by Arriola are interesting, yes. But what really gets the crowd going is the majestic ascent up a glistening marble staircase to the after-party. The dazzling neo-baroque ballroom has lush plants and gilded surfaces and red velvet beckoning from every corner. The cityâs young and fashionable elite dance into the room,
I make my way back to the metro in the steady gray drizzle, then decide Iâll just walk, see how far I can go. Microbus
peseros
roar down the wide avenues, and people pour out of the main chapel in the neighboring Colonia Guerrero, a spiky Gothic tower. I am pleased. I can be
banda
at El Chopo. And therefore, I have found my
patria
. But there is a catch. Its exact name, official language, and culture will not reveal themselves to me until much later.
Part II | TENSIONS
4 | Fashion & Facsimile
Zemmoa, queen of the night. (Photo by César Arellano.)
T he fashion show is held on a Wednesday in early November, at the old Casino Metropolitano downtown. According to lore, the ghostly former game hall first belonged to a socialite romantically linked to President Porfirio DÃaz, the former general whose corrupt rule over the country eventually sparked the Mexican Revolution. Today it is again a scene of decadence, but in a way tied not so much to extreme wealth and power but to a more discriminating kind of privilege: fashion.
The casinoâs downstairs is a long hall with poor lighting and paint peeling off the walls like skin on a banana. The runway consists of metal folding chairs laid out on the faded tile floor, facing each other. Waiters walk around serving shots of tequila in teensy plastic cups. Camera flash punctuates the air. Friends greet each other, posing and floating air kisses. People lustily stare at one another. The show is already two hours late, and a palpable sense of expectation and drama fills the room, a feeling that we are there to witness something spectacular and importantânot the fashion show, but one another.
The lights dim and a spotlight catches the rear of the runway. Red lighting from behind an opaque screen illuminates a logo in jagged punk-rock letters, MARÃA PELIGRO, and the show begins. The audience watches the models with determined severity. The line of clothingâsubdued large-print flannels in large, angular cutsâis by a young designer named Paola Arriola, who is pretty, has orange hair, and is from Argentina. When she walks down the runway to take her bow, camera flashes sizzle at her from all sides. It isnât Fashion Week, and no major foreign headliner is sweeping into town. Not a single celebrity is in sight, in fact. But no bona fide celebrity is necessary at the MarÃa Peligro show because in this world, everyone is a celebrity or behaves like one. It is an independent fashion show in Mexico City, and that means it isâto a certain set, to the fashion-party bloggersâthe most important thing happening tonight.
Earlier in the day I stop at Clinica, a small boutique showcasing young, independent fashion designers from Mexico, in the Colonia Condesa. The partners there, Enrique González Rangel and Denise Marchebout, designers from Guadalajara, tell me about the show. I tag along, taking pictures and taking notes. We stop for sushi in the Roma and meet up with more people heading out for the night.I imagine us as the cast of a droll art-house movie: the gay disco promoter, the strikingly beautiful kabbalist, the German graphic designer, the film-studio executive from Los Angeles and his young Mexican boyfriend. More than enough sexy sceney energy is here to go around already, and the sashimi hasnât even arrived.
We pile into a row of cars waiting outside and head downtown. At the Casino Metropolitana, the clothes by Arriola are interesting, yes. But what really gets the crowd going is the majestic ascent up a glistening marble staircase to the after-party. The dazzling neo-baroque ballroom has lush plants and gilded surfaces and red velvet beckoning from every corner. The cityâs young and fashionable elite dance into the room,
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