Cape Back Comeback


Finding common threads in fashion, past and present, is always one of my favourite things to do. It's like hearing the melody of an old song you used to love, one that you haven't heard for years, and reliving a moment from your past.

Nostalgic style revitalizes and reconnects me to history. Through the appreciation of costume, I grow more anxious and optimistic for the future. What inspirations from the past will trickle through? How will the infinite remix of fashion play out in the years to come?

Mom with her bridesmaids, 1967

My mother and father were married in Winnipeg in 1967. To this day, my dear Uncle Bob (who has always possessed a rather refined taste for opulence) declares it to be the most fabulous wedding he's ever attended. My mother is Ukrainian - she and her family immigrated to Canada when she was just 4 years old. As such, nothing less than a lavish Byzantine Catholic ceremony would do. My father's more reserved Protestant relations didn't know what hit them.

I wish I could travel back to that day and watch my parents get married, if for no other reason than to enjoy all that stunning fashion eye candy. But at least there are pictures. The most resonant garment from these photographs, from that sweet song of the past, is my mother's beautiful sheath dress with lace overlay. When and IF I ever decide to get married, I might very well model a dress after my mother's, mainly for its regal and defining feature - the cape back.

Silk evening gown, 1920s. 

This bold cascade of fabric that falls stately from the shoulders fascinates me as it echoes through time. My favourite dress from the Art Deco Chic exhibit at the Vancouver Museum was this dusty rose number pictured above. (Shame on me for not getting more shots from the back!) Regardless, as soon as I saw it, I instantly thought of my mother's wedding dress. Granted, this frock demonstrates the classic silhouette of the times - streamlined, forgiving and free, whereas my mother's version was more tailored. But that CAPE, that TRAIN, whatever you might call it - appears as regal and romantic now as it did back then.

And the 1920s certainly wasn't the first time...

18th Century Cape back gown from the film Mozart's Sister.

I wondered, what renditions of the cape back are we seeing now? A few celebs have donned them on recent red carpets, but my favourite find was this McQ cocktail mini, which demonstrates the same sleek line from the shoulders down. Who wouldn't feel like a queen in this little McQueen?

McQ Alexander McQueen Blue/Almond Cape Back Dress, Silk Spandex Blend.

Mom's dress was made by local a German seamstress in Winnipeg. The look is elegant, statuesque and simple. The cape train is noble and unobtrusive - a kind of timeless august glamour that begs the question - for your modern wedding, why go strapless, especially when one could wear this? The following photo depicts the cape train in full glory, the delicate white lace hanging slack and airy from my mother's narrow wrist, safe in the crook of my father's arm. 

Down the Garden Path, 1967.

Lastly, a potential modern take on my mother's gown. Shoulder trains reveal a bit more skin but continue to evoke a kind of ethereal majesty.

Shoulder Trains on a Flowing Chiffon Chapel Train Dress

Read My Lips

Let’s talk about lips. I’ve been thinking about them a lot lately. Sexy, defined mouths are everywhere. We can thank pop-cultural phenomena such as Mad Men for the return of the nostalgic, perfectly made-up face. More female fashion fanatics are taking time to focus on the details. Make-up is one of the easiest and most affordable ways to punch it up. We’re seeing this in 1960s-reminiscent cat eyes and the recent nail polish boom, which has evolved into a worldwide craze for the varied intricacies of nail art. Similarly, a sweep of devil red or fuchsia pink on the lips can, in seconds, take a simple LBD or jeans & t-shirt combo from wow to meow.

Models on the runway and girls in the street are rocking vivid, pronounced hues for both summer frolics and winter hustles. I’m pleased to say that this idea isn’t going anywhere. Rather, the trend is rising and refreshing itself in new, unexpected ways. Come Spring 2012, one assumes everything to lighten up, including the face. Florals and pastels continue to reinvent themselves. Kiss goodbye the dewy, neutral palette of previous years. Expect to see less shimmer and sheer and more unabashed brights and bolds in valiant combinations. Hot fluorescent pink from Nanette Lepore. Ultimate blue from Stephie Christiaens. Hakaan’s crisp white mini-dress topped off with inky black.. And don’t even get me started about the luscious deep purples taking over the show for Yohji Yamamoto. Once I have the cash, you best believe I’ll pick up this royal shade from YSL.

Not for the faint of heart is also the latest two-toned lip concept, pairing contrasting colours for the top versus the bottom. Colour is taking more risks these days. So have fun. Experiment. Dye your hair Florence Welsch-red, stain your lips goth, but most of all, be fearless.

Being Erika

Meet my first client for my first attempt at personal styling - Erika Thorkelson. Erika is a writer of fiction and non-fiction whose work has appeared in Joyland Vancouver, Herizons Magazine, and the Vancouver Sun. Born in Winnipeg, she has also lived in Ireland, Japan and just finished an MFA in creative writing from UBC. She is currently finishing her first novel.

Recently, Erika contacted me to style her for her birthday. With a budget of about $200, we hit the downtown core and managed to put together an ensemble that works both for her figure and personality. The results couldn’t have been better. Erika’s final look is modern and sexy without being slutty. Most importantly, she looks comfortable in her clothes and in her own skin, which is paramount to successful styling.

We started at Urban Outfitters where, after waiting in the change room line-up for about half an hour (why don't they expand they're change room service??) Erika tried on several dresses that were okay, but not quite enough. "It's nice,” we remarked, gazing at her image in the full-length mirror, “but we can do better."

I had heard rumours about the new department at The Bay, simply titled "The Room," where one can find accessible contemporary and diffusion brands such as Stella McCartney and McQ by Alexander McQueen. It was there, at the Top Shop department, where Erika spotted an A-line black miniskirt adorned with small golden crucifixes. Edgy, but chic, embellishing Erika's micro waist and ladylike gams.

A full-volume skirt like this needed something tighter and body-conscious on top, so off to American Apparel we went to pick from the dozens of scoop-neck bodysuits available on their colourful shelves. Once we saw it paired with the skirt, black lace was an easy choice. On to ALDO, just a few doors down, where among several options, school-girl black oxfords with a short platform heel gave Erika the appropriate lift and comfort, all the while looking very now.

The whole venture took about three hours. Erika and I worked brilliantly together. Usually, I style myself. Now, I was working with different tastes, different sensibilities, different body. I was enthusiastic because this is what a fashion merchandiser does, and Erika has a keen eye for what she likes and is a woman who knows her body. She told me later that what's great about having a stylist is affirmation of one's own choices, collaborating with someone openly and honestly to create a final, polished look.

A few nights later, Erika and I shared a few glasses of wine and talked about hair and make-up. "I think we should do a lip," I suggested (are we noticing a theme here?) Erika agreed. $18 later from the nearest drugstore, Erika purchased a luscious red called "Sweet Kiss" from Bourjois. A quick curl of the hair and a few good head bangs is all it takes to give fine hair more attitude. Pearly cream lids, eyeliner, brow definition and a coat of Sweet Kiss, Erika looked amazing, ready for her birthday and the next year of her life.

CLIENT QUOTE: Christer has an instinctual understanding of how fashion can draw out essential truths about who we are. She sees the person and then finds the clothes that most express her individual character. Everything she chose for me felt so natural, I could hardly believe I hadn’t picked them out myself, except that I know I’d never have thought to put it all together without her. Her real talent shows in the details—the way the skirt sits just so, the smooth line of the lace, the counter-intuitive but perfect oxford heals that are my new favourite pair of shoes. I’d trust Christer to dress me for anything.

Want to get styled by Christer? Contact her at christerama@gmail.com

Trouty Mouth

Lana del Rey has been a buzzing topic in the music scene for the past couple of months. The video for piano-charged ballad “Video Games” went viral in the same way Die Antwoord’s “Enter the Ninja” dominated the interweb last year. Lana’s indie-pop ghetto-folk differs entirely from the South African zef rap of Die Antwoord, but the commonality seems to lie in public reaction. Upon first view, questions of authenticity come up again and again. Is it real? Is it an act? Is it satire? Mimicry? Is her visual caricature intentional or is she oblivious to, what some consider, her own affected theatrics?

I can't help but feel that there is some brutal sexism going on when reputable journalists hiss that del Rey is "a puppet controlled by a group of wealthy, clever producers" or that "the 25-year-old New Yorker is actually called Lizzy Grant – she admits the name Lana Del Rey was made up by 'a series of managers and lawyers'.”

I’m sorry. How is this different from what hundreds of other musical artists have done and are doing in dingy, cross-country jam spaces as we speak? As far as female musicians are concerned, can we FOR ONCE leave image out of it. Just listen to the goddamn song.

That being said, I don't think I've been this excited about a female artist since Anna Calvi. Again, there seems to be some correlation between really weird mouths and incredibly awesome music coming out of them. The overlooked 2009 Lizzie Grant album exhibits a voice and tunes which stylistically echo, on some level, beloved songstresses like PJ Harvey and Amy Winehouse.

The same way every woman in music seems to bare the brunt of passive, intellectual attacks from mainstream music musings, confirmed by equally aggressive and inarticulate ones from YouTube comment pages, Rey has been so harshly criticized by social media that it leaves me, both as a music lover and a woman, to question the judgments of music listeners the same way they question Lana’s pouty, coquettish countenance, as if this was the deciding factor of whether her music is good or bad. The debate continues – is it indie or is it pop, but rather, and what seems to be of greater importance, are her lips real or injected with nasty collagen?

Watch the video for Blue Jeans. Better yet, play the video and clean the house, concentrate on the simplistic sonic mastery of what del Rey calls “honouring love and staying strong in the midst of love lost.” If you’re anything like me, you’ll end up falling in love with del Rey, and if you do get curious about her appearance, start watching at minute 2:40 and see her graduate from urban DIY Nancy Sinatra to in-your-face fashion icon. Bright bold lipstick in tow.

Plenty of pictures, plenty of words.

Last week I participated in a very cool event for my dear friend Tracy Stefanucci's wonderful art and literary magazine OCW. The event was called FIVE, organized to celebrate the five fabulous years that OCW has been running.

Tracy and I met during our undergrad in Creative Writing at UBC. During that time I witnessed the brainchild of one brilliant young woman blossom into the successful and reputable publication that it is today. Tracy, along with her team of volunteer editors, graphic designers and writers, put weeks of hard work into each issue of OCW, always with fantastic results. In between a double major in both Spanish and Creative Writing, Tracy somehow managed to launch a freakin' magazine, a beautiful magazine, showcasing some of Vancouver's greatest talents in art, photography, writing and music. Now there's a go-getter. How inspiring.

I was happy to contribute both prose and music to OCW over the years. My first Christer show ever was as part of their first issue launch party. So naturally when I was asked to speak for FIVE, I was honoured and thrilled.

For the event, the magazine decided to bring back some of their favourite contributors to the Waldorf Hotel on Tuesday April 26. Each of us was to give a speech about a story, a project or something that matters to us using Pecha Kucha, a Japanese presentation method, in which the speaker gives a slideshow of 15 images, each image projected for exactly 20 seconds, totaling no more than 5 minutes. It's a tricky and fast-paced format, but over the course of the evening I discovered it's also a very effective way of sharing ideas.

I wasn't entirely comfortable with my story, mainly because I kept feeling like I was coming across as completely self-absorbed. But frankly I couldn't think of any better story to tell than my brief adventures as an electro-pop star, and fortunately the viewers seemed to enjoy it. I figure the video is worth sharing. My life in music was fast and fleeting, but definitely not forgotten.

Many thanks to Tracy and the OCW team for giving me this opportunity. Further thanks to all the people in my life who supported me during my music career. None of it would have been possible without you (you know who you are.)

No Pictures, Just Words

I know, I know. Where the hell has she been?

What can I say? It's been a crazy couple of months. People get sidetracked sometimes. It's been a time of renewal, of transformation. Winter struggles to thaw, daffodils are peaking out from the boulevards and the sun battles the rain, aiming to bring us all warmth and happy days. The promise of change is all around, isn't it?

I'm finally re-integrating with the North American psyche. Money makes the world go around, especially around these parts. So if I want to pay rent, buy those boots, sip those bevvies and go on that road trip across California, I need dollars, lots of dollars. And discipline. And desire.

I got a second job, in an office, doing morning cash for a certain corporate restaurant franchise that shall remain nameless. For a while I was working three to four mornings a week there, plus three to four nights a week at Alibi, and my life became this dreadful march from bed to work to the bottle and back to bed again. Didn't leave much room for getting inspired, that's for sure.

But all the while, I've been thinking a lot about renewal. Sometimes I feel like my whole life is just this one level played to the enth degree and rather than moving forward I am just restarting it over and over again. Working two jobs and not creating nearly enough, swan diving into failed, fleeting romances and giving up on neglected projects. Floating in a haze of indifference and longing and just feeling generally unfinished, like something very integral and bigger than myself, is missing.

About three weeks ago I had a spiritual healing session with my friend Ari. My best friend had been urging me to go see him since I got back from Europe. He studied mysticism in the forests of Vancouver Island and since had become quite the professional, although not a capitalist by any means. He is willing, when asked, to guide you through an intense internal exploration of your sub-conscious, and figure out what the hell it is that's keeping you from realizing your greatest self. It's not always about purging bad energy, but transforming it into something new, something you can put to good use.

I was not so much a skeptic, maybe just not quite ready. But lately I had what felt like a large nasty ball of black hash in the centre of my chest, one that, over years and years, had culminated into quite the pesky demon. It became so prevalent in my day to day life, that soon I found I had trouble breathing and was getting anxiety. I couldn't focus. So I would work or party or do whatever else I could to ignore and escape the reality that I was somehow sorely dissatisfied.

I finally felt that I didn't really have a choice. I would go to Ari the Mystic. Maybe he could help. Or maybe it was all bullshit. But it couldn't hurt, right?

My best friend and I took the bus on a rainy, miserable Sunday afternoon to Ari's home off Victoria Drive. He, with his slim clothes and long black hair tied easily behind his head, greeted us warmly and made tea. For a long while we all just sat in the quiet comfort of his bedroom, arranged to accommodate a rather serene healing space, littered with crystals and charts and a massage table laden with beautiful cloth - all the expected New Age things that most people would scoff at, including myself. But you know, I've always felt that holistic healing is terribly underrated. The mind is such a complex, extraordinary machine. One needs only to explore it and nurture it to get results, rather than drugging it or analyzing it to death. Maybe all this hocus pocus was foolish, but it beat the heck out of therapy, mainly because it smells nice and is easy on the wallet.

Eventually we began "our work" and I won't go into detail, but it was quite possibly one of the weirdest experiences of my life. It was also overwhelmingly effective, a catharsis I can't quite put into words. Over the course of two hours, amid much humming and scent burning and hypnosis of some kind, we were able to explore in rather vivid detail the architecture of my sub-conscious. And what we found there was a beautiful, brilliant woman trapped within a nagging unlove for her own self. Someone who does not give herself nearly enough credit. He told me that I have been over-exerting my masculine side. Hilarious. I can be pretty emo, that's feminine right? But really the feminine side is the creative, intuitive side and I was failing to channel these into anything worth while, rather just putting all my energy into the latest load of dishes. The masculine side is practical, analytical and tends to focus on doing things rather than feeling things. I realize I spend most of my time running errands, cleaning the apartment or getting all my everyday shit done, and spend very little time nurturing that other part of me, the one that needs it most.

At the peak of all this, I felt a charge of white light finally breaking down that nasty ball of hash. I could feel it dissolving and splitting open like a seed inside my chest and I wept and cried out in pain and it was frightening and liberating and a huge relief. Ari talked me further through, beckoning the bad, ushering it out of me, steadily easing my nerves as we released some kind of sick emotional toxin out of my body, straight into oblivion.

When I finally rose from the bed, I felt bafflingly clear. Everything just suddenly made a lot more sense, either that or the things that didn't make sense no longer mattered. It was a glorious feeling. Placebo perhaps? Who cares. It helped. I suddenly felt like I had a grip on things. Over the next few weeks, amazing shit began to happen. About two mornings after my session, I woke up with words, endless floods of words, running through my head like race horses. I made coffee and sat at my desk and wrote. I wrote for six hours. I wrote until eventually I had to tear myself away to shower and get ready for work. Then I wrote some more.

Then I went to work and as I was there, all I could think about were these words I had been writing and wanting nothing more than to return to them. And when I did I was happy to see that they poured out of me even further.

A week went by like this, in which every spare moment I had was dedicated to these endless pages of writing. Writing about truth. Writing about love. It felt like I wasn't even writing the words but that they were writing me.

Since then, I managed to level out on a steady high of raised consciousness for about a week and a half. But Ari warned me that the harsh everydayness of life can easily seep back in. This, he assured me, was not necessarily a quick fix. There is no such thing really.

But at least now I have an outlet, a sanctuary in the root of my mind, one of peace and pure happiness. One that I can return to whenever I see fit. One that is solely mine.

Counter Attack

Outside Vancouver Central Library, The Words Don't Fit the Picture by Ron Terada

When people ask me what Berlin was like, my mind shifts into autopilot, flying me first class and one way back to the sexy, gritty and unconventional city where I lived for over a year. On the outside, I'm still here, but inside, I'm wandering the quiet, winding cobblestone streets of Europe. I'm loitering in smoky cafes, seedy kneipes, 24-hour clubs and renegade art studios. I'm sitting under weeping willows that cradle the brown canal, watching white swans drift by. I'm taking pictures of endless graffiti. I'm lounging in one of the infinite parks where thousands of people spend hours sipping 2-euro bottles of beer and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. Turkish street food, miles of flea markets, bizarre art exhibitions and fearless fashion statements. All of these were things that made me love Berlin and never want to leave. But most of all, they exemplify what I miss most. Freedom. Freedom to drink, smoke, eat, laugh, dance, dress and enjoy life. The vigorous and careless spirit of a city that’s permitted to be deviant, atypical and raw.

It was hard to say goodbye. Real hard. But what has been even harder is realizing how much my perspective of Vancouver has changed. This city consistently rates as one of the most livable cities in the world. And yes, the surroundings are beautiful – the mountains are beautiful, the Pacific ocean is beautiful, the weather is beautiful. One needs only to take a stroll along the seawall on a sunny day to understand the appeal.

But the words don’t entirely fit the picture. Vancouver, I have discovered, is a city whose potential is more often than not repressed by money and laws. System regulations, zoning limitations, expensive rents and unreasonable authorities, all of these things working together to inhibit the lifeblood of culture: Art.

Art, music, activism and alternatives. These things feed a city's soul. But Vancouver falls victim to financial status and the prospects of development. The incessant rumbling of SUVs on wide, busy, noisy streets. The grinding of saws and whirring of cranes as condos sprout up on every corner. Busses packed with weary construction workers who rest their tired forearms on concrete-splattered pants, gazing at their muddy boots. Here, I wander through expensive supermarkets and over-taxed liquor stores, frustrated at the memory of wine cheaper than water and cheese cheaper than a bus ticket.

Money feeds our identity here and as a result, the wealthy flourish and the less than wealthy struggle to survive - and I’m not just talking about the Downtown Eastside. But I do cherish the East side community, if only for its realness. I find comfort in the existence of East Vancouver and that, within its confines, one finds counter-culture peeking through the cracks. Underground party spaces, avant-guard boutiques, urban galleries and cheap Asian foodstuffs. These are the things I am grateful for, lifelines to the freedom I crave, landmarks that locate me in this city since I came back, since starting Bloodhound, since this endless quest for inspiration began. I've become more attuned to the world around me, more appreciative of the things that give my environment spirit and identity.

So with all that in mind, this entry pays tribute to a few things in Vancouver that I find freeing. Each, in their own way or another, make a stand for change.

The East Van Cross by Ken Lum

Erected in February 2010 as part of Vancouver’s Olympic public arts project, this glowing beacon of glass and steel at VCC-Clark Station is 20 meters high, ablaze with LED light and impossible to ignore. It’s also beautiful. And badass.

Douglas Todd wrote in the Vancouver Sun that the East Van Cross “seems to suit what appears to be the secular, activist, anarchist, centre-left attitudes of people in many parts of East Vancouver.” You said it Todd. This neighbourhood has for years been home to immigrants, artists and small business owners who could afford its cheaper rents. But naturally, as with any city, that condition has changed. Real-estate prices are rising, condos are popping up and working professionals are moving in. Lum stated that the structure was a "rearguard gesture of defiance, protest and assertion of identity" - identity for a part of the city whose gritty history is perpetually threatened by development. He has intriguing perspectives on architecture, ideas that I find relatable to the overall Vancouver condition. He notes "an overwhelmingly segregated contemporary condition, fixed ideologies and over-rationalization, uninspiring and rigid." The East Van Cross is controversial. Sacrilegious. Gang-related. Badass. It memorializes a history and spirit that will hopefully always survive.

View from VCC-Clark Station.

De-fenced, Main Street and Terminal Avenue

This is a prime example of how you don’t need a spray can to execute street art. Along a huge vacant lot on the southeast corner of Main and Terminal, a long fence made from cheap plastic green panels was meticulously rearranged to create a row of heart-shaped patterns. I love how the loose ends of this cheap material are magically transformed into draping, palm-like fringes that float organically overhead. And the perfect sunny day made all of this even more beautiful.

Not a few days later, the fence was slid back into place, another short-lived counterattack lost, which made this mischievous act of “de-fencing” all the more special.

A Bit More Street

Broadway and Ash St.

Lights on Water Street, Gastown.

Yep.

Chef Boy-Are-Steaze

For numerous reasons, I’m lucky to work at the Alibi Room. Delicious beer, cool clientele and most of all, awesome co-workers. This includes the adorable army of metalheads that run our kitchen. Part of what’s interesting about these guys (aside from the bizarre shit that comes out of their mouths on a daily basis) is their ability to wear uniforms and still celebrate their own personal style.

Adam here didn’t want to talk about himself too much. When I asked him what he was doing the following day, he told me he’d probably be tanning in a graveyard. But instead I managed to convince him to be this entry’s feature for street style. Originally from Victoria, he’s a certified pastry chef who apprenticed for nine years at Café Brio. Meanwhile he honed his 20-plus years of guitar skills and apparently is "a practitioner of modern Witchcraft and endorser of the occult.”

But enough about him, let’s talk about what he’s wearing. I love how Adam has ditched Crocs and checkered anti-flammable pants for perfectly hung dark denim DC jeans and a pair of Yo! MTV Raps. Top that off with a slick black chef’s coat (and even slicker hair) and you’ve got someone who seriously wants to make you food. Or kill you. Your choice.

Babe Rainbow/Salazar

Let’s end with some music shall we?

I caught the buzz on Babe Rainbow while checking out the amazing demo reel of local film company Salazar, who make incredible music videos for tons of Vancouver talent. But their video for Babe Rainbow’s “Shaved” is by far my favourite. The song is sick and right up my alley – dark, atmospheric, lo-fi. Sort of sounds like humpback whales singing in a prison cell.

And the video is almost better, spooky as hell and set against the gorgeous forests of the Pacific Northwest. But more so, the girls look absolutely perfect. The soft blues and warm reds of their clothes are the perfect contrast against the wet green backdrop of the trees. They look almost pinafore – innocent but modern. Whoever does the styling for Salazar has proven, time and time again, impeccable taste. Check it out (and get creeped out.)

Babe Rainbow - Shaved from Salazar on Vimeo.

Thanks again for taking the time to read this entry of Bloodhound. I hope I don't sound too much like a "hater," hence why I'm paying tribute to some cool things about Vancity. Keep 'em comin. I'm here for a while.

Also, I'm sorry about the occasional weird inconsistencies with the font and formatting. Html really gets pesky on this site.