PROUDLY PUEY

(FROM A WEEKEND NOTE, THE EDITOR'S LETTER IN STYLE WEEKEND, THE FRIDAY LIFESTYLE SPECIAL OF MANILA BULLETIN, FRIDAY, 25 JANUARY 2008)

Straight from the rush of Hong Kong Fashion Week, we flew into the fashionable frenzy of Puey Quiñones’ gala show at the Rockwell Tent. The difference, of course, was marked.

BLURB
‘I am proud of my past, where I came from, what I did before. I don’t look at everything now like everything’s so big. I’m still me.’ —Puey Quiñones

In Hong Kong, when the invitation said 8 p.m., even for the much-awaited two-in-one show of celebrated designers Peter Lau and Cecilia Yau, it meant exactly 8 p.m. Gates were open for the VIPs and the press at 7 p.m. and by 7:30, the public began their stampede into the unreserved rows. A delay of five minutes was already causing too much stress on the organizers so that in an earlier show, we could hear Indonesia-born, Hong Kong-based designer Ika Butoni urging the ushering staff to “Fill it up! Fill it up!” referring to a single unoccupied slot in the front row.
At Puey’s gala, it was totally the opposite. Of course, there was the usual cocktails, which was fun, notwithstanding the waiters going around and interrupting cocktail conversation every after 10 seconds. The fashionistas came in droves and you could spend eternity checking out everybody’s clothes. Gates opened around 10 minutes before 8 p.m. and that was where the show threatened to be a marketplace with designers getting kicked out of slots reserved for the fashion media and style-setters getting kicked out of seats reserved for “Cindy Yang’s friends” and other VVIPs. The commotion took over an hour to settle down that some people like Jigger Antonio decided they couldn’t wait much longer and waited elsewhere for friends to get out of the show.
The stars descended upon the stylish clutter, from society doyenne Tingting Cojuangco to favorite young icon KC Concepcion, along with Ruffa Gutierrez in a starry, starry, larger-than-life white number. Although they did stand out, they were among us, packed like sardines in an SRO crowd, with the hems of their long gowns as likely to be stepped on as those of the most nameless, faceless fashionista at the tent.
Finally, Joey Mead let the spectacle begin with enough energy to re-boot even those too cramped on their seats to be excited about the show. Within a few minutes, at maybe a quarter past nine, in the half light filled with shadows, the towering silhouettes of models dressed in all of Puey’s inventive, creative, innovative, almost magical finery began to divert all attention to the stage, away from claustrophobia, away from the clammy feel of too many bodies gathered in too little space, away from the growing desire to step outside to gasp for air (or to drag on a cigarette) knowing only too well that should you decide to leave your precious spot for 15 seconds you might as well give it up forever.
And the show was breathtaking, with Puey’ signature touches, replete with hems suddenly turning into shawls, tent dresses turning into serpentine gowns in milliseconds, and all that practical magic, for which the designer has earned the nickname “The Transformer.” To me, Joan Bitagcol was the highlight, throwing her cape around, each stride a masterful choreography that matched the intensity of her eyes, the pursing of her lips, the poetry of the dress she was wearing.
Was it worth the long wait? Yes, especially when it was time for Puey to take a bow, clasping his hands together in gratitude. Surrounded by six-foot-tall and taller models, the diminutive genius was every inch our darling David, finding his way from some small town in Samar to the very heights of fashion in Manila, which in a thousand ways is as cruel, as formidable, and as unforgiving as Goliath.
Puey Quiñones waited—and worked very hard—for eight years to be in this moment.
Suddenly, it didn’t feel so bad that I squeezed myself into a very tight spot in the VIP row for at least two hours to be in this very same moment, too.

A
post me at aapatawaran@yahoo.com.