Spoke of Inspiration

True confession: I want to join a club. Oh, you can call me shallow and social climbing and status conscious. Whatevs. I want to walk into a place that's chicer than God and hear the dulcet tones of an impeccably dressed concierge-cum-model ask me how I am today, Ms K, and can I take your coat and would you like your regular drink or the one you have just sometimes? Katie, at the bar, will get it for you. I want to see gorgeous TO media intelligencia (and the idiots) chatting animatedly about something new and deluxe.

I'm telling you, there are places in Toronto where this is happening. On a Wednesday night?!

(At least I have the good sense to feel drab.)

All this is a long preamble to my story about an awesome evening, made possible by the exceptional generosity of my friend Jeannette. J has the distinction of being, not only an award winning documentary producer, but a woman who has, likely, contributed more to the quality of my life as an individual over the past couple of years than anyone else I can think of. See, in addition to all the public accolades, she's a mom with an inexhaustible tolerance for sleepovers. Those film types...

OK, the evening: You know it's Toronto Fashion Week, yes? Well, J belongs to the Spoke Club, gathering ground for those in the Industry, for artists with somewhat more credibility - if not passion - for their artforms than I have at the moment. Predictably, the place fucking rocks. It's all boutique chic with ambient electronica playing over good speakers and red walls and chandaliers and bathrooms with real towels. (No, I don't get out as much as I should.) There's a bar and a restaurant and a gallery and meeting rooms and a screening room and an entrance way where really attractive women remember your name and politely welcome you.

Given how media-plus it all is, on Wednesday the Spoke put together a little adjunct fashion experience in honour of TFW: a replay of Escada RTW Spring 09 (did this show somewhere last season? I couldn't find evidence on Style.com...) No mind. The gig did not disappoint.

After drinks, followed by dinner, we rode the elevator to the second floor which was decked out with a runway for the show. Practically every seat (2 rows deep on either side of the long promenade, and a couple at the prow) was reserved. Via surreptitious means that we will not dwell on here (though they do involve using one's age and stage and general moxy to promote apparent legitimacy), J and I ended up with those 2 best seats, the ones at the front, spitting distance from the models.

Fuck those women are tall.

Between the height of the risers and the complexity of genetics, I had neckache the next day. Not that I'm complaining!

J, organized nurturer that she is, remembered to charge her camera and took these shots:






It has come to my attention -and this is serious understatement - that I could happily watch a fashion show a hundred times a year. I don't know how it is that I am not an editor at Vogue.

No joke.