The House of Blueeyes Show: a bacchanalian night of sequins and fabulosity

Michael from Blow had warned me that this was the most requested ticket on his roster of
shows this Fashion Week, so to get there early, which given they worked on 13 shows this
week, told me everything i needed to know: get there early! anyone who knows me, knows
this is a rare event in itself; luckily jeremy picked me up in the astra gypsy wagon from
Nazir’s show, where I had been so proud of what Anna (my ex assistant ‘Dolly’) Trevelyan
and Sam Voltage had achieved.
Heading East, Jeremy pointed out that in football terms last night was the ultimate
hotdate: the final of the Championships League, so we popped into the local Owl and the
Pussycat for a beer (him), juice (me) and football update,(0-0) when we left.
Marching through the throng at Beach Blanket Babylon, suddenly I knew what Berlin in the
1920’s must have felt like – the party at the end of the world and the finale of time ( a
huge inspiration for me aesthetically) – and now with the current climate, perhaps even
more relevant.
A visual overload of trannies in cocktail gowns, grannies dressed as Dracula, boys led on
chains and matriarchs in lingerie; glitterball fractals of decadence and revellery hit my
retina in every corner. Jeremy perhaps wondered why he had left the football, but I knew
that this is where the real action was. The stories from the audience fascinated me:
trannie gold medallist Jeanie D with 2 teeth and a spider on his head, Russella with her
glittery Dorothy shoe red lips, Pia naked save some masking tape and a peach fur coat, as
one glamazon told me, we’re a long way from Kansas now…
Jacquie Soliman from Agent Provocateur pronounced this the show we have been waiting for
and in a way she is right: one which announces London’s more underground, underbelly,
intent and content.
We’ll never be Paris, we aren’t couturiers, by showing in the Eastend, Johnny drew on
London’s sleazily Victorian past: opium dens and decadence, sexual freedom and dark
corners and translated these into rock and roll punk undeniable English freewheeling
beauty. A masked duo danced on the bar top, while the shows freely chaotic madness
unfolded: beautiful chiffon grey dresses, Betsy in a cape throwing roses and tarot cards
at the floor, boys in underwear, girls in jewels, Tamer swaying his hips in russet tones.
Patrick Wolff and Jodie Harsh sashayed from the floor onto the catwalk: the audience
became the show, we are all free, we are all theatre, we are all angels. Johnny would
say something like this and I am inclined to agree.
I said to Tamsin and Jessie, I am not sure Jeremy knows what to make of this, it’s
outside his frame of reference, Tamsin (a leading climate change activist) pointed out
that a lot of people want to be here; I replied, ‘Exactly, just as they did in Berlin.’
We laughed, we know, surely it’s better to enjoy the circus, celebrate the chaos, the
painful freedom of these random moments of madness, while the ship sinks, we may as well
enjoy the tunes of the band as we drown?..

Tamara Cincik – words
Jeremy Fusco – photos