In all my time shooting behind the scenes, Tibi's process and results are by far my favourite.
It's been a long-term love affair for Tibi and I. The past few seasons in particular have seen a hyperspeed branding evolution towards all things sharper, cleaner, and twice as refreshing - so much so that I find myself breathlessly enamoured and prospectively broke. It is first a feat for a designer to present a cohesive collection. There are few around the world who can present forty looks from which any three pieces could be distinctively styled and immediately identifiable with its same-seasoned sisters. It's more difficult, again, to run as many prints and textures through one show as Tibi does (another such winner on that front, I would say, is Phillip Lim - even Wang will stick to, say, just leather or fuzzy knits, as the case may be). The third tier that the label conquers is the divide of commercial viability and editorial interest. Tibi didn't grow up and leave all her fans behind. Her followers grew with her, and came to appreciate the impossible versatility of her cable knits, her leathers, her head-to-toes, and killer skirts.
Especially those killer skirts.
I stopped by every stage of the process in the lead-up to show - the castings, the fittings, the make-up trial, backstage, and finally eye-t0-eye with long-legged smokey-lidded babes powering down a moody runway as their sculpted shoulders, generous lapels and rebellious hoods required - and was substantially impressed that Amy's vision and overarching concepts were blindingly clear across all stages. It was all about the woman not to be messed with, the girl who knows her stuff, someone proud to be in her own skin without too much of a makeup mask, and with a lot of razor sharp attitude to be reckoned with. There's a little teen spirit out the back, and a whole lot of a practical chic right in front of you.
My kind of gal.
Be sure to check out my full review of the show now up at Harper's.
Indeed, it is no secret that all of those white knits need to be on my body as soon as the mercury drops ever so slightly here in dear old Sydney.
Am I right?