Paris, prêt and moi

WENDELL RODRICKS on the hours before and after participating in one of the most important fashion shows on earth

All green rooms have the same vibe. A unique set of currents flowing and swirling through the mirrors, lights, steam pressers, makeup palettes, mannequins, dressers and clothes-racks. Paris Prêt-a-Porter is no different. If at all, here the tension is more acute.

Seasoned models are actually rehearsing their catwalk strut. The make-up artist, Dominic, flown in from San Francisco, is busy perfecting his Krydan team to ensure they get my spa look down to a fine glow. The hairdressers are fine-tuning each strand to match the girls’ faces. “One flower or three?” they ask as they position Indian marigolds picked from a private garden (They don’t sell marigolds in Paris, I discovered the night before) in perfect coifs. In this always-too-tiny space we call the green room lies the tension, the nerves, the adrenaline and the euphoria that will flood the room in a few moments and colonise every mind with fashion perfection.

Here in Paris, I understand why the French became masters of deluxe. Nothing is ever perfect. It can be bettered. Even at the last moment, I watch in awe as the lighting director takes one of my pristine white linen tunics, on its hanger, and ‘walks’ it to head ramp, pausing every few feet to make sure it’s perfectly lit. Two days earlier, they tweaked every lamp to ensure the models will not be hit by the shadows of their own eyelashes.

I do not need to repeat my look to the team. “Make them look like they stepped out of a spa after a great workout. You know that glow?” They deliver. The models look perfect. What’s making them glow like this? The latest micro-illuminating foundation from Krydan. Here, let me give you our exact colour match. I get a pearl size dab of No.180 that looks so flawless even my partner Jerome can’t tell I have it on. All he says post-show is “you are glowing”.
Rewind.
Paris Prêt-a-Porter has taken two recces already. One to see last season. Then haggle with PAPP bigwigs to move up from Casabo (new talent hall) to Atmosphere (designer hall). Three months after February 2007, we are back in Paris to talk business and put everything in place. This is like a big fair. Real big. So big that it is a wonder if any buyer will discover our presence. Can’t put a wrong foot in here.

Out of sheer nerves and anxiety, my Goa Spa collection is ready a month ahead of time. Then begins the task of editing. My artist friend Payal Khandwala flies into Goa, picks out the best and throws out what won’t work. Then we add the coordinates and arrange the order of the show. In two hours, we have 41 ensembles that will finally face the PAPP arc-lights in three weeks.

Now comes the look book. Photograph each garment, price it, decide what sizes it can be made in. Label fibre content, washing instructions and tag each garment. For four months, weavers have been weaving the softest silk, the smoothest cotton and the lightest linen. I want it to ‘feel’ like a spa. Soft. Cocoon. Pure. Light. Goa. I think we get it right because as soon as the first “Om” sound fills the room and the three garments walk out, there is resounding applause. Extracting applause of any kind from a Parisian audience is a feat.

No Mumbai bling Page Three here in the front now. The Indian ambassador Rajan Mathai and his wife Gita are seated near Anil Chopra. The elegant ex-Cardin Anjali Mendes rings along the statuesque Princess Esther of Burindi. Later she informs me that she is running for President. I have no idea who the press is but they are scribbling furiously.

Elizabeth Pires from Invest Corp (the firm that bought Gucci and sold it for a killing) has flown in from London. They are being kind to me, I think to myself, because they applaud every garment. At some stage this all-white collection will get on their nerves. But it doesn’t. When I walk out at the finale, I can feel the praise. In a warm current of light, applause and appreciation. It’s been worth it.

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This long road to Paris from a humble village in Goa. The next day when an agent approaches me to represent the Wendell Rodricks label worldwide, I know it’s truly been worth the wait. For five days we have been cooped up at the Paris Prêt-a-Porter Salon. It has been a new experience. No assistants at all. From pressing the clothes backstage to doing up and later dismantling the stall, it has been an eye-opener .

That evening of the show, we are warmly received at the Indian ambassador’s elegant palace near the Eiffel Tower. There must be about 150 people milling about. All are hardcore business types. Later, after the cocktail reception, 20 of us tread to a Parisian bistro that serves up a perfect meal washed down with a fine Beaujolais.

On our way home, it is midnight and the Eiffel Tower bursts into a sparkle of light. There is a ruby ball lodged on the second level to remind us that the world rugby match is on. Hurtling through the City of Lights home, up the Champs Elysees, past the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honore with its world class French couture salons and crossing the good leaf-encrusted Alexander III Bridge, Paris has never looked prettier.

Okay, so I am biased. It is prettier, sweeter and more wonderful because our debut at the Paris Prêt-a-Porter was a champagne-toasting success. I will keep drinking to that back home.