A Page from a Designer's Journal

"What would this color look like on her skin?"

Thus goes the first question asked by The Designer as he contemplates about the outfit he has been contracted to...what else, but design. He has already finished making several sketches, none of which seem to capture that exact image in his head, but they're beautiful designs nonetheless. He suddenly stops thinking how odd it is that he knows exactly how the outfit must appear, down to the minutest details, and yet he cannot make an accurate depiction of it on paper. Stumped as he is, he decides that the best way to do it is make several sketches and let the client choose.

The client's choice is important, but in the end, it's The Designer's whims and caprices that determine the outfit.

As The Designer temporarily decides to postpone the design choice, he continues on pondering about the color of the dress. He looks at his own skin, then realizes that his skin color is actually similar to that of his client's. Well, except that his skin tone has a more definite tan, and has a more uniform shade than that of his client, as if he has just skinny dipped in one of the beaches of Greece under the fine sun. Yes, he loves his skin color. And he loves his blue shirt on his skin.
Blue. And silver. Definitely blue and silver. Okay, so blue on blue, silver on blue, silver on blue, and silver. That's great.

No one else can really get that, but The Designer has a way of thinking that only he can comprehend.
Oh wait. The Designer suddenly remembers that he can't sew. It seems as though it's not enough that he can't translate his thoughts in a way that others would understand. The couturier has to understand. Ugh.

The Designer finally decides on a design. The top shall be halter, with fine, expensive lace layered over the material. It may have been a good idea to make several sketches then let the client choose, but come to think of it, that is actually a lot lazier than just coming up with one design perfect for the client. And The Designer refuses to be lazy. Why so? Mainly because by making only one design, The Designer has to go through such a long, tedious, and detailed process as to what would be great-wait-the best for the client. He has to think about an outfit that would match the proportions and features of the client; in short, it has to be a very unique creation. On the other hand, if The Designer were to just come up with several sketches and lets the client choose, that's pretty much it: several sketches. Sure, it's pretty, but how will it be on the client? If that were the case, idiosyncrasy wouldn't have to matter. Such a method implies utter irresponsibility or inability to take responsibility on the part of whoever follows the said method.

It feels great that The Designer has come up with the perfect outfit, and has decided on the colors! Bravo! And now, time to ask for The Client's approval.

After two hours and etcera minutes spent on fixing himself up (As The Designer, he simply will not step out into the world looking like trash...Eew.), The Designer is now ready to meet the client. He looks for the sketch, and finds it inserted in a pile of papers with word "versus" and "petitioner" written all over them. As precious as it is, The Designer hastily folds up the sheet of paper where the sketch was drawn and puts it in his pocket.
That habit is so unproductive. How can someone neglect his own creations? It's like Leonardo da Vinci painting a moustache above Mona Lisa's lips...then lazily folding it then putting it in his pocket.

Late as usual; no one really expects The Designer to come on time. As much as he is aware of how unprofessional it is, proclaiming divaness and egoism prevails over his concern of how others might think of him professionally-wise. Besides, the client is a friend, and they do more than discuss business when they meet. (...What business?)
"Ooh.", the client says. What kind of a reaction is that? Seriously. If you hate it, then just say so. But if you don't, say something else than "Ooh." "Wow, this is beautiful. You're very good at this.", she adds. Okay, that's slightly lukewarm but The Designer accepts it. Assured that the client is satisfied with the outfit presented to her for her upcoming graduation, he then proceeds to taking to her about the color. Luckily for both of them , the client also liked the color of the shirt that inspired The Designer to come up with the blue.

A lot of people in the industry love shopping for fabrics; unfortunately for The Designer, he doesn't seem to share others' passion for going into fabric shops or warehouses. It's too tiring, and it's such a tedious process. Truth is, The Designer has a lot more to learn about fabrics, hence the ambivalence as to the whole process of looking for the flesh of the outfit. This time The Designer has become so unsure of himself that he insists the client comes along. It doesn't take much for the client to be persuaded, probably a sign that she is very well aware of The Designer's limitations when it comes to fabrics.

The store assistant seems rather irritated. The Designer and his posse, which pretty much consists of the client and another fashionable friend have been going around the fabric store for almost three hours. They've taken pictures of some fabrics, of themselves, swapped conversations for at least twenty topics, followed by another two, played games identifying colors. The posse has done may things inside the store, except choose a fabric.
"Okay, all the blue fabrics look the same," says the fashionable friend as she peeps into her digital camera. The fashionable friend, being least privy to this entire activity (being neither a designer or a client), is probably the most bored. The Designer is very well aware of this. Despite his earlier statements totally condemning satin, he now goes to the satin section, realizing that isn't really much choice in his little city. 'It's tacky. I feel like I'm looking at a really bad wedding entourage,' The Designer thinks as he picks up the roll from the shelf. 'Or an early 90s prom.' But ever the tenacious individual that he is, The Designer knows that he can breathe beauty into this otherwise condemned material; he can salvage it, make something attractive out of it. Besides, he's really hungry. One thing about designers: they have much difficulty understanding the idea behind "fats."

Phone in one hand and the plastic bag with the fabric in the other, The Designer struggles to find his way through the crowded streets of the city.'Ugh. People.' Now comes the really difficult part: meeting the couturiers. In a world where people just listened and paid attention to instructions, designers wouldn't really have much problems in making sure their designs are followed. Unfortunately such world does not exist; or if it does then The Designer is aware he's not living in it. But he'll take the risk by giving the sketch to the paid couturiers.

"The lace is on top on this fabric, and then this fabric drapes over this one, so it delivers that Grecian grace...it's very Arma-...", The Designer's voice trails off as he realizes that he was about to compare his design to someone else's. It's the fashion industry. There is such a strong desire for up and comers to stand out on their own, and yet be at par with the established ones, and of course, make sure that the designs are trendy enough to command attention and hence, sell. As much as fashion and designing is also a passion, it is also a good source of green matter. There are too many self-contradictory events going on in that industry that it's hard to make sense out of the whole thing.
It's been almost a week since the fabric and the design was surrendered to the care of the couturier, when the client sent a message to The Designer. "The dress is a disaster. The cut reaches my last rib, there's an oil stain. It makes me look like a pregnant woman..."
The Designer doesn't know what to make of it. Unfortunately he is currently not in a position to check out the dress, as he's somewhere pursuing the realistic, the practical.

'What the fu-...'
Suddenly, for a moment it seemed as if the career that never even actually begun has come to an end. Shocked by the message, The Designer sits in utter disbelief, contemplating thoughts optimists don't know of. He sees this as a warning, as a big sign screaming to him at his face that some things are simply unattainable or too impossible or not worth wasting precious time on. Besides, the cases on the desk are piling up.
Why risk so much for something so unsure?
But if there's one thing that The Designer is not, then that's being a self-pitying, defeatist, loser.

"Shit. Where's that pencil?"

(FYI: This was written before I even read Imogen Edwards-Jones "Fashion Babylon," for those doubting the originality of the concept behind this article. But that book's a good read as well.)