The Wake

I’m a model. Well, sort of. I’m a “pseudo-model,” as I was once so lovingly named by a “dear friend.” I don’t have an agent – too much commitment. I don’t actively seek work, because I don’t want to model for a living. But embarrassingly enough, there’s this certain thrill – a fantastically bizarre jolt of energy/exhilaration that comes with stepping on to a stage and possessing all eyes. Nothing to do with pride, heavens no, but rather a sense that quietly screams, “Bring it on, bitches. I will handle anything you slam in my way, from feeding a starving nation (this comes after grad school) to cat-walking in six inch heels and not much more than I wear in the shower.”

Thus, in pursuit of such a similar sentiment, I find myself at the Fine Line Music Café at 4 in the afternoon Wednesday, March 2, 2005. And I am facing a good 7 hours of quality time with the Fine Line Music Café. What? How did I get here? Right. Now I remember. I volunteered to model for the “Commingle – Urban Inspired Fashion and Art” show. Considering that the word “commingle” reminds me less of designer clothing and more of a dirty, naughty word – I was having my doubts.

I drop my bags and am met immediately by “Terri! Try this on, we added a designer. Did you purge yet today honey? I mean damn! I know you been eatin’ that Pizza Luce. Bobby, I need one of them ‘DON’T FEED THE MODELS’ t-shirts over here.” Ah, yes. Fashion people. Five minutes in and Commingle is turning into quite a mind-stimulating experience. After four hours of a second rehearsal (“DON’T you dare look at the ground!”), hair (“Hmm. I think I’m going to give you corn rows.”), makeup (“This black ink is going in your eye, so deal with it.”), and water (“Models don’t eat, have an Evian.”), the crowd storms in, eager to experience art in unexpected forms. 8 o’clock, and all models are stuffed into the basement. Pep talk: “Listen to me, ladies. Don’t look at the ground. You are all here because you are just plain and simple better than those people out there. That’s why they’re on the floor and you’re on the runway. So look up and be the bitches that you are.” No, seriously. Seriously.

The show starts. Essentially, it’s being produced in order to promote five local designers, hip-hop and spoken word artists, dancers, b girls and b boys. Fashion and music are preceded by an exhibit – photography by Ron Essex (of Ron Essex Studios), and artwork by Chris Allen. Musicians and dancers take the stage while we are poked and prodded in the basement. Runway follows.

The hour in which four designers are showcased flies. There is a panicked rush to change in between segments, but nothing but intense calm on the runway. The four designers scramble, fixing their designs lovingly on each model, assuring perfection and vision realized. They are edgy, exhausted, and joyful. Their creations are on display for scrutiny, appreciation, and pleasure.

So yes. In the end, my doubts and skepticism fade and are replaced by a feeling of self-fulfilling warmth –knowing that I am there to function simply as a medium by which these artists present their passion to others. The runway remains thrilling but I take, in addition, an enhanced understanding of the delicate intersection where fashion leaves the superficial and becomes a rich, intelligent art form like any other.

They’re working on making this an annual event. Look for it next year – but don’t look for me. Hopefully I’ll be in Africa, working on feeding a nation.