Issue Three

Light is born out of darkness–from death comes life. The decay in swamps feeds new organisms. The circle is never ending, always in motion.

It is the afternoon of 28 October, 2002; a crisp, sunny day in Manhattan. A dance studio in a SoHo loft is being transformed by many artists working towards the same vision–Mara Hoffman’s vision for the showing of her Spring/Summer 2002 collection, ‘Swamp Sirens.’ The materials are raw–a few 8x10 tables, a few electrical outlets–but the artists are inspired and inspiring.

Models stream in slowly, lounging on folding chairs, smoking cigarettes and waiting for their turns under the skilled hands of Francis Hathaway and her make–up crew and Chucky Amos and his hair crew. Francis works intensely, her brushes and powders turning the girls fresh faces into the glowing, painted faces of warrior women. Chucky transforms the girls’ hair onto voluptuous, fertile manes with extensions, shells, bones and feathers. The city girls who walked in here clad in tight jeans and designer tee shirts are no longer to be found after their turn at the chairs of these artists from Jump. Instead, the room starts to slowly fill with ripe, fiery eyes, glimmering lips and fierce, possessed manes of hair.

 Mara Hoffman arrives at the space. She is wearing a holster–not for a gun, but for scissors, needles, thread, and pins; the necessary tools of a young, warrior woman designer. Mara has been working since early this morning doing last minute repairs, alterations and beading.

She has been working on this collection for months. Her original date was September 11–the day terror and destruction hit her city. Her original space was the Chelsea Piers, which became one of the largest triage centers in the hours following the attacks. It has been a long, arduous process to get this day. But it was a process that Mara felt was necessary. She needed to have closure with this collection, but the closure needed to come with a different energy. There will be no ‘front row’ at this show–a row of reserved chairs for the ‘important’ people in the industry. Everyone will be equal at this show; no difference between the models and the audience or the editors and the photographers.

The models are placed into order for a quick run through. Mara instructs them, directing them, pulling them into her vision: ‘Matilda, you are energy, light!’, ‘Mayte, you are a mourner, grieving.’ Mara’s movements to the drums and harmonica act as an example to her models; she is setting the atmosphere.

As the girls start the final transformation process by putting on their pieces, the energy in the space begins to build. A time constraint starts to be felt–photographers cameras click constantly, orders are followed faster. Mara works quickly and concisely, aided by Richard Ruiz, a fellow designer and good friend. There are last minute cuttings, fittings and adjustments and some of the girls are literally sewn into the clothing.

The models are placed into order for a quick run through. Mara instructs them, directing them, pulling them into her vision: ‘Matilda, you are energy, light!’, ‘Mayte, you are a mourner, grieving.’ Mara’s movements to the drums and harmonica act as an example to her models; she is setting the atmosphere.

The girls are quickly herded backstage as the door to the space opens. The room fills quickly. Two hundred people have been waiting for the better part of an hour. However, unlike other shows, Mara’s will start relatively on–time with only a fifteen minute delay. The space that the audience pours into is no longer lit by sterile, florescent light. Jesus, the lighting designer, has warmed the space with candles, virtually the only source of light. People who do not find chairs stand or sit on the floor, like an editor from Vanity Fair.

 This is part of Mara’s vision, part of what she wanted, part of what sets her apart in this industry: informal, no judgements, no one person better than the other. She wants people to be equal in this room; no one part of a circle is more important than the other.

The congas begin and the first girl comes out with burning smudge sticks of sage–the herb of purification and cleansing. She symbolizes destruction and the audience is captivated; this is not going to be a runway show void of passion and life. These models are not hangers for the clothes; instead the clothing is an extension of these women. Destruction is followed by the mourners–dark, sultry pieces with the promise of life in their pale shoots of color. The harmonica wails woefully, but there is a current of hope underneath it. And hope arrives with the Carmen Miranda piece, and Belinda, the woman wearing it, warms, dazzles and invigorates the audience. The drums beat to the sway of her hips–fertility, rebirth, life. The crowd screams and claps, which is exactly what they should be doing. This crowd was invited to be a part of this show–not to watch, but to feel and experience.

At the end of the show, Mara joins in the sensual, sultry, tribal-coming-together of her warrior women. It is an homage to the warrior in Mara–to her vision of strength and beauty and life. The audience has experienced the rapture of the circle tonight–from destruction comes
transformation. Mara glows at the end of it all. The audience glows as well, and this city basks in the light that shines from this loft; from death comes life.

Mara has reminded 200 people tonight that we are all a part of the circle–and the circle is never ending.