Most invitations do not come with a 48-page PDF reference deck. When Dilara FındıkoÄlu, the London-based Turkish designer whose macabre, Alexander McQueen-inspired work has earned her Madonna, Cardi B and Emma Corrin as clients, circulated a deck of hundreds of reference images for her Halloween soirée, the intention was pretty clear: last minute outfits for this Dark Versailles ball were not going to fly.
Instead, the instructions were a mash up of style notes from Steve Strange and Boy George, Fellini's Casanova, Soviet opera singer Sergei Lemeshev and the swans at Truman Capote’s infamous black and white masked ball. To put this in London party context; unless a brand has paid to dress someone, it's difficult to get them to change a shoe after work.
There were rules: “no fancy dress, no sneakers, no neon, be creative, be chic, stay dreamy” read the insomnia-inducing dress code. “Become your darkest, most glamourous, most couture versions of your 18th century self,” it continued (right, yep). “Everyone is obliged to wear a piece of 18th century costume which you can mix with goth elements and more contemporary pieces.” Two ways to that draconian directive; respectfully F-off, or - I’ve got two weeks to ignite every Marie Antoinette and Madame de Pompadour charged ion in my body.
The latter group descended on London’s costume shops; the charming (if frazzled) owners of Dalston’s Costume Studio (an IYKYK spot for stylists to spruce shoots with good, historical flourish at the last minute) testified to the run they’d had on jacquard, cutaway 1700s court coats. I settled on a red jacket (mostly because it fit), matching waistcoat, three-quarter length trousers with white stockings, blouse, lace sleeve add-ons and lace stock. I finished it with Jimmy Choo tassel court shoes, a crystal, double pendant Gucci necklace and a hearty helping of MAC’s white face paint. By now, I had outlived a handful of other would-be party goers; some fashion industry insiders, when met with costume shops gutted of the better 18th century offerings, duly stayed at home.
Beauty spot drawn, I headed to The Edition Hotel, off Oxford Street, where its familiar Berners Tavern restaurant did, as promised, resemble a “glamourous Chateau de Versailles turned upside down and painted black.” Great white drapes hung off paintings, blood red candlesticks sat in candelabras across tables laid for 120 sittings, and dark purple anthuriums, cabbages, grapes, cherries and figs littered tablecloths.
This was emboldening, but the overriding emotion on arrival was: wow, this lot knows how to make an effort. By 8:30pm, it was a veritable explosion of corset squeezed waists, billowing, crinoline gowns in every pastel satin iteration, and nipples everywhere. Really, everywhere. Crotches were one dish du jour; see Tigerlily Taylor (daughter of Queen drummer Roger Taylor) in a Dilara-designed denim hotpants-bralette twinset, Cora Corré (granddaughter of Vivienne Westwood) in a tweed corset, knickers and cape, and jewellery designer Gaia Repossi, who wore nude knickers, white angel wings and, frankly, very little else.
There were the pannier-gown-sideways-walkers, who struggled to meander through Cosmo-drinking masses with jutting hips. These were led by the designer herself, who opted for a steel grey corseted mini dress replete with feathers, ribbons, tulle touches and a hair crown, and joined by Ella Richards (granddaughter of Rolling Stone Keith Richards), in a wide-berth, white feathered Dilara dress. Beautiful — if impossible to sit in (let’s hope Richard’s boyfriend Sascha von Bismarck had eaten before).
“Let them eat cake,” shrieked UK Drag Race’s Bimini Bon Boulash, with a crash of a gong from a rafter, before guests dug into a banquet of chicken or (festive!) pumpkin risotto, and the party divided into comfortable cliques. Present were the artists; including Ariana Papademetropoulos in an Ancien Regime, coral, brocade gown and George Rouy, devilish in black feathered wings and a horse hair tie; the fashionistas; influencer Camille Charrière wore cut out, a vampiric red, while designer Kate Bowman was almost entirely nude, wrapped in a sheath of teal mesh; and the club kids; originals (Princess Julia, who DJ’ed) and a Central Saint Martins-sourced vanguard, including spiked hair “goth party monsters” Leo Monira and Parma Ham.
More than at home was Tish Weinstock, the socialite and Vogue contributing beauty editor, who counts Morticia Addams as her muse, and looked sensational in a torn, cream silk and black lace embellished gown by Dilara. “Very me,” she said of the event. “Raucous, lavish, decadent and fun.” Throngs more piled through doors for dancing after supper.
By midnight, the nearing 200-person crowd leapt to a mix of Lady Gaga’s Judas, their strings of pearls thrashing about. The designer had cancelled her September London Fashion Week show at the last hour, citing lack of funding, and this felt like a substitute.
We know there was a moodboard (“why would she give all her references away?” asked one guest). And certainly, the showboating characters, blatant nudity, sexed-up-period dresses and streak of anarchy which define her catwalk shows were accounted for — and some. Dilara’s 48-page vision felt accomplished.
