Dilara Findikoglu London Fashion Week SS18
Dilara Findikoglu’s SS18 London Fashion Week show was a twisted punk romance of religious motifs and yards of silk. Hosted in London‘s Saint Andrews church, a parade of diverse models from tattooist Grace Neutral to Instagram star Jazelle a.k.a @UglyWorldWide wore gothic dresses in blood red, cream and black.
As the audience eagerly waited, all hushed as if waiting for a sermon, a large cardboard set design sat at the front by the alter. Orange, hot pink and red were the fiery colours of choice, and dog tooth fabrics lay by the side.
Dilara Findikoglu: London Fashion Week SS18
High-collared dresses with puffed sleeves came out one by one. Sparkling embellishments garnished the full skirts; appliquéd illustrations that mirrored the set design adorned the sleeves and backs of jackets. Meanwhile, contrasting ribbons hung down from the shoulders and cuff, adding drama to the movement.
A bright pink and black patchwork suit was studded with silver and was followed by a cropped black hoodie with exaggerated sleeves. One model had spiked gold hair that matched her shimmering longline gold jacket. To finish a billowing red off the shoulder dress was hitched to expose red PVC briefs.
Unconventionally beautiful, Findikoglu’s collection was a mash-up of nightmarishly gothic garments and flowing romantic fabrics.
From the Designer
You are beside me, winter trees, a comrade to the world, a home, the TV is playing war, we hope for peaceful sunlight. A whole heart of blood, resting on a whole heart of blood.
The children are dressed in black, they are throwing petrol bombs at the embassies, throwing electric flowers into the graveyard of capitalism.
The philosopher is counting the slow candles of the icebergs, noting how many summers we have left. She is brilliant in her sunlight hat. Her chest is a pyramid.
The president has retreated to the golf club, he rules in half sentences. Coughing up the 1950’s his mind is a puddle where broken dreams sit on the rooftops of libraries.
New weddings and empty churches, the minarets talk to the dawn before the sun lights up the city. The priests are whirling like dervishes in circles, they pinball off the walls, singing silence.
Diana and the swan ride an open topped red London bus, the trumpets beside them play rave music, LSD trips to the sound brass bands. CCTV diamonds for Oyster cards.
God is bored of us now. She sides with the animals and the weather and they watch our digital alien rampage, with cool sad eves.
Words by Greta Bellamacina + Robert Montgomery