As Alexi shows me his rhythm-laden illustrations for There’s Definitely A Prince Involved, he explains that he set out to create an evocative aesthetic. “In terms of Gideon’s take on producing a ballet work, it never seemed to me like he wanted to do something direct, it was more about an exploration of ballet and Swan Lake in particular. I looked for a motif that suggested birds and flight without being too literal.”

The result is a palm tree-inspired motif which is bold and rich in nuance, while not being so overt as to plunge the audience into a specific setting. These prints, in flesh and black-and-white with bone-like patterns, also reference the human form. Laser-cut, felt headpieces featuring an intricate pattern echo the motif to toweringly dramatic effect.

The costumes tap the dualities of There’s Definitely a Prince Involved, dwelling in the realm of the abstract while addressing themes that Gideon and Alexi had discussed from the outset. “The work is very much about duality. The way Gideon works is he gets the dancers in the studio and it’s an intuitive process. So for me I was trying to design costumes without really knowing what the work was about. [Although I knew there were] themes of good and evil, light and dark, lasciviousness versus purity.” He points to the varying elements that intermingle in his designs. “It’s quite tribal but there’s also a nouveau influence that you can see in the fleur de lis detailing. It’s ambiguous, which I think is appropriate to the piece.”

Alexi explains that traditional Swan Lake score, set, and choreography are interwoven with Gideon’s new material to recontextualise the ballet for a contemporary audience. Traditional ballet costumes pulled from The Australian Ballet’s store will contrast with his own thoroughly modern take on the Swan Lake story.

He has employed black-and-white fringing as part of dynamic costumes which understand and respond to human movement, while conveying the underlying concerns of Gideon’s work.  “As the dancers move, the fringing becomes an extension of the print. It’s quite tattoo-like. Hidden parts of the costume reveal themselves at different times. The fringing can be mixed and interwoven, twisted and tangled; it comes together, then falls apart,”  he says.

The Alexi Freeman brand is synonymous with visually arresting prints, elegantly sporty silhouettes and flattering forms that shoot off on a futuristic tangent, making Alexi’s transition to designing for Gideon a relatively seamless one.

“We do a lot of geometric prints and we work with alot of stretch and mesh. What we usually do is recontextualise – so we might use a sporty fabric to create an evening dress. [With this design] I’m not having to change materials – instead I’m using mesh how it was intended to be used.”

One of the chief practical challenges he has faced has been designing for the spatial elements of a dance production. “Fashion is more about being seen up close and personal whereas in designing for dance the distance between the stage and the back of the theatre plays an important role,” he says.

On designing for dancers Alexi speaks effusively, referring to the transformative effect they have on clothing and the integral part movement plays in the impact of the garment.  “Dancers have incredible bodies. It’s all body-conscious so whether you are seeing the dancers’ actual flesh or not you will be seeing the silhouettes of their bodies. They’re like elite athletes, they move amazingly well so it’s a dream body in a way – different to a model’s body. They make clothes look good because of the way they move.”

And what of the enduring love affair between ballet and fashion? Alexi seems to think they are intrinsically linked. “In many ways, the two are synonymous; fashion drapes the body in cloth whilst ballet drapes it in movement.”

You can see Alexi’s designs for There’s Definitely a Prince Involved as part of the Infinity program, which opens in Melbourne on 24 February and in Sydney on 5 April. Tickets on sale now.

Read more about Infinity

Jean-Luc Godard once called Ingmar Bergman’s Summer Interlude (1951), “the most beautiful of films”. Bergman himself said that “Summer Interlude is one of my most important films. Even though to an outsider it may seem terribly passé”. This classic film is anything but “passé”. It’s based on a tragic love story that mirrors a well-known ballet: Swan Lake. It tells the story of a Swedish prima ballerina, Marie, who recalls a youthful affair she had with a young man, Henrik, during rehearsals for Swan Lake.

Summer Interlude is the product of Bergman’s unique imagination and particular cinematic style. He is known for using the aesthetic of black and white in often highly symbolic ways. The film is not simply shot in black and white, but is thematically structured according to the symbolism of light and dark. On the one hand, this mirrors the thematic distinction drawn between the white and black swan in Swan Lake. But Bergman takes things further by suggesting that the aesthetic of light and dark is part of a wider philosophy of love and loss. As the dancers move through shadows and light on stage, they become emblems of the precariousness of life, expressing one of the central ideals of Bergman’s cinema: the need to feel art and ideas through the body.

Marie too is drawn into this aesthetic logic of light and dark. For her, life is series of black and white contrasts. Her love affair during her youthful summer is compared to a lustrous white pearl, while her sense of loss is expressed through her dancing body encased in a black leotard, which her dance-master compares to a series of black lines on the stage. She is undeniably one of the most classic ballet heroines, adorned in classic 1950s attire, like a ballerina version of Audrey Hepburn: trench coats, black turtlenecks, white shirts and high-waisted cigarette pants. Like the film, her simple wardrobe is something that will never become “passé”.

A peek into Marie’s classic wardrobe:

Toast fine-wool cigarette trouser

Toast polka-dot Bather

Theory Orencia tie-front silk blouse

A.P.C. short trench coat

A.P.C. crew-neck pullover in sheer knit

Tiffany pearl earrings

Anna Sutton slips amongst the glamorous shadows of the past. All photography by Joshua Burns.

On a recent trip to Venice I saw a sublime exhibition that explores the contributions of Russian émigrés to fashion and costume design.

Elegance in Exile: Between fashion and costume, Diaghilev’s time is housed in The Museum and Study Centre of the History of Fabrics and Costume at Palazzo Mocenigo, a 17^th-century Gothic building that formerly belonged to one of Venice’s most noble families. It’s a fittingly grand choice of venue for this event.

The exhibition, curated by Francesca Dalla Bernardina, features costumes of the Ballets Russes designed by artists such as Leon Bakst, Andre Derrain and Natalia Goncharova, whose take on colour was as stunningly original as anything achieved by the Fauvist painters, as well as fashion created and informed by the Russian émigrés who scattered all over Europe following the October Revolution.

At the heart of this show is the lasting contribution Sergei Diaghilev made to culture.

The pieces are sourced from the collections of Alexandre Vassiliev, a renowned fashion historian and a designer of costumes and sets, and Toni Candelero, a noted dancer and choreographer.

Elegance in Exile is curated so that the costumes complement the interior design and furnishings of each room. In the Portego (great hall), a collection of dresses introduce the theme of Orientalism. Embellished with hand-sewn glass beads, pearls and lace – some from Venice, a major centre of the glass and lace industries in Italy – an array of 1920s evening dresses are presented in a context of antique opulence. Intricately embroidered and beaded Charleston-style gowns of magenta silk, mustard velvet and silver tulle as fine as gossamer are framed by Renaissance cupids and chandeliers.

Nearby, a French silk cloak encrusted with hundreds of sapphire-blue stones and Venetian-style beads is a shining reminder of the influence the Russian exiles had on haute couture in Paris in the first half of the 20^th century. Designs by Charles Worth, Paul Poiret and Mariano Fortuny are interspersed with those by Russian fashion houses such as Kitmir.

The Contessa’s bedroom and the bathroom reveal a collection of champagne-coloured lace ball and concert dresses laden with exquisitely rendered embroidery and pearl embellishments, some with bold floral painted patterns inspired by the Ballets Russes.

Costume drama is heightened in the Rococo red room, where gilded mirrors, antique Murano glass chandeliers and Louis XV chairs provide a sumptuous setting in which to showcase evening dresses reflecting Oriental influences from Istanbul and China. Heavier fabrics such as brocade silk and exotic detailing like metallic embroidery predominate here.

Further on, an opulent line-up of dresses in fabrics such as crepe and velvet, adorned lavishly with squirrel fur and Russian floral prints, provoked many gasps of admiration from viewers on my visit, while a trio of bell-shaped evening dresses in lace and lamé dating from the 1920s carried through the pronounced ballet theme.

Head pieces and accessories worn by Russian ballerinas are on show in the Count’s library, a display of glittering prizes yielding precious crystals, pearls, marabou feathers, dainty beading and hand-sewn sequins.

The finale of my trip was seeing the more familiar but always wildly original Ballets Russes costumes dating from 1909-1929 . Highlights included Leon Bakst’s ‘Costume for a Slave’ from Le Dieu Bleu (1912) and Natalia Goncharova’s ‘Costumes for a Noble’ from Le Coq  d’Or (1914).

This is curation at its finest: a harmonisation of costume with evocative surroundings which does justice to the bold Russians whose art is so beautiful it stirs the senses and elevates the soul. For further reading see Beauty in Exile: the artists, models, and nobility who fled the Russian Revolution and influenced the world of fashion by Alexandre Vassiliev.

How about Russian ballet in Australia? The Ballet Russes in Australia and Beyond explores the impact of these vital artistic troupes on Australian dance. You can pick up a copy from our online store.

The bun would re-emerge into fashionable society during the Regency period of the 1800s. Anyone familiar with film adaptations of Jane Austen books will recognise the elegant bun hairstyles that were popular amongst middle- and upper-class women. Regency England was crazy for the Classical aesthetic, and imitated the fashion and hairstyles of ancient Greek and Rome. Women began wearing their long hair up in a bun, but lifting it higher than the Greek knot, positioning it at the back of the head.

The bun’s crowning moment came in the Victorian period. The 19th century saw many variations of the bun. “Apollo’s knot” was popular during the 1820s and 1830s, and consisted of a middle-parted, high-sitting bun, complimented with corkscrew curls around the face and ears. Another popular variation of the bun called “La Chinoise” resembled Princess Leia’s famous hairstyle in Star Wars.

The “Victoria”, after Queen Victoria, was a more subdued bun hairstyle that reflected a sombre and serious Victorian England. Two braids on either side of the temples were attached to a simpler bun at the back of the head, and hung as loops around the ears. With Queen Victoria’s influence, the bun became a more sleek and severe hairstyle that is typically associated with the stereotype of a “repressed” Victorian society. In all of these variations, however, the bun was an important symbol of class distinction for many women, and a reflection of the times.

As the Victorian bun transformed into the looser and more natural “Gibson Girl” buns of the 1890s, the bun’s dominance was also coming to an end. Fashionable ladies would abandon their elaborate dos for the freedom of the 1920s bob. And yet, the allure of the bun remains strong today, and it still emerges in fashion, signalling a classic kind of cool. In ballet, of course, it never went away.

There are very few dance films that have the cult status of Alan Parker’s Fame (1980), a musical drama based on eight characters who enrol at the New York City High School for the Performing Arts. While the film was remade in 2009, those of us who grew up with the original version know the appeal of Fame lies in its 1980s aesthetics. For all its fluff and cheese, however, Fame is rooted in the gritty realism of inner-city life.

It’s hard to picture this film set anywhere other than New York. Visually similar to films such as Saturday Night Fever (1977) and Taxi Driver (1976), which present New York as a tough urban jungle, Fame tackles some confronting issues: abortion, suicide, race and economic hardship. Arguably, these themes are worked out through the visual representations of grey, steely, industrialised and often bleak city landscape and interiors. In this respect, the film’s aesthetic borrows heavily from classic realist cinema, exemplified by Italian Neorealist films of the 1940s and 1950s, which likewise explored difficult social issues through bleak urban landscapes.

Yet, Fame is best remembered for its breezy dance scenes and 80s fashion, dominated by headbands, spandex, slouchy t-shirts, brightly coloured leotards and legwarmers. Along with the aerobics craze of the early 1980s, Fame played a major part in making dancewear part of street fashion. With its wide elastic belts, skinny jeans and countless leggings, the film’s fashion aesthetic is also pure 80s pop.

Against the perfect visual polish of iconic New York shows such as Sex and the City and Gossip Girl, Fame presents us with a New York filled with frizzy hair, ill-fitting clothes and imperfection. Even the pristine ballerina of the film, Hilary van Doren, who is typically adorned in delicate pastel shades, has a type of imperfect charm that is hard to find in the updated version of Fame. No wonder the original 1980s film inspires such nostalgia. And hey, some of us are still waiting for legwarmers to be cool again.

Step into the 1980s:

Clockwise from bottom left:
• J Brand cropped skinny jeans
• Topshop wide elastic belt
• Wildfox NYC wide t-shirt
• H&M legwarmers
• Miss Selfridge ginger long-sleeve lace bodysuit
• Miss Selfridge gold wire tie bow headband

The red shoe: a source of fascination, power and mystery to both its wearer and beholder.

The use of red shoes as a mark of distinction can be seen throughout history across different cultures, but it was particularly pronounced in the French courts. During Louis XIV’s reign, the court was the arbiter of both style and etiquette. Shoes with red ‘Louis-style’ heels were worn by courtiers to distinguish them from other aristocrats. The luxuriously sanguine hue was sourced from the red pigment of the Mexican cochineal beetle. Ironically (and inevitably), aristocrats emulated the look, making it fashionable outside the courts. The style endured until it was scorned by French Revolutionaries in the late 1700s.

Red shoes are fabled, holding a place in both mythology and popular culture. In Hans Christian Andersen’s fairytale “The Red Shoes” (1845), the vain heroine Karen is driven to dance by a pair of bewitched red shoes, which hound her until she escapes into the afterlife. This morality tale has re-emerged most notably in the technicolour film masterpiece The Red Shoes (1948). Flame-haired ballerina Victoria Page (Moira Shearer) dances a ballet based on the fairy tale in a pair of crimson slippers. This story-within-a-story is a parable for the film’s larger themes, which explore the conflict between love and art. Like Karen’s red shoes, Vicky’s slippers never tire: “Time rushes by; love rushes by; life rushes by. But the red shoes…dance on.” In the world of the film, Victoria’s love of dance leads to her destruction.

The ability of red shoes to transform their wearer was given a bewitching spin when Dorothy donned a pair of ruby slippers in MGM’s The Wizard of Oz (1939). Costumier Gilbert Adrian’s glittering creations featured 2,300 sequins hand-sewn onto red silk. The shoes’ surface allure is matched by their depth of meaning; theories abound as to their Freudian and sacred/profane symbolism.

Red shoes have signified power throughout history. They have been worn by superheroes and members of the military, royalty and the papacy. Most recently, Pope Benedict XVI revived the tradition of wearing ruby-red papal shoes, a practice which arose during the Roman Empire – the colour red being associated with the blood of martyrdom. The “Prada Pope”, as he was named by media for his designer tastes, favours red leather loafers. But while the Devil may wear Prada, the Pope’s tastes are more chaste; his shoes are reportedly made by Italian shoemaker Adriano Steffanelli.

In the 21^st century, the most enduring legacy of the red shoe can be seen in Christian Louboutin’s lustworthy heels. Their cherry-red lacquered soles send the world a glossy lipsticked kiss with every stride. These instruments of pleasure are pinnacles of red-shoe brilliance, signifiers of wealth and passion whose towering heels literally elevate women – perhaps to the realm of goddesses. Louboutin is revered as a sculptor rather than a shoemaker, and has collaborated with visionaries like filmmaker David Lynch.

Despite the fact that Louboutin had previously trademarked the red heel, his recent attempt to sue Yves Saint Laurent for emulating the iconic flash of scarlet was overruled in the courts – no red light on red shoes, the judge seemed to say. Perhaps some things are too legendary, too ingrained a part of our psyches, to be controlled by law.

There are, after all, earlier examples of red-bottomed heels, including Elsa Schiaparelli’s ‘shoe hat’ from 1937. This collaboration with Salvador Dali consisted of an upside-down shoe, perched over the wearer’s head like the horn of plenty, courting attention with its raspberry-stained heel. For now, it seems, there can be no copyright on witchery. And so the red shoes dance on.