Dresses
and Codpieces
Froelick
Adelhart Gallery
817 SW 2nd Ave., 222-1142
11 am-6 pm Tuesdays-Fridays,
10 am-5 pm Saturdays
Ends April 30.
It's easy to forget that fashion can be solely about having
fun. Luckily, a couple of zany parties I attended recently
reminded me that dressing up can be a novel, creative and
liberating experience. At a garbage bag apparel-themed birthday
party for Barfly's Jen Lane, I found myself wrapped
in an impromptu Hefty halter top. Other enthusiastic guests
had plastic ball gowns, turbans, scarves and dresses. The
following weekend I sported ridiculous green satin pants
for a Crazy Pants Party with host DJ Gregarious. I couldn't
hold a candle to some of the nutty plaid prints local rockers
dug up for the occasion, but everyone in outlandish pants
had a great time. That spirit of playfulness is central
to the wearable creations in local artist Gabriel Manca's
current show, Dresses and Codpieces, at the Froelick
Adelhart Gallery.
The show features a dozen-plus garments (displayed like
sculptures) made from synthetic materials. Many of the pieces
are recycled dresses that Manca coated with liquid latex
(cardboard dress forms maintained the garments' shape during
the process) then embellished with curious details. Every
stitch was sewn by hand, according to the diligent creator,
and a peek at the thread-covered lining of a dress coated
in tiny yellow, pink, blue and white pompoms is proof. Now
they stand on their own as sculptures, literally and figuratively.
Manca originally made the garments for a fashion show at
a party he and creative collaborator Mieke hosted at Berbati's
Pan a few months back. (The two have a company called Salt
Lick Productions.) He had never attempted fashion design,
but when the original supplier of clothes for the show didn't
work out, Manca signed on, working 20-hour days for two
weeks to construct the pieces.
The idea, he explains, was to convey something sexy, humorous
and playful, as well as to encourage the wearer and those
around them to lose their inhibitions. "You'll have a conversation
you wouldn't have had wearing one of these," Manca explains.
That's certainly an understatement.
A dress painted like green amphibian skin with toy frog
heads hovering over plastic flies inside plastic bubbles
for breasts has surely lured grins and conversation. A crayfish
dress made of bubble wrap with pink packing-foam detail
and matching pincers hangs proudly near the center of the
space, daring you not to react. (A bubble-wrap cow on wheels
is Salt Lick's mascot, and Mieke, dressed as a milkmaid,
has even put on a show involving the udders. I know--I'm
sorry I missed it, too).
The sexy elements in Manca's work are often humorous as
well. The codpieces with stuffed animal heads on the crotches
were flashed by models wearing Manca's designs at the Berbati's
show. Blue rubber balls turned inside out serve as exaggerated
breast cups on a latex-coated, satin dress with loopy chenille
trim. The exposed air nozzles are topped with miniature
pompoms and covered with silicone baby bottle nipples.
Even the rare hints of practicality in the designs are
tongue-in-cheek: Retractable feather dusters are attached
to the sleeves of a red dress accented with lambswool and
yet more pompoms, in case the wearer has an urge to nab
corner cobwebs. Outrageous bras coated with fake, silk flowers
and other un-Victoria's Secret-like details, not to mention
a strap-on butt, round out the mix.
No materials are off-limits in Manca's work. He plans to
make a trench coat from layers of long rubber gloves. What
he'll incorporate into the asymmetrical shoes he hopes to
craft next is anybody's guess. The concept of using found
materials and salvaging things as opposed to making something
brand-new is an idea handed down from his housing contractor
father, Manca explains. Which brings us to another theme
in his work: You don't have to spend a lot of money to have
something cool to wear--unless you want one of his designs;
most of these labor-intensive dresses will cost you $900
or more. At least two have been sold, but the buyers intend
to display them as sculpture, not wear them.
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Willamette Week | originally
published April 19,
2000
|
