From the Memoirs of a Non-Enemy Combatant: A Novel (16 page)

At first he said nothing. Just rubbed that famous mole of his, lodged in the cleft of his chin.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I mean, there’s nothing too new here, is there? I see a tired bow where I should see something simpler. Like a belt. Here,” he said, turning the dress form around. “Try this.” He unraveled my ruffled bow, the piece of cloth that gave the dress its shape, and began to iron it flat on my worktable. “Look,” he said with a pin in his mouth, wrapping the improvised belt around the dress. “What if it was like this? Get a buckle and make it into a belt. It’s stronger. What do you think?” He pinned it into place and stood back.

“I don’t know. I thought what I had was sort of Dior.”

“Dior? What you had was totally conventional.”

“I like conventional.”

“You don’t know what you like. That’s why you asked me. Avoid convention at all costs. You want to end up doing bridal wear for the rest of your life? I didn’t think so.”

He was right. My problem as a student was that I relied too heavily on the expected. If I had a space that needed filling, I put a bow around it and called it ready‑to‑wear. I tried my damnedest to be as cutting-edge as Philip, but I always stopped just short of innovation. What Tang created spoke. He was in a dialogue with
fashion history. I, on the other hand, merely took things from here and there, borrowed, stole, recycled. Even worse, I was unable to tell my good stuff from my bad. Isn’t that the hardest obstacle we artists have to cope with? Admitting to ourselves when something isn’t any good. Only during the final fashion show of that year, the dreaded contest for a scholarship to Central Saint Martins, London, did I realize what growing up I had to do. The competition for a seat at the famous art college that had spawned John Galliano and Alexander McQueen wasn’t a competition at all but a Philip Tang showcase.

Models went up and down the runway before a committee of experienced judges: FIM president Gloria Sanchez; our dean of textiles, Romel Reyes; Cecily Cuaron of
Pinoy Big Brother
(season one); and Leslie T. Wasper, director of international admissions at Central Saint Martins. The judges watched Philip’s collection crush the other competitors, me included, and I had a front-row seat to my own mediocrity.

When they announced the winner, Cecily C. of
Big Brother
handed Philip a bouquet of flowers. Not too long after that, he galloped off to England.

He left a big gap in our program. Draping Proficiency, Apparel Design, Corsetry, Paris versus Milan—none of our classes were the same without Tang leading us, without Tang telling me what I was doing wrong. His vacant work space in our studio was a constant reminder of his absence. His dress form remained just as he had left it, in front of my worktable, naked and alone. One night, slaving away late, I turned the form’s back to me as a reminder of what I was chasing. When I cut myself accidentally with an X‑acto knife, I lost it, crawling over my table and stabbing the damn
dress form in its neck. It wouldn’t take the first time, so I held the thing down on Philip’s table and stabbed it until it did. What had I become?

Shame on me.

We stayed in touch off and on. He interned for Alexander McQueen at the same time I secretly took a job in bridal wear, though I never told him. I often thought fondly of my friend in England, but still, feelings of jealousy would arise. How I wished him to the bottom of the Thames on so many occasions—though even in these fantasies he’d rise to the top, belly up. I couldn’t kill him off. I’m no murderer. As I’ve said, I could never hurt another soul. Not even in my dreams.

By the time our paths crossed again in New York, anybody who was anything had made their way through his studio at some point or another. It was Philip who put me in touch with Vivienne Cho my first fashion week. And as you will soon see, it was Philip who introduced me to my publicist, Ben Laden (no relation). Even my career-making involvement with Chloë, the actress-singer-songwriter, I owe partly to Philip.

Still, the snippety charm on top of his flair for the extravagant could only be taken in small doses. I had built up a tolerance for Philip long ago, but I suspected Michelle would never warm up to him.

And she didn’t. She said of Philip once, “I can’t see why you put up with him. He’s so artificial. After listening to him go on about marketability and the state of couture, I don’t know how you don’t slug him right then and there. And did you notice that he always has to have the last word. Plus, he thinks he knows everything.”

“Yes, but he’s a genius,” I said.

“He’s not a genius.”

She simply didn’t need him like I did.

Philips’s studio was in the old superglue factory on Grand Street, just a few short blocks from my new loft on Kent. Michelle and I had recently finished furnishing my living room with a set of pröntö chairs and a low coffee table, a mere half-shin’s length above a lamb’s wool throw rug. Scandinavian modern. After giving up one of her precious Saturdays to help me assemble it all, she made me promise to take her to Philip’s, for she was a fan of his clothes. I’d put off their inevitable personality clash for long enough. I must also confess that a part of me wanted Philip to meet my Michelle. Although he was very gay, I thought I could still make him jealous over her, because she was an affluent American and white.

“I’m so glad you’re in New York,” Philip announced the moment we walked in the door. “Come here.” We kissed hello. “Do you two want champagne?”

“This early?” I said. It was ten in the morning in the middle of February. Hardly the conditions for bubbly. And yet how could I know this was the day it would all really begin for me?

“We’re celebrating. I haven’t told you? I finally sold out. I took a Gap campaign. It’s just a thing on the side. They want me to reenvision the little black dress. The Gap is trying to revamp their image. Bring a little glamour into suburbia. Infect the malls with a little Philip Tang. Doo Ri Chung
⁵
did it last year. The money is insane. I’m buying everyone turquoise Vespas.”

Philip called to the other end of the studio, where a few of his assistants were crowded around a fit model, taking Polaroids. “Rudy, bring the champagne from the minifridge. And come meet my friends.”

Rudy Cohn, a beautiful black Jewess, was a dear friend of Philip’s from their London days interning with Alexander McQueen. She often hung around his studio because he cherished her opinion the way I valued Olya’s, scarce as she’d become since Michelle entered the picture. Now Rudy dabbled as a freelance stylist to the stars in both America and Europe. Of particular relevance to my state of affairs: She was Chloë’s stylist. The actress-singer-songwriter was on track to become the next Madonna faster than the world needed one, and it was Rudy’s job to put her in the right clothes. Chloë wasn’t too big yet. Her second album,
Blueballer
, the one that garnered a Grammy nod, hadn’t yet “dropped,” as they say. And so her famous ass could still fit into something by an obscure designer such as myself.

Rudy arrived with the champagne and plastic cups. I was hopelessly attracted to her working-class Manchester accent, complemented this wintry morning by a blouse that showed a tasteful amount of cleavage, just enough for one’s imagination to get lost in the gap between her two mocha breasts. Her fragrance was something by Serge Lutens. Cèdre or Ambre Sultan. No, I remember, it was Sa Majesté la Rose
.

“It’s crazy around here,” Philip said. “I’m working a thousand hours a day. You know, I’m doing the Gap thing, but then I’m pushing forward on this new fall line.”

“Mustn’t forget Chloë,” said Rudy.

“Oh, right. And Chloë is coming by later this afternoon.”

Who doesn’t get starstruck? The mere mention of Chloë drove me up the wall with jealousy. She was coming to Philip’s studio to see Philip. I had to be there. This was an opportunity not to be squandered. “Really?” I squeaked.

“The pop star?” Michelle added, with just the slightest detectable touch of sarcasm.

“Well, she’s going to be more than a pop star in a few months,” Rudy answered. “Her acting has gotten a lot better.”

Philip poured my glass. “Actually, Boy, maybe you and Rudy could have a word?” He turned to her: “Boy’s got a great collection in the works. You should put Chloë in something of his.” Then he said to me: “You need a publicist to make things happen, Boy. Give my friend Ben Laden a call. He’s the shit.” He waltzed over to a side table and returned with Ben’s card. “I’m so sorry,” he said to Michelle. “I’m all ADD today. A gazillion things are happening at once. How are you?”

She smiled at Philip’s enthusiasm, but it was a manufactured smile, I could tell. She despised him already.

We took a seat on the sofa, away from the flash of Polaroids, and sipped our champagne. Philip stood up. “We forgot to toast.”

“My God, Philip. We’ve been toasting all morning.”

“Well, we’re celebrating.”

“We’re always celebrating,” Rudy said.

“What can I say? To Boy and Michelle. You’re so cute together. Aren’t they so fucking cute?”

Rudy blushed.

Philip sat down again next to Rudy and placed his little shaved head on her shoulder with a lover’s intimacy. Rudy looked at me, but I tried to ignore whatever was happening between us for
Michelle’s benefit. Michelle was very perceptive, however. Picking up on this flirtation, she studied me. I felt the pressure of her gaze, even after I’d turned my attention to the skylight in the ceiling. “This studio gets wonderful light during the day,” I said.

“When else would it get light?” Michelle said.

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Michelle,” said Philip, “did you know that Boy was all the rage back in the Philippines? You should see the blogs during last year’s Philippine Fashion Week. It was all about Boy.”

“I didn’t even know they had a Philippine Fashion Week,” she said.

“Neither did I.”

“Boy’s just being modest. Michelle, you want to see the hype around this guy, go to Bryan Boy dot com. Bryan Boy is this brilliant blogger whose site gets like a jazillion hits a day. I was telling Marc about him last week. He may name a bag after him.”
⁶

Bryan Boy had featured my clothes one day on his blog shortly before I left Manila. It was the only coverage I’d gotten in my career.

One of Philip’s assistants called over with a question. Julia, I believe, who worked on textiles. As this Julia distracted Philip and Rudy, Michelle looked at me wide-eyed and mouthed: “Let’s go
.
” She mimed hanging herself with a noose. I gave her a face that begged for a few more minutes, and she in turn tugged the
rope even harder, tightening the imaginary noose, gagging herself.

“You all right?” Rudy asked.

“I’m fine. It’s champagne. It makes me gag.”

“Ha,” I said.

In later encounters with fashion types like Philip, Michelle would often put an imaginary gun in her mouth, slit her throat with her index finger, or mime sticking her head in an oven. I asked her once how she could be so turned off by my crowd when she was so fashionable. One of the things I found incredibly alluring about her, remember, was her sense of style. She told me: “I love clothes. I just don’t see the need to suck up to those people like you do. They’re hideous, egocentric…
hyenas
!”

But Philip really had produced an ungodly amount of work in a period of only a few months. And nearly all of it was brilliant. He had twenty to thirty new looks completed. To give you an idea of where I was in comparison, my first collection had ten to twelve.

“I’m really into baggy right now,” he said.

“Well, it’s not baggy, is it?” Rudy said.

“No, I suppose not. Not baggy but loosey.”

“Yeah, more loose than baggy.”

“What’s the difference?” Michelle interrupted.

“Baggy, I think big jeans worn below the waist, yeah? Hip-hop is baggy,” said Rudy. “Baggy is deliberate, in’it? This is loose.”

“And puffy,” I added.

“Right,” said Philip. “Puffy.”

“Well,” Michelle concluded, as if the whole thing made no sense whatsoever.

Philip went through most of the dresses. They were knee-length and sleeveless, made from exquisite wools. He took a few off the rack and held them up to the light, one by one. I’d admired him when we were students, but now he was a fully formed artist, I stood in awe. How different each look was from anything I had seen, even from him! This new line was much darker than the collections he had done before. It brooded and slouched. It was sorrow and anguish and jealousy. I saw myself. In the greatest art we see ourselves reflected back at us, do we not?
Guernica
,
The Scream
. For me to witness an artist of such caliber at the height of his capabilities was a gift! Even Michelle, responding to the dresses, couldn’t deny Tang his due. She despised him, it was true, but she could never say anything bad about the clothes.

And oh, how he could weave beauty! There was one dress in particular that I still remember. I could pull it out of a lineup to this day. It was a black, sleeveless evening dress made from recycled hosiery. Going green got you noticed. The skirt was ruffled, layer upon layer, like a blossoming flower. “Puffy” and “loose” were the wrong words to describe it. It was flowing and movable even though it was composed of highly constricting material. Its hem was laced with black floral knots. It was a dress that was completely unwearable, yet you knew it would be the centerpiece of the collection. I believe it’s the very dress that got the CFDA
⁷
doing cartwheels. They gave Philip Best New Designer 2003. Within eight months it was on display at the Tate Modern. Joseph Beuys, Marlene Dumas, Pollock, Tang 2.0.

Damn him, he was that good.

Michelle pulled us out of there before I had the chance to meet Chloë. As soon as we were on the street she launched straight into her bad review of the day. “Abhorrent. Flimsy. Those people are lost beyond repair. And did you see how your friend Philip offered me those sample sizes knowing very well that none of them would fit me? And I had to go over and act all interested. And that Rudy! Ugh. I’m sorry, I know they’re your friends, but they’re just not my kind of people.”