Tampa Bay's got a thing for costumes.
There's Gasparilla, when the entire populace dresses in pirate drag. Bucs season, when everyone's decked out in red and black.
And then, of course, there's Guavaween.
This Saturday, Ybor City will come alive with the Mama Guava Stumble Parade, a twisting, trumpeting procession of festooned revelers who skip and stagger through the streets.
Every year has a theme. This year's theme is Popular Icons of Horror Cinema, a clunky name that means lace up your Frankenboots, don your Freddy mask and let that chainsaw rip.
The inspiration for all this madness comes from an old Ybor legend. Papa Guava was a debonair monster, a smooth dance freak who wowed the ladies. One night, however, there weren't enough virgins around, and he roared, threatening and foaming, through Cigar City.
Mama Guava, a dangerous sexpot in her own right, shook her hips from a balcony and hollered. Papa Guava looked up. She smiled. One can imagine a saucy wink. A howling Halloween love ripened like an October pumpkin patch, and the virgins of Ybor City were saved.
Every anniversary since (see sidebar for a guide to this year's festivities), Tampa has dressed up to honor the carefree hedonism of Mama Guava and the liberation she represents.
But where are the carefully selected ensembles the rest of the year?
Let's face it. Tampa's not a stylish city. Sure, we can blame the weather or our relaxed Floridian vibe. Who needs a perfect silhouette when we have all this sunshine?
Well, frankly, you do.
Style is about how you present yourself to the world. Whatever makes your Guavaween costume uniquely you, that's your style. If you're not sure how to maintain it year-round, take your cues from these style icons: five Tampa Bay residents who know how to dress up no matter what the season.
Orianna Kurrus
Designer, Orianna Studios
Best Costume Ever: Zombie
Favorite Candy: Vegan chocolate bits
Scariest Halloween Moment: A palm reading in Salem, Mass.
Orianna Kurrus does not know where she lives.
As I drive up her street for the fourth time, she tells me again how to get into her apartment complex, which is supposedly right in front of me. I can see several huddles of apartments — dull, charmless dominoes — but no Windridge Apartments.
This is because Kurrus, a burgeoning designer of macabre ready-to-wear, doesn't live in Windridge Apartments. She had me on course halfway, and then mixed up the directions with the place she used to live.
As she displays her work for me, I can see that this habit of splicing is second nature for her. The dresses are made from velvet, gossamer and triple-knit cottons, but the construction is rough, full of uneven seaming, exaggerated inlays and asymmetrical swing lines. The contrast between the soft fabrics and coarse assembly is discomfiting. I imagine a dead, laughing Raggedy Ann, covered in worms and decay, getting ready for a tea party.
This is exactly the kind of imagery Kurrus wants to suggest. She admits to feeling deranged while preparing for her first solo show at the recent Halloween Horror Picture Show at the USF Special Events Center. The line, called Dead Dollies, includes 15 outfits evocative of both childhood playthings and morbidity.
"When I was little, I was terrified of dolls," says Kurrus. "I felt like they were alive, and just waiting for me to fall asleep. This relates to zombies, because both are supposed to be dead, but are somehow alive anyway. Creating zombie dolls implies the dolls were once alive, but are now some sort of monster."
It's a motif that permeates her life. Dolls and decapitated doll heads are everywhere in her apartment — on chairs and tabletops, adorning the top of the TV. The centerpiece of her living room is a trunk that doubles as a coffee table, stuffed with dismembered doll parts and deconstructed doll outfits.
We talk about Tampa, and how her experiences here have shaped her fascination with the paradigm of life giving way to death giving way to a new sort of life. She tells me in a later e-mail that the dichotomy blossomed at the same time she arrived in Tampa.
"It was around that awkward time of puberty and trying to figure out what being a woman meant. I had always been a tomboy, shunning all things frilly … I think dolls are directly connected to ideas of fashion, because they are miniatures of the inhumanly idealized woman — always the same and always perfect."
Kurrus' work defies that ideal. She uses a variety of models in order to fulfill visions of specific characters she has invented, and she has her mind set on a career in art therapy once she obtains her master's degree. Despite the intentional darkness of her pieces, she has a radiant, easy smile and a lopped haircut of cheerful rainbow colors. I can see a roomful of children healing quite happily under her tutelage, ripping apart old ideas of form and fashion and splicing in their own provocative notions of beauty.
Kobi Amram
Proprietor, Ocean Drive Fashion
Best Costume Ever: He doesn't dress up, but takes inspiration for his clothing designs from Guavaween
Favorite Candy: Chocolate, chocolate, chocolate
Mischief Night Antics: T.P. and eggs
I had a beautiful run-in with Kobi Amram the first time we met. I was lamenting that my insect legs don't always look as supermodel wonderful in pants as they do bare; that skinny is only constantly desirable if you're fat. Amram didn't skip a beat, and he didn't try to convince me of something we all know to be false, the way other cloying shopkeepers might. He glided to the front of his boutique, Ocean Drive Fashion on Seventh Avenue in Centro Ybor, and pulled a pair of cash-green hot pants from a table.
They were exactly what I needed. I have been an Ocean Drive devotee ever since.
Born in Israel, Amram knows clothes. Last year, he opened another store at International Plaza, but admits that the Ybor spot is the one most people know about. The two stores carry similar merchandise — Penguin, Dolce & Gabbana, and Frankie B. are available in both locations — but the attitude is slightly different. The Ybor location tends toward the more experimental, catering to the club crowd with dresses that pop and ruffle and tops that sparkle and hug. Amram has a prime view of Ybor's antics from his storefront and checks out Guavaween annually.
"Guavaween is a lot of fun," he says. "Some of the costumes are amazing. It's great to see the time and effort people put into it."
And, as befits a true fashion guru, he's not above ladling out a few suggestions.
"I feel everybody has their own style. The only thing I feel needs to be changed is the perception that the more skin you show, the sexier you are. That could not be more false. Being sexy is all about the attitude. It's not what you wear, but how you wear it!"
Amram loves giving this sort of advice. He feels a real kinship when talking to customers about what the next big trend will be, and gets a genuine satisfaction from helping customers find the right outfit for a big occasion. He's not simply selling, but educating. He's not just making money, but feeling the inspiration behind new ideas and passing that love along.
Everything he wears comes out of Ocean Drive, which means his clothing comes from a place that purposefully plays into a market, although Amram doesn't let Tampa fully determine his style. He is a bashful young man, at once chiseled and cherubic, with thick lashes and the smile of a secret troublemaker. I had to prod and cajole him into his photograph, but his real energy comes from a willingness to put himself out there in unexpected ways.
"I always wear what makes me feel good, even if it makes me stick out like a sore thumb," he says. "Our spring '06 lineup is going to be fabulous. We already have very unique clothing, but what I am about to bring to Tampa is unlike anything anybody has ever seen. We're taking it to a whole new level."
Kenneth Jennings
Bespoke Tailor
Best Costume Ever: He created the uniforms for the Queen's Cavalry
Scariest Halloween Moment: His children clawing one another, pretending to be an owl and mouse
Mischief Night Antics: Tied strings to doorknockers to pound on doors from afar
The first thing Kenneth Jennings says, in response to my request for his time, is, "I don't mean to sound priggish or very British, but what I do is very expensive."
This is roughly what he said to me two years ago, when his shop at 709 N. Florida Ave. first opened and I asked him to take in the waistline of a chiffon dress. It's what he said a year later, too, when I asked him to lengthen the rise on a pair of wool flat-fronts.
So, Kenneth Jennings is expensive. He won't draw a pattern for under $1,500, and the average suit he sells is about $2,300.
I suppose it does sound like a lot of money for one outfit, but it isn't until Jennings pulls out a sample from Holland and Sherry's Signature Collection that my jaw practically disconnects from its hinge. The Scottish clothmakers weave ultra-fine wool that appears from afar to have a regular pinstripe pattern, but, upon closer inspection, reveals gorgeous, tight block lettering. I instantly begin imagining myself in a miniskirt with "Rachel" written all over it in bright pink.
"I have to take a $6,000 deposit before I can even begin," he says.
I guess I'm not getting that skirt, but, hey, did you know that Kenneth Jennings
is expensive?
He's worth every penny. Trained on London's Savile Row, he did his seven-year apprenticeship with Hawes and Curtis, Royal Appointment Tailors to H.R.H. Queen Elizabeth. He has made suits for the King of Thailand and for Academy Award-winner Rod Steiger. He shows me page after page of photographs of the Queen's Cavalry, making sure I note that he hand-wove the rope detailing on the chest from real gold. Kenneth Jennings has earned his street cred.
He's earned the right to be picky, too, although, perhaps this is just the "very British" part he warned me about. He refuses to consider what might make a fun Halloween costume. He will not admit to liking candy. I ask him if he'll at least bob for apples, and he gives me a look that says I am being a smarty-pants.
He's not particularly impressed with Tampa, either, citing with disdain the phenomenon of young men driving $80,000 sports cars but wearing cheap T-shirts from Old Navy. He's not a grump, though, and gets incredibly excited at the idea of young designers learning time-tested practicalities.
He would love to find a real apprentice, not just a computer lackey who likes bright colors. He wants someone who can draw a pattern, someone who will sit down at a sewing machine and create.
He is "looking for people who are prepared to do the things I do. It's impossible. I give them the exercises. They go home. I never see them again."
I wait for him to elaborate, and he smiles wryly, knowing he sounds priggish and British again, and enjoying it.
"They say I'm a traditionalist. I'm not, really. I've always been at the forefront of this industry. Always."
Albert Owens
Fan-omenal Fan, Tampa Bay Buccaneers
Best Costume Ever: Bucified Bert
Favorite Candy: Snickers
Scariest Halloween Moment: First time at Busch Gardens Howl-O-Scream
Anyone can be a fan, but it takes a special surge of energy to be "Fan-omenal." Albert Owens, who prefers the name Bucified Bert, is the Tampa Bay Buccaneers' "Number One Fan-omenal Fan," a title he bestowed upon himself in honor of his extreme devotion to football and community works.
Owens sees himself as a role model, a man who can inspire kindness and friendship everywhere he goes. He attends every home game in an elaborate get-up of his own devising. The look is part action-figure, part Buc-nut, and he's not afraid to change elements of it if he thinks it will help his team.
This season, Bucified Bert is wearing his traditional pirate ship hat, a molded helmet with a crown that looks like it would be fairly seaworthy on a larger scale. Atop the helmet flies an American flag. The rest of his outfit resembles loungewear, but he soups it up with bold Bucs logos. The ensemble is pulled together with the addition of a wide, red flag emblazoned with another Buccaneers logo. The sunglasses — red and black, of course — are both a functional touch and the key to the superhero look. The shielded eyes lend an air of mystery, forcing you to notice the beaming grin with the shining gold tooth.
"Bucified Bert is the originator," he rhymes. "Not the duplicator! Without my lead, they'd have nothing to heed. The standards are high. I cannot lie. There is no fan as excited as I."
He arrives to meet me at a birthday party I'm hosting in South Tampa in regular street clothes, but he's brought a lovely gift with him: a gleaming white visor with yet another logo, this time from his day job as a receiving supervisor at WFLA-TV (News Channel 8). The birthday girl dons it with a sardonic grin, and Owens flashes that gold tooth again. His demeanor stays upbeat throughout our conversation and lasts well into the night.
I urge him to tell the other guests about his acronym, but he's a gentleman through and through, and doesn't want too much attention. Bucified actually stands for Be Understanding Citizens, Identify Friendly Individuals Every Day.
"That statement is one that I use to speak directly to children to make them aware of their surroundings and who they become friends with. Being a more vigilant citizen will make them better people overall, and since so many young people love the Bucs, I thought I could have a positive influence on their lives."
But he has to have a mischievous side, right? I can't believe such an idiosyncratic character doesn't have a little fun sometimes.
"When Green Bay lost in Wisconsin, they got nasty. Then, they came to Tampa, and one of them asked me for directions to I-275. If they listened to me, they oughta be in Texas by now. Gotta get fanatical to be Fan-omenal!"
He strokes his chin in satisfaction. Apparently, opposing fans aren't Friendly Individuals.
Katrina Stevenson
Actor/ Director/ Costumer, Jobsite Theater
Best Costume Ever: Marie Antoinette, decapitated
Favorite Candy: York Peppermint Patties
Scariest Halloween Moment: Looking in the mirror after partying all night
Katrina Stevenson spends a lot of time "being on." She is an English teacher at Academy of the Lakes by day, a costumer with Jobsite Theater by night, and, seemingly, an actress all the time. She is a non-stop routine of theatrical enunciation and flamboyant gesture.
It's no wonder she crackles with such affection for Pugsley and Wolfgang, two among her five-animal menagerie. The liquid-eyed mutt and zippy terrier do not care about performance. When she calls them to her, I hear a honey-coated slide to her vowels, an unchecked drag on certain syllables, that doesn't emerge once when she speaks to me.
"At the age of three, I started taking ballet classes. I loved dressing up and being in front of an audience," she recounts. "My mother loved sewing and taught me both her love for stitching and offbeat fashion. If I wanted a hot pink lace skirt and Converse high-tops, she'd help me make it happen."
In her makeshift dressing room, the influence is obvious throughout. The room is gloriously messy, bursting with jewel-toned Victorian dresses and tangles of modern accessories, flanked on one end by a canvas mannequin in a red tulle gown from the '50s. Somehow, I know instantly that the silk scarves are her private possessions. She confirms this, while pointing out the custom bust work on the red tulle. Stevenson's sewing room is a costumer's Valhalla.
Especially impressive is her knack for creating all this splendor on the cheap. Jobsite's costume budget is sparse and sometimes non-existent. Stevenson smiles, flipping her hair, as she remembers March of the Kitefliers, which premiered at the Shimberg Playhouse in August. She dressed 11 actors in 40 costumes for about 50 bucks. She calls it "an infamous beg, borrow and steal."
Creative pragmatism like this is a cornerstone of her work. Next summer, Stevenson will take on a production of Grimm's Faery Tales, costuming five actors as a series of demons, witches, princes and elves. She is already thinking about the intersection of practicality and drama.
"Fashion has, for a long time, been the vehicle through which people express their personalities and passions," she writes via e-mail. "Theater is an intense look into life, so the costumes and fashions are a part of that. As a costumer, you get the opportunity to tell a character's story without words. A character is clarified and intensified by their costume."
Stevenson follows her own philosophy. She is alabaster pale and has a wavy fluff of red hair over her shoulders. She knows how to play with her natural attributes, admitting that the sun-kissed look so popular around Tampa Bay just isn't her thing. She goes for vintage clothes from local shops, especially flowing tunics, which I can see being very pretty on her — very suited to her swan-like gesticulations. She likes the beading at local boutiques, too.
"I think of my current style as vintage chic with a Mediterranean flair. Always accented with a touch of cat hair."
Rachel Moran lives in Tampa. She writes daily at www.midnightculmination.com.
This article appears in Oct 26 – Nov 1, 2005.