Woven & Unwoven

April 23rd, 8:47 p.m. EST — Fine Art Theatre, Manhattan, New York 

Behind the curtains, within the bustling dressing room of Upper Manhattan's Fine Art Theatre (UMFA), chaos reigned supreme. Models draped in exquisite couture navigated through a whirlwind of activity, sharing fleeting glances with designers as their final adjustments were made. Managers orchestrated the choreography of movement, guiding models with grace amidst the stylists' meticulous touch, ensuring every fabric flowed just right. Makeup artists painted vibrant strokes of color onto the canvas of each model's face, while nearby hairdressers crafted intricate coiffures that would rival art itself.

Near the back of the dressing room, in a paradox of serenity, an exhausted young girl slumbered in blissful oblivion. This girl was no other than Trinidadian New York University of Arts (NYUA) freshman design student Loconda Toussaint. Though her body yearned for rest, her mind raced with thoughts of ultra-fine fabrics shifting through a kaleidoscope of abstract shapes, patterns, and colors. 

While she was neither asleep nor awake, Loconda dwelled in the realm between the two states of consciousness. As her thoughts gained clarity and intensity, her hands began to rise and repeat the sewing motions needed to recreate her dream-like designs in reality.

"Yo," whispered the tall Bajan-American model and Frossard Music Academy freshman Lovelie Scott, as she nudged the very short but very beautiful Grenadian-Haitian model and NYUA sophomore Tracey Carrington. "Look at Loco. She's doing that thing she does in her sleep with her hands again."

"Seriously?" Tracey sighed, as her attempts to glimpse through the crowd proved futile. "Isn't that just my luck? I'm the only one who hasn't seen her do it yet and here she is doing it and I still can't see her do it."

"Girl, I gotchu," Lovelie smiled, snatching Tracy's phone out of her hand. "I'll take a vid and drop it in the group chat, 'cause Dream hasn't seen it either."

Stepping into the dressing room and casting a distinct gravity over the atmosphere, was Vivian Giordano, a dignified elderly Italian woman, flanked by David Callan, a lean production assistant, and Otto, a tall and impeccably dressed security guard. A hush rippled through the room as Vivian's presence caught the attention of the growing assembly. Far more than her appearance suggested, Vivian was not only the heiress of a multinational fashion house and chair of the Interior Design department at the Maude Institute, but she was also one of the four distinguished UMFA board members presiding over the very fashion show in which all present were fervently competing.

"What's she doing back here?" someone whispered.

"Whoa," whispered another, "I've never seen a judge come backstage during the middle of a show before."

"Well, where is she?" Vivian snapped, removing her sleek triangular sunglasses and scanning the crowd. She wore a long, burgundy houndstooth-checkered vicuña wool blazer over a black mulberry silk blouse and pants set.

"Let me double-check," David replied, wrestling with a garment bag and flipping through a clipboard. "According to our arrangements, she should be near the back at table 37, ma'am."

"Girl," Lovelie gasped, as she continued to record Loconda with Tracy's phone. "You gotta see this!"

"See what?" Tracy replied, scanning the room on her tippy toes.

"Girl, why is Vivian Gior standing in front of Loco?"

"The Vivian Gior?"

"Yes, in the flesh child."

"In front of our Loca?"

"What other Loco do we know?"

"No way! Dammit! I can't believe I'm missing out on this!"

"C'mon girl, let's get a closer look."

A profound silence enveloped the room as every gaze remained fixated on Vivian's movements. 

"Hmh, the phantom thread," Vivian muttered, as she watched Loconda's hands twirl in her sleep, "and in such a young girl."

Vivian's gaze was then immediately drawn to the Loconda's dark and naturally radiant complexion that seemed to gleam from every angle. Four jumbo box braids hung from her head like a crown with thin baby hairs cascading down her temples like tendrils of smoke. She wore a cropped sky-blue blazer layered over a silky white bralette. Below, a high-waisted midi dress with a beige gradient that seamlessly faded into dark brown and hovered over a pair of tortoise brown brushed leather slingback flats.

Leaning over, Vivian lightly tapped Loconda on the shoulder, but the gentle touch yielded no response. Undeterred, she cleared her throat and tapped more insistently, yet Loconda's slumber remained undisturbed. With growing frustration, Vivian quickly grabbed Loconda's twirling hands, and in a burst of exasperation, she yelled, "Mi scusi!"

Loconda's eyelids fluttered open to the unexpected sight of Vivian's cold wrinkly hands wrapped around her wrists and the room's collective attention firmly on her. 

"Mi scusi, darling," Vivian smiled, as she swept away the long silver hair that framed her face, revealing the shadowed rings encircling her bright blue eyes, "but would you happen to be the designer of this piece?" Vivian's slender fingers directed Loconda's attention to David, who was now holding up a thin poncho draped over a brass hanger.

"Um, yeah that's my work," Loconda nodded, before turning back toward Vivian, who was still standing a bit too close for comfort.

"Notevole! So, you must be Miss Toussaint?"

"I am."

"Eccellente! Now, tesoro, I know this may sound random, but would you also happen to somehow be related to designer Acadia Pueyrredon?"

A strange sensation swept over Loconda as she stared back at Vivian's gleeful expression. So many unsettling details were vying for her attention, she didn't know where to begin. First, Loconda knew exactly who Vivian was, but in all the photos that she'd seen of her, she had never seen her smile once. Secondly, how did she deduce the connection between her and her aunt Acadia? No one had ever broached this question before and to her recollection, no one outside of her immediate family knew of their relation. Lastly, a haunting question loomed even larger than the others: What was transpiring in the room, affecting everyone present?

In a sudden wave of fatigue, Loconda watched in horror as every head in the crowd around her suddenly went limp, until everyone in the room except for Vivian, Otto, and herself were sound asleep. Some heads hung back, others leaned forward, but most individuals remained standing upright as they slumbered.

"Potresti calmarlo, per favore?" Vivian requested firmly, steering Otto's attention towards David, who was now asleep and snoring as loud as a lawnmower. In a swift motion, Otto retrieved the poncho from David's hand and, with a gentle touch, raised his chin, effectively silencing the cacophonous snores.

"What's happening here?" Loconda shouted, as she tumbled from her chair and scrambled backwards toward the dressing room wall.

"Calmati tesoro," Vivian smiled, "You can relax, I just needed to talk to you in privato. Is that okay?"

"No, it's not okay! What are you, some kind of witch?"

"Oh, I'm far worse than that. I'm an artist darling."

"You call this art? Knocking people out?"

"This was merely a manipulation of art and energia. I needed to confirm your identity, and your confirmation lies in the fact that you remained awake while everyone else was, well how you put it, knocked out."

My chest feels weird, Loconda thought, did my heart skip a beat?

"My time in New York is coming to an end," Vivian disclosed. "But you should consider paying me a visit." With a graceful gesture, she procured a card from her purse and tucked it neatly into the inner pocket of Loconda's blazer.

"My head feels weird," Loconda murmured, as her eyelids began to flutter and the room gradually faded from her view.

"Goodnight darling," Vivian whispered, as she watched Loconda drift into a deep slumber. Rising to her feet, Vivian instructed Otto to return Loconda to her chair. Then together, they glided through the peaceful sea of sleeping bodies. One by one, Otto lifted each sleeping body out of their way, forging a clear path to the exit. Just as Vivian was about to leave the room she stole a glance back down the path at Loconda and was delighted to see the young designer's hands were up again, twirling in the same sewing motions as before. It was as if she had seamlessly picked up her work from where she had left off.

"Oh, I can't wait to see it tesoro," Vivian smirked. "I'm sure it'll be just what this world needs."