Ariana, Live From The Runway: Lingerie Laced with Lights, and Liminal Allure: The Randa Rose Show at Divan
There are nights in a fashion girl's life when the city itself seems to unzip its velvet sheath, revealing something unexpected, sultry, and tinged with that breathless kind of glamour one can't just quite help but hope for — and only the lucky few slip into it. On the second of May, Chicago flirted with Paris, whispered secrets to Milan, and danced barefoot with New York as the newest club on the scene, *Divan Chicago*, opened its gilded doors and welcomed a crowd that shimmered as hard as the sequins they wore. And at the center of it all — commanding, unbothered, and brilliantly bold — were the decadent designs of Chicago’s own Randa Rose.
I arrived to the deep purr of bass lines and a velvet rope that curled like a cigarette swirl in a 1940s film noir — impossibly chic, impossibly exclusive. Inside, Divan was less nightclub, more boudoir fantasy-meets-high fashion runway. Crystal chandeliers hung low, like they were eavesdropping on everyone’s secrets. The air smelled faintly of champagne, leather, and possibility.
Then the lights dipped. The bass dropped. And just like that — Randa Rose’s vision roared alive to new heights:
Mottlowitz, whose previous work was shown at The Curio’s Fashion’s Night Out, celebrated the grand opening of her eponymous lingerie atelier with an event that was nestled somewhere between conceptual boudoir and cultural happening. *Randa Rose*, a line so “progressive” that it dares to wear its femininity like a diss track in silk, delivered a line with enough glitz to make even the chandeliers blush.
Randa Rose brings a vivacious and barely-contained sensuality to her debut. Elevating new folds to intricate intimacy, the collection was wearable and featured models who were all local to Chicago. Catwalks cued into with live song and dance performance, the show was a serene striptease for the soul and a masterpiece of music for the mind.
Models emerged through clouds of diffused light like temptations incarnate. There were corset tops with crystal caging, thigh-grazing vinyl minis layered over lace stockings that whispered of rebellion. Silk charmeuse trenches slinked off shoulders like they'd rather puddle to the floor. Think old Hollywood caught in a dream at Studio 54.
The color palette was moody but mischievous. Black, oxblood, glistening gold, neon pink — hues that felt like they had a past and didn’t care what you thought about it. Randa Rose's new line, aptly named Clubby Pop, a genre that odes to heartbreak and bringing the heat. With fast transitions and bubbly looks, Rose’s muses blurred the line between nightwear and streetwear, dancing on that line in six-inch heels and fishnet opera gloves.
Each model, styled with hair as though teased by angels on lunch break, floated down the catwalk adorned in sheer panels, abstract appliqués, and unimaginable confidence. Makeup was done with a heavy, almost ecclesiastical hand—lipsticks lacquered like protest signs and lashes thick as capitalist regret. The garments themselves danced between restraint and eruption: gossamer corsetry with deliberately crooked boning, brassiere constructions adorned with delicate beetle shells, and high-cut panties that seemed, curiously, to make eye contact with the audience.
The lights were synchronized in subliminal ecstasy; they swirled in sync with the soundtrack and cast the runway in a trance of pastel hypnosis. The ambiance was clearly rehearsed and cleverly prepared, as if Chanel had collided head-on with a suburban prom committee under strict instructions to “keep it edgy.” And yet—somehow, all operated seamlessly.
The final highlight of the evening was reserved for an exclusive performance by Chicago’s own Vic Mensa, whose genre-defiant sound stitched the night together like a DJ with a PhD in textile theory. He emerged not from behind curtains, but from beneath the runway itself, clad in a glimmering mesh hoodie that may or may not have been Mottlowitz's own design. As he crooned and commanded, his presence offered a sonic counterpart to the collection’s own aesthetic ambiguity—sensual yet politically referential, impish but impossibly sincere.
Mottlowitz herself appeared at the finale, receiving immense applause from the eager crowd of industry vixens, crypto-socialites, and Chicago’s fashion elite. Her vision for *Randa Rose* seems firmly planted in a philosophy of opposites: intimacy performed in public, softness worn like armor, and demure sensibilities placed in brat settings—delicately scorning tradition while claiming its trimmings.
If this was trite, it was eloquently so. If it was dubious, it was gorgeously aware. Mottlowitz has not simply launched a new lingerie line—she’s stitched a fantasy to perfection, a fashion show that flirts with the idea of itself, sashaying through irony and pointed looks with high heels and higher intentions.
What makes Randa Rose a name to whisper over martinis? It’s her gift for tension. She dresses the moment between buttoning and unbuttoning, between slipping out the door and being dragged back in. Her clothes say, “I’m here to be seen,” and yet, they leave just enough to the imagination that you lean in closer.
After the show, as the dance floor turned into a phenomenon for the fabulous and the feral, I found myself sipping something cold and expensive, thinking: This is what fashion *should* feel like. Daring. Dripping in fantasy. Just a little dangerous.
Photography by Gerry Eustaquio, Jonathan Garcia, Ariana West and Nelson Virzi
