SLAVA ZAITSEV stares dolefully at the chalky walls of his office in the Dom Modi, one of Moscow's premier fashion houses.

''This is my atmosphere,'' he says with a dismissive wave toward the ill-matched chairs and worktable. The austerity of the room is relieved here and there by stylish touches: a vase of calla lilies on a windowsill, a Modernist sketch on a far wall and, behind the designer, a photograph of two models, one scantily clad, the other sheathed in one of his slithery evening dresses.

Picking up steam, the Dom Modi's artistic director unleashes a tirade against a system he claims has yet to appreciate him. He blames lethargic, indifferent ''functionaries'' for a variety of slights, noting that the Ministry of Services, which supports his fashion house, also oversees the nation's laundries, shoe and clothing repair shops and public baths.

The Ministry, Zaitsev complains, thwacking the table for emphasis, has not seen fit to provide him with the minimal trappings of success. He had envisioned an alabaster studio with white-on-white furnishings. ''But, as you see. . . .'' his voice trails off sorrowfully. Worse, he has not been supplied with the raw essentials of his craft: not the textiles, nor the linings, not even the buttons or the shoulder pads that underpin a proper collection. Until recently, ''the Saint Laurent of the Steppes,'' as he has been dubbed by admirers and detracters alike, had to fit his designs on a dressmaker's dummy dating from World War II.

Rail as he may, Zaitsev's protests only highlight the fact that he is currently basking in a permissive, even indulgent, climate. As part of his program of reform, Soviet leader Mikhail S. Gorbachev is encouraging the production of consumer goods, including clothing.

Supplies are scanty, to be sure, and Zaitsev's office could be fancier. But he travels to the West; indeed, last October he visited New York, where he showed his collection at the Waldorf-Astoria. Undeterred by critics who called his fashions overwrought and out-of-date - reminiscent of Western fashions of several seasons earlier - the designer plans to return this year with a pared-down, sexier collection.

Viyacheslav Zaitsev, 50 years old, was the first Soviet couturier permitted by the government to put a label in his clothing. His name, in large Roman letters and the shorter ''Slava'' form, hovers above the Moscow fashion theater where his collections are shown, once a day, three days a week, to the wives of high-ranking officials, to artists, entertainers, housewives -anyone who will pay the 3 ruble (about $5) admission fee.

In a typical Zaitsev presentation, models stalk down the runway in synchronized, squadron-style formations, wearing calf-length dresses adrift in diaphanous panels. Zaitsev says his customers find his swingy, generous cuts liberating: ''In the past, Soviet women were squeezed into their clothes.''

Nearby, at the Dom Modeli - the flagship of the Soviet fashion industry and Zaitsev's chief competitor -well-heeled private clients, reporters, manufacturers' representatives and ordinary citizens throng a chandeliered auditorium, settle on the velvet-cushioned chairs that line the runway and murmur their approval of the season's new looks. Here, star billing goes to only a few designers, including Alexander Igmand, whose oversized, understated men's suits have a military cast, and who outfitted members of the 1988 Soviet Olympic team; and Irina Krutikova, who assembles her intricately worked furs, some of which are dyed in improbable candy-box colors, from the pelts of rabbit, mink, fox, raccoon and squirrel. What inspires her fanciful designs? ''They come from the soul,'' Krutikova says. At its most current, Russian fashion is voluminous and steeped in a romantic nostalgia. Coats and dresses are tent-shaped; hemlines flutter, and everywhere, fabric floats, wafts or flares. Is the intention to cloak the wearer in an aura of mystery, as some designers suggest, or is it merely a concession to modesty? It's difficult to say, but most Soviet couture still steers clear of the short hemlines and form-fitting suits worn in the West.

What the couture lacks in overt sex appeal, however, it more than makes up for in glitz. Evening dresses are freighted with Lurex and metallic embroideries. Even sportswear designers pile on the hardware. ''Too many pockets, too many zippers, too many pleats and too many seams,'' was one American observer's exasperated reaction at a recent show.

Russian folklore inspires some couturiers to employ peasant motifs and embroideries on everything from overcoats to evening dresses. A babushka peering through the Dom Modeli's large show windows last spring would have found herself face to face with reminders of her village girlhood. Draped incongruously on skinny mannequins were airy linen blouses with leg-of-mutton sleeves, flower-embroided corsets and multi-tiered skirts in every color of the spectrum.

TO JUDGE FROM THE GARB OF the average Russian, most of what's seen on the runways of Moscow stays there. The man on the street still wears a predictably lumpy suit and pre-knotted necktie. His consort cleaves to a uniform whose requisite parts are an ill-fitting coat, a pair of well-worn boots and a huge vinyl tote bag, in case something worth buying should turn up unexpectedly.

But in Gorky Park or on Arbat Street in Moscow's oldest neighborhood, there are surprising hints of the faddish and the hip. In her keenness to stand out from the herd, one young woman spotted on an afternoon in spring wore a sleekly tapered jacket, its collar raffishly turned up against the chill. A pony-tailed schoolgirl pulled a denim dufflecoat over a miniskirt and black, lace-patterned stockings. Her friend, a sulky, stringy-haired Lolita, had improvised a handbag from a plastic satchel stamped with ''Lancome,'' the French cosmetic maker's logo. Young, trend-conscious Russians are rivaled only by Americans in their passion for ''legible'' clothing; anything bearing a slogan or a manufacturer's logo vanishes quickly from store shelves, and the fashion establishment is betting that garments tagged with a designer's signature will be snapped up just as fast. Soviet designer labels, unheard of until about a year ago, now proliferate on everything from headgear to hosiery.

Contradictions abound. Within the extended bureaucracy that governs the industry, fashion is both encouraged as a business and denigrated as a concept. Russians beguiled by designer labels, for example, must still cope with the long-standing official antipathy to material indulgences, an attitude that was comically depicted as long ago as 1939 in the American film classic ''Ninotchka,'' starring Greta Garbo. ''All you have to do is wear a pair of silk stockings,'' says a Moscow friend of Garbo's, ''and they think you are counterrevolutionary.''

In the era of glasnost, Raisa Gorbachev has made it acceptable to take a keen interest in fashion. Her wardrobe, which includes clothes made from European fabrics as well as the designs of Russian couturiers, has set a new standard that is avidly studied by Russian women, and she recently met with fashion representatives to discuss the future of their industry. To some, though, enthusiasm for fashion still smacks of Western depravity. The authors of ''U.S.S.R.: 100 Questions and Answers,'' a 1986 pamphlet published by Novosty Press Agency and distributed at Intourist hotels, explains that for Russians, ''an imitation of Western fashions, harmless at first sight . . . may lead to a real spiritual bankruptcy and moral degradation.''

THERE ARE about 30 fashion houses in the Soviet Union, each creating prototypes that are mass-produced by factories. Because of their proximity to Finland and Scandinavia, houses in the Balkan Republics have traditionally produced more stylish fashions than those in Leningrad, Tbilisi or Kiev. But Moscow, while only moderately progressive, remains fashion's center of gravity. It is here, in the shops and fashion houses, that Politburo wives pick up the ''newest'' looks -typically, those that dominated European runways several seasons ago.

Designers occasionally turn out timely, high-quality fashions, but with no assurance that they will ever be produced. Irene A. Andreeva, 55, the Dom Modeli's fast-talking, chain-smoking ''chief artistic critic,'' blames the manufacturers, who, she says, have done their best to stifle creativity. If a design is unfamiliar, complicated or targeted to a youthful market, they will simply refuse to make it, she claims.

Some relief is provided by privately financed cooperatives, which, with government sanction, are turning out well-crafted, Western-influenced clothing in small quantities and at prices accessible to the average consumer. These companies are free to design and manufacture goods, to set their own prices, to seek domestic and foreign markets, and to channel the profits, on which they pay a nominal tax, back into the business.

Encouraging private enterprise in fashion is ''absolutely consistent with Gorbachev's policy of using consumer goods to help energize his reforms,'' says Thomas H. Naylor, professor of economics and business administration at Duke University and author of ''The Gorbachev Strategy: Opening the Closed Society.'' As Naylor puts it, ''Quality fashions are a strong incentive to the Russians. They're completely taken with Western-style clothes.''

Not even high officials are exempt from this almost legendary craving for foreign goods, an attitude that has spawned an entire genre of humor. One joke concerns the famous statue of Lenin - posing with one arm outstretched, the other on his breast - in Leningrad's Finland Station.

''Tell me, Vladimir Ilyitch,'' someone is said to shout from the crowd, ''where did you get your suit?''

''This?'' inquires Lenin, grasping his lapel with one hand and pointing due west with the other. ''I picked it up in Finland.''

Demand for Western-style fashions so greatly outstrips supply that Yuri B. Soloviev, president of the Society of Soviet Designers, the official mouthpiece of the fashion industry, deals with the subject gingerly, as though he were handling an explosive material, which indeed he may be. ''We don't want to be outstanding in fashion,'' Soloviev says. ''Not yet.''

For the average Muscovite, as Soloviev well knows, a fashionable wardrobe remains tantalizingly out of reach. Adventurous consumers intent on acquiring a Western look beg, barter or buy it, outright, off the backs of accommodating strangers. The lead guitarist with Mister Twister, a rising Soviet rock group, purchased his black leather motorcyle jacket from an American tourist for 400 rubles (about $640). The price was staggering by Soviet standards, he agreed, ''but I'd saved a long time for such a coat.''

Two hundred rubles, the monthly income of the average Soviet worker, doesn't stretch far when the price of a decent man's suit may exceed 190 rubles, and a moderately stylish synthetic-fiber dress costs upward of 90 rubles. High leather boots, a requisite in the freezing Moscow winter, run anywhere from 70 to 140 rubles.

Surprisingly, many Russians aren't put off. Although a sizable portion of their earnings goes for rent, food and other necessities, they are still able to put some cash aside. ''Savings are high despite low incomes because there's so little worth buying.'' says Richard E. Ericson, a professor of economics at Columbia University's W. Averell Harriman Institute. ''What you want is hard to find. When you see it, it may be months or years before you see it again. So it's best to shop with plenty of cash, for yourself and for your friends.''

EVIDENTLY, THE work of designing and organizing a line of clothes is accomplished sooner on paper than in actual production,'' chided a recent article in the Moscow newspaper Sovietskaya Rossiya.

Indeed, a year or more may elapse before a design moves from the sketching and swatching stage to the finished product.

Efforts to galvanize the industry are hampered by notorious shortages of textiles and machinery. Moreover, knowledge of Western marketing techniques is meager at best, though the Russians are eager to learn. In order to raise hard currency, they would like to export fashions to the West, yet they can't even keep pace with a domestic demand that's expected to triple by the 1990's.

To fill the manufacturing gap, the Russians are courting foreign partners who will provide equipment and technical expertise or perhaps even build entire factories, all for the production of Russian designs.

Foreign designs dominate the few joint ventures already underway. Pierre Cardin, the French designer and licensing giant, was one of the first European fashion figures to do business with the Russians, beginning in 1986. Ten factories in the Soviet Union now produce Cardin men's and women's apparel, and 22 more are planned. Benetton, the Italian retailer, is negotiating to open shops in several cities.

Last September, the Russians got a glimpse of American fashions by designers such as Mary McFadden, Adrienne Vittadini, Ronaldus Shamask and Alexander Julian. No fashions from that show, which was organized by Owen & Breslin and Associates, a group of New York-based promoters, were for sale. But Owen & Breslin is currently negotiating to license a line of clothing created by a 20-member Soviet-American design team. It would be manufactured in the United States, beginning this fall. Owen & Breslin, which has an office in Moscow, also hopes to launch several other American-made lines priced for the average Soviet consumer. Says Michael T. Owen, one of the principals: ''That's where the void is.''

AT LUXE, MOSCOW'S FIRST AND only luxury goods emporium, scarcely any inventory appears on the selling floor. Shoppers wander about looking faintly stunned as they take in new arrivals, which are displayed on Danish mannequins so alluringly life-like that the first visitors to the store reportedly tried to shake their hands. Aluminum strip ceilings and marble floors, both designed by the Italian firm Olivetti, are buffed to a high sheen. The rack-and-clutter-free environment is a statement in minimalism, and, not incidentally, disguises the fact that stocks are sometimes thin.

Housed in a former restaurant in Moscow's Olympic Village, Luxe carries a few foreign labels, notably Pierre Cardin, but the bulk of its merchandise is Russian-made. Murat T. Gadginsky, the 41-year-old director, a stocky man with an impresario's expansive manner, sees the store as a merchandising laboratory. Salespeople - who receive a virtually unheard-of commission on sales - invite customers to indicate their size and color preference on one of the store's Italian computers. (Computerized sales are themselves a novelty in a country where many purchases still are tallied on an abacus.) Prices vary from 110 rubles (about $176) for a woman's woolen suit to a dizzying 10,850 rubles ($17,360) for a mink coat. Bargain hunters are more likely to visit Maladojny - The Youth Store - inaptly named, actually, since most of the merchandise in this cavernous Soviet-style supermarket is sized and styled for adults. Still, this is the place to find black vinyl miniskirts, Soviet-made sweatshirts with American slogans, tote bags stamped with spurious Fiorucci labels and acid-washed denims.

On a recent weekday morning, Maladojny's broad aisles weren't exactly teeming, but displays of foreign goods did draw crowds. A line formed instantly as word leaked of a shipment of Italian shoes, and what began as a benign scene quickly threatened to erupt into a brawl with the realization that, as usual, there were far fewer shoes than customers.

Rather than engage in this sort of combat, many Russians visit seamstresses or resort to their own sewing machines; informal surveys suggest that about one-third of Russians, men as well as women, make their own clothes. Some turn up at fashion shows, where they busily sketch designs to copy later at home. Others work from patterns supplied by the leading fashion houses or magazines. But Soviet fashion magazines are as scarce as designer shoes. The Journal Mod, one of the best known, has a circulation of several hundred thousand. The Dom Modeli prints about 200,000 copies of its popular fashion and pattern catalogue. ''We can't print enough to meet the demand,'' admits Irene Andreeva, who blames persistent paper shortages.

THE DEARTH OF FASHION NEWS doesn't faze Elena Khudikova. When an American visitor presented her with a current issue of Vogue, she flipped through its pages dismissively. Two years ago, Khudikova established herself on the Soviet fashion fringe with a collection of neo-Constructivist dresses inspired by the 1920's geometric textile designs of Lyubov Popova and Varvara Stepanova.

Nowadays, the 30-year-old designer's sources are simpler and more accessible. She scours fabric shops and uniform outlets for materials. An officer's uniform becomes a feminized, full-skirted coat; a charwoman's shift becomes a strapless black cotton minidress. Khudikova's accessories include an Egyptian-style necklace, which on closer inspection turns out to be a string of Soviet military badges; a pair of earrings that are converted plumbing valves, and a serpentine armband that in a former life was a bedspring.

Moscow's handful of unofficial designers ostentatiously turn their backs on the West, plundering Soviet history and modern flea markets for inspiration. Because materials are scarce, most have learned to be expert scavengers. A bolt of military drill cloth, a cheap nylon brassiere, medals that once decorated an officer's cap - no object is too lowly, too ugly or too sacred to be pressed into service.

Shunning the runways, these designers are more likely to show their work in cabarets or to parade it on the streets as performance art. Their guru is 34-year-old Garik (his real name is Oleg Kolomeichuk), a slender, goateed wraith of a man who pads around his cramped apartment in coolie pants and Chinese slippers. Funny and loquacious, he can persuade you in a flash that punk is a Soviet invention. But unlike Western punkers of the 1970's, with their shredded T-shirts and safety pins, Soviet punks, says Garik, like to dress up, usually in the castoffs of the privileged class.

Garik's own closets are crammed with flea market finds: a garish assortment of vintage neckties, floral-patterned shirts for men, filmy baby-doll nighties, motorcycle jackets and a pinstriped Christian Dior sportcoat. The highlight of the collection is a long, old-fashioned overcoat Garik calls the ''Dead Spy.''

Garik's followers have picked up his irreverent style. For Irene Buourmistrova, 27, fashion is theater. She underscores the point by modeling one of her costumes, a homemade rocket cut from silvery airplane insulation material, in Red Square. When, in a matter of minutes, she is flanked by plainclothes police and brusquely escorted to headquarters, Buourmistrova isn't at all put out, or even much surprised. ''They used to hold me for hours or days,'' she tells a companion. ''But my stays are shorter now.'' Katya Filippova's fashions are no less riveting, but more wearable. The former graphic artist, who is in her late 20's, bestows evocative names on her creations. A flimsy net bra embellished with rhinestones and military insignia is from her ''Russian Valkyrie'' line, as are black leather wristcuffs and a leather cap.

Her ''Orthodox'' collection includes a necklace of miniature, hand-painted icons. Serene and perfectly poker-faced, she explains that the line was created in honor of celebrations marking the country's 1,000th year of Christianity. Most of her pieces are one of a kind, she adds, and she likes to wear them herself. ''Not everyone can dress the way I do,'' says Filippova with mingled pride and defiance. ''When I wear my own designs, I am an ancient Slav queen.''