I really want to delve into my London Fashion Week experience, for it was an enthralling one. Forgive the lengthiness, I have a tendency to write verbosely (I am learning to cut back in my Fashion Journalism course though!), but it was hard for me to just focus on one aspect of the show. Plus, it is my blog, and the rules to follow are simply my own.
I’ve dreamed about it since being a little girl.
Glamor, snapping and popping of cameras, long runways graced by the eloquently
laden models, beautiful and ethereal women wearing only the highest end
couture. Reporters, fashion designers, and celebrities crowding the aisles,
eager for a glimpse into the magical world of the designer’s show.
Of
course, I always thought I would be a participant in the show, one of those
lucky women confidently strutting down the runway, eyed at by audience aptly
watching on. Instead, I sit here today, a fashion journalist intrigued not in
walking the runway (being told to “eat donuts or lose thirty pounds” wasn’t
worth it), but in observing, analyzing, and reporting.
I
attended my very first fashion show this afternoon, one of the many included in
the iconic bi-annual London Fashion Week. The abnormal hot weather finally dissipated
and the clouds rolled in, leaving us a brief reprieve from the rain. Dressed in
a bright silk Kate Spade dress purchased at a used clothing store just a few
days before, and accessorized with some Ted Baker, I was dropped off at the
entrance. Joining the hundreds of other stylishly dressed patrons, I had time
to look at the plethora of styles around me.
I’ve
never had the pleasure of standing in the middle of bona fide “street style”
section. I grew up in Alaska where style was Carharrt jackets and Extra Tuff
rain boots. Here, in London, one of the most eclectic and diversely cultural
cities in the world, was a whole other dimension. First, there were your
typically stylish women. Dressed in the latest fashion and seamlessly putting
together the smoothest of ensembles, I saw that these were the girls I often
pinned on my Pinterest board for inspiration. On the other end of the spectrum,
however, were the Spectacles. These were the camera hoggers. Dressed in the
most ridiculous of outfits, they were the ones often stared at, dressed in
costume so ridiculous and out there that the cameras couldn’t help but snap
their direction.
Just
in front of me, there was a woman dressed in this gawdy outfit, but it wasn’t
what she was wearing that caught everyone’s eye, it was her hair. Purple dreads
knotted together, she had done up her hair in a two foot pile at the top of her
head, something similar to that of Marge Simpson from The Simpsons. And inside, when I finally passed through the marble
corridors and many security personnel, a man with a full deck of makeup on his
face and a white Chanel blazer slung across his shoulders.
Enter,
London Fashion Week.
When
I was finally able to sit down inside of the showroom, I was immersed in this
fashion world at an even closer angle. Peering about me, it was hard to look at
just one thing, as my eyes were constantly enticed by something new. Over
there, a blonde pixie cut girl with thigh high knotted white boots, or the row
of attractively dressed young men across from me, but then behind me, air
kisses and recalls of past shows as old acquaintances reunited. It was like a
dream.
Being
the new girl on the block, I simply let the show roll out before me, the
prequel to the actual fashion show. Cameras snapping at the Spectacles, like
the man with his entire face tatted and gold teeth peeking out when he smiled,
or the woman with the puffiest blue fur coat I had ever seen, I was immersed in
this show before the show, intrigued and quite a bit amused.
When
the lights finally dimmed and the first designer’s name popped up on the
screen, I pulled out my Kate Spade journal and proceeded to write away. It was
then that I noticed that the cameramen were finally taking notice of me,
pointing their lens at me when there was a break between designers. Probably
assuming that I was some high-end fashion journalist, I acted the part, looking
perplexed at the models walking my way, scribbling chicken scratch in my
journal about the designer’s aesthetic, what it reminded me of, what was the
music like, and of course the poor condition of the models. Of course I thought
about pulling out my camera (an actual camera and not some silly iPhone), but I
didn’t want to follow the pattern of the entire audience, experiencing the show
through that of a screen. This was my first show, and I wanted to take
everything in with fresh eyes only.
Sitting
in the second row, I had a pretty good look at what was about me, from the very
skinny models on the runway, to the audience of camera phones, to the
expressions on people’s faces whenever someone new turned the corner onto the
runway in some fashionable or exotic item.
I
noticed the first collection (by Ana) to be a combination of pastels, soda pop,
pinup, sea anemone billowed shaped ensembles. For the second designer, Anissa,
I got the vibes of farmer, straw, classic boxy cuts, Chinese influence,
chopsticks, half painted face, and hues of denim and white. When Ester’s
collection came out, it was all paper shredded, old theatre, piano style tuxes
with a seventies influence with long haired vibes and masculine linens. And
lastly, for Billie, a sparkle show of pink sequins, fur, exotic jewelry, punk
‘80’s unicorn, and light up sneaks. All new designers, all very dissimilar
aesthetics.
And
just like that, all that hard work, all that time spent backstage prepping with
models, makeup artists, and publicity, it was over. Fifteen minutes to
capitalize on hours and hours of hard work and dedication.
Surprised
at the abrupt ending, I quietly packed away my journal into my back and
carefully walked through the fashionable crowd back to the real world on the
street, carefully coming down from the cloud of this show, more wise and
knowledgeable with my thoughts on this mysterious industry.
Although
there’s beauty and mystique about the fashion industry, also admitting that
it’s an illustrious and formidable industry, it doesn’t exactly align with what
I had imagined it to be. Secluded, entitled, and all based on looks and fading
identities, it’s an industry that thrives on the concept of one day being in,
and the next day being out.
As
much as I enjoyed being thrust into this world, glimpsing at only a peek of
what it feels like to be the queen of the crop in the fashion scene, it wasn’t
the right vibe for me. As a woman of modest and empowering traits, I couldn’t
help but feel replaceable and insignificant, like last year’s Prada handbag.
I
must say, what I’ve read about has all proved to be true. I guess it just took
a leap into the pit to discover that for myself.
What I wore: vintage rhinestone choker, olive green Christian Dior draped top (designer resale store), soft floral Ted Baker high-waisted skirt (I loved my job!), and Nordstrom flats (Nordstrom Rack).