The Fashionista Files (35 page)

Secret of My Success
KAREN

From 1994 to 1997 I worked as a peon at Fairchild Publications, the powerhouse media company that publishes
Women’s Wear
Daily (a.k.a. the fashion bible) and W magazine. While my days were spent doing the remedial, low-end tasks for which important people hadn’t the time—handing out mail, carrying flowers from the messenger center to some big editor’s desk, occasionally returning a few hundred thousand dollars’ worth of diamonds to Tiffany, and fetching coffee for the powers that be—I thought myself lucky to be in an environment where such vital fashion news was being reported. Every minute I was exposed to glorious racks of clothing rolling through the office, detailed conversations and faxes about the production of photo shoots (the best way to learn is by eavesdropping), and what life is like on a crazy deadline schedule. It seemed like such a dream. I couldn’t wait to move up the ranks and be more than just a gofer. This was the place where Calvin Klein got his start.

The fashionistas lurking inside the fluorescent-lit loftlike space had a commanding presence. They almost always wore black. Every day I overheard watercooler convo about who was wearing what (“Did you see that Miu Miu fur? What about Bridget’s skirt? It’s Galliano!”), but as a newbie on the circuit I was too intimidated to speak up. Instead I watched carefully and learned a lot about dressing and style. It was the first time I was exposed to superhigh pointy-toed stilettos—with jeans! And I relished the look, promptly adopting it with my own spin. The aura of the place was always fast-paced, slightly insane, and stylish. And during Fashion Week it was the same, only much more so.

No one was in the office during showtime. It was go, go, go. Big editors got car services while the rest were left to their own devices. The crew dressed to the nines. No expense was spared for Fashion Week style. Most people “called in” clothes from big design houses in order to borrow something chic. And everyone would try to give a designer a “nod” by showing up at the collection in something from the designer in question. Wear Oscar to Oscar, Calvin to Calvin, Ralph to Ralph. Change in the cab if you must. I wanted to be a part of the craziness of it all, but there was no way. I was too low on the ladder to merit an invite. Once someone let me have a “standing only” invitation that no one had claimed, but I had too many things to file in order to go.

By my second year at
WWD,
however, I started to know more people. Extra perks were thrown my way from time to time (they must have figured, “Give the dog a bone. . . .” After all, there was only so much begging they could handle). But the perks never came in the form of a fashion show invite. So I took it upon myself to find a way in. One season I dolled myself up like nobody’s business, having saved for months to afford wares of a certain caliber from the gleaming Calvin Klein store on Madison Avenue.

I was determined to get into his show, no matter what. I managed to attach myself to a group of what appeared to be important editors (they were all speaking with British accents and wearing wild fedoras and leather Dior suits, which must have meant they were
someone
). I got up the nerve to put on my most pretentious accent and say to one of the women, “Darling, these Manolos are killing my feet. Do you mind if I hold on to you while we make it through this crowd of vulgarians?” She understood—and being the fairy-godmother fashionista from across the pond that she was, she said, “Darling, I do understand. Of course, love.” She gave me her arm. With that I tricked the doorkeeper, who assumed I was part of the posse.

My next step was seat scouring. I waited until most of the crowd poured in before I pounced. I figured I’d let the real invitees sit and then grab a seat belonging to an ungrateful no-show. Thirtyfive minutes later (these things never start on time), I was perched in the second row (not as good as first, but much better than being in my office, filing). I watched the show in awe. I had never seen such beauty, such flawless makeup, such tall, gorgeous women, such covetable clothes.

And as I walked out, I wasn’t thinking about the fact that I’d have to explain my extended lunch break. My low-level status didn’t even come to mind. I just felt high, like I had just tasted the good life and I never wanted the flavor to go away. It did, sadly. The second I got back to the office! An editor had spotted me in the second row and reamed me for it, saying that I had no right to be there because I was just an assistant. She wanted to know how I got in and what the hell I was doing there. She threatened to get my ass fired in a snap. I found out later that she was just angry because she was in the fourth row. The horror!

No Invitation? No Problem!

Fashion shows are closed to the public. But with a little guile, a lot of chutzpah, and a great outfit, you too can scam your way past the burly security guards.

The best way to snag an invitation is to put together press credentials. Write for your college paper, or a small alternative press that doesn’t cover fashion, but is well known in town. Convince the editor you’re the girl (or guy) for the job. Register for a press pass and wait for the invitations to come to you.

Seventh on Sixth (the organization that runs the of ficial shows in New York and Los Angeles) has a list of public relations firms that handle the shows. Fax them your credentials (a few clips will help support your case) and they will pass them along to the PR firms so that you are on the invitation list.

Subscribe to the
Fashion Calendar
($400 a year) to get the latest news on all happenings. Fashion Calendar Publications, 153 E. Eighty-seventh Street, New York, NY 10128 (212) 289-0420.

Standing-room tickets are given to students at fashion colleges, like FIT and Parsons. If you’re not enrolled there, find a friend who is, and snag invitations from him or her.

To upgrade a standing-room ticket, simply write in a seat number. Show seating is most commonly a section number, a row number, and a seat number. Sections are usually alphabetical. Try “B-3-5” or “C-7-11.” Only the truly brash upgrade all the way to the first-calls rows, like “A-1-10.” (A section, first row, seat 10). Once you arrive at your stolen seat, peel off the name of the person whose seat you have swiped. Never give up your seat unless threatened with bodily harm. A furious fashionista is a frightening sight!

If you want to sneak a friend into the shows, give your friend your ticket so she can waltz into the show without being stopped. You yourself will check in at the front desk, saying you lost your ticket. You will be given a white paper slip with your seat assignment. There is always an excess of empty seats, so your friend should have no trouble finding one. You can both even upgrade to better seats—all the way to the front row—if you have the nerve!

WHO ARE YOU WEARING?

Close Encounters with a Camera Lens
MELISSA

There’s a tenacious type of reporter that covers Fashion Week with a dedication rivaled by no other. I’m speaking, of course, of the Japanese paparazzi. The Japanese paparazzi are a funky-looking group made up of small mustached and bearded men with huge Nikon lenses. They are accompanied by supremely chic bosses in cat-eye glasses, schoolgirl uniforms, and fluorescent-colored running shoes. The Japanese paparazzi cover the clothes of the fashionista attendees with the zeal of war correspondents.

As editors and socialites alight from their cabs and town cars, the Japarazzi swarm, hounding their heels, snapping flashbulbs, and yelling in Japanese. Once the photographers are satisfied they have their shot, the editors tentatively approach to get your name, age, and what designer you are wearing. Unlike Bill Cunningham, the
New York Times
’s Sunday Styles photographer, who uses long-lens cameras and is very discriminate about whom he shoots (in fact, most fashionista wanna-bes walk vainly in front of him several times in outrageous outfits to try to nab his attention), the Japarazzi give everybody love.

Still, the Japanese have their regular “favorites” each season, and one year I was honored to be one of them. In fact, another fashionista pastime is to appear jaded about the Japanese attention.

Fashion show invitations: tickets to the world of style

“Oh, God, they want a picture of me
again
?” fashionistas
often say, rolling their eyes as they turn to face the cameras. “Aren’t they
tired of me by now?”

Every time I arrived at the tents that year, the same crew went in for the kill. Unlike the other fashionistas, who were rewarded with full-length body shots, the Japanese photographers were obsessed with my shoes. In all my years of attending Fashion Week, my face never appeared in
Cutie,
Japanese
Vogue, Ginza,
or any of the Japanese glossies. But my feet have been regular models.

Dressing for the Paparazzi

Putting together a wardrobe for Fashion Week requires quick-change artistry. You might find that the outfit you had imagined for Monday (bomber jacket, satin skirt, ankle-strap heels) might not work by Tuesday, when you realize everyone is working the haute hippie look instead of the slutty secretary scenario. Here are a few tips to get everyone’s attention—and admiration.

Eccentricity is a plus. Indulge in a full-length eye-catching outfit. You will find the most colorfully and outrageously dressed always win the game. We have seen men in checkered four-piece plaid suits, clown shoes, huge Mad Hatter hats, and walking canes get assaulted by the cameras.

When in doubt, oversize. A three-foot-tall cowboy hat, or six-inch heels, or a Big Bird–yellow floor-length fur coat.

Vintage touches always turn heads. Marilyn Kirschner, a former editor at
Bazaar,
was rewarded with a full-page spread in the Sunday
Times
for her exquisite vintage outfits. (She always wore on the trend of the moment without paying the price of the moment.)

Weird always works. The editors of
Paper
attend the shows in blankets, hobo-style coats, vinyl running shoes, and plastic Hermès knockoffs.

Tote a one-of-a-kind statement, like a bag made of license plates.

Borrow something from a major designer from the season that is being shown on the runway. It is a privilege allotted to a very proud few. If you can’t get one from the season of the runway moment, at least wear something from the current season.

Put on something new and fabulous, regardless of how seasonal or weather-appropriate it is. This is no time to be shy about your fashion scores.

A great handbag is key. During Fashion Week, magazines show huge spreads of what people are wearing to the shows and often focus on the front row of handbags littering the floor. Louis Vuitton, Hermès, Balenciaga, Gucci, Fendi, Hogan, and so on. It is also the time when the fake peddlers come out and sell knockoffs nearby. Patricia Field, the stylist for Sex and the City, was spotted getting a faux LV Murakami for $20. The seller was chased away by cops!

Don’t read a magazine. You don’t want to illustrate your media loyalty to the public.
WWD
staffers are instructed not to read any competitor publication at the shows!

FRONT AND CENTER

David Copperfield, Toni Braxton, Karen Robinovitz!?
KAREN

First you get an invitation. Then you RSVP. Once you get that far, you just sit and wait. Wait for what? Your seating assignment, of course. It’s an Adivan moment, riddled with anxiety. Anything can happen between the time you RSVP and the time you get your seat confirmation. In this business you are only as good as the row you’re sitting in. The seat, for a fashionista, is a lot like a car for a man going through a midlife crisis. You have to have the best. You have to be front-row. The more high-profile the designer, the more your seat confirms your position, status, and class among other fashionistas. And considering that this is a world focused on image, you can only imagine how heart-wrenching it is to be cursed with a bad spot.

On the town with Liv Tyler during Fashion Week, when all the stars come out

I have to admit, I would love to be a first-row gal at Marc Jacobs or Narciso Rodriguez. I am not. In fact, this season (Spring/Summer 2003), I didn’t even get an invitation to those shows (curses!). But I was given spectacular affirmation at the Rosa Cha show. Rosa Cha is a Brazilian swimwear line designed by Amir Slama, who makes shocking bathing suits. Think hardly-there silhouettes, reversible fabrics, treated suede, ruffles, layers of tulle, corseting, lacing, ruching, boning, and as much care as what would go into a highly elaborate Michael Kors gown. It’s waterproof art.

And this season’s show was destined to be an outsize smash hit. Beyoncé and Jay Z. were in the house. It was sponsored by Ortho Evra, the birth-control-patch company. The models were going to be parading the runway, half-naked with high heels and birth-control patches! The glamorous irony! And the line to get in was absolute mayhem. I was elbowed in the gut twice—and even had the bruise to prove it. I was pushed so hard, my Gucci hat fell off and some fashionista was stepping all over it. When I asked her if she’d mind moving a bit so I could retrieve it, she actually said, “Yes, I do mind.” I was like,
Hello! It’s fur!

I was accosted by no less than three doorkeepers, who couldn’t find my name on the list (it was, of course, misspelled, as usual).

Front-row glory . . . worth every ounce of pain it took to get there!

A skinny flaming fashionista fell over, and in the process of tipping over he reached out and grabbed whatever he could find to hold him up—my Chloe necklace, which broke on the spot. I thought about leaving, but it was pouring out. And I knew I’d never find a cab. So I sucked it up and finally made my way to my seat. All was forgotten as I was led to my cushy front-row spot, right between David Copperfield and Toni Braxton—and in front of so many of the people who hurt me as I made my way inside!

The View Is Marvelous!
MELISSA AND KAREN

Who doesn’t love sitting in the front row? The crème de la crème of the fashion world park their butts on this prime real estate. And once you have sat in front, there’s no going back.

“Mel, are you going to Alvin’s show?” Karen asked.

“I don’t know,” Mel lamented.

“Why? Isn’t he your favorite designer?”

“Yes. But he only gave me
third
row.”

Third row! A nightmare! Sitting with nobodies in the cheap seats! In the third row, you wouldn’t even be able to see the models’ shoes! “That is unacceptable!” Karen said.

“I know. I don’t know what to do.”

It’s not who you are, it’s where you sit that counts.

We begged and pleaded and faxed. And we were rewarded. The next day Alvin’s publicist hand-delivered two invitations with front-row designations. Of course, on the day of the show we suffered fashion lethargy: the disease that comes from wanting so much to go somewhere, but once the time comes, it seems like your home has never been more comfortable.

“Mel, do you want to go to Alvin’s show?” Karen asked.

“I don’t feel like it.” Mel replied.

“You can’t! We have to go!” Karen said. “After the workout we did to that publicist? She’ll
kill
us!” In the end, we made our way to Alvin’s show. And we noticed that so many people had requested front-row that the show producers had fixed the problem by creating a U-shaped runway, which doubled the amount of front-row seats. Still, it was good to have such a plum spot. A photographer at W recognized us and took our photo. See above.