Fashion Week

It’s 10:40 in the morning and I’m sitting in a nearly deserted hall waiting for the day of fittings and choreography to start. Last night the show’s organiser yelled at all the models that they had to be on time, otherwise there would be some major repercussions. On time was forty minutes ago. Apparently the majority of the models didn’t take the threat very seriously. With good reason too, I might add. The show’s organiser isn’t here yet either.

I have been steadily coming later to these things. The first day I was here before the official time. The next day I was exactly on time. Yesterday I was fifteen minutes late and today I only took the rickshaw when the allotted time had come. I don’t like being late, but I also hate being forced to wait around.

These shows are an interesting combination of dreary boredom and frenzied insanity. For most of the day we either sit around, waiting to get called upon or standing around in designer’s outfits hating the fact that the designers are showcasing autumn and winter collections when it isn’t really autumn or winter yet.

Then, because the scheduling always goes to hell in a hand basket, in the last two hours of the show they try to get four hours of work done. This is normally the time they choreography of the entire show is done, so we generally don’t really know what the hell we’re doing. I swear, the woman that does the choreography will have to take a month long holiday just to recover from herding around sixty models; who all either have no experience or egos big enough to give cover from the rain.

It’s amazing that the shows work as well as they do. In front there’s models walking down a long white ramp, looking beautiful and composed. Behind there is only screaming, confusion and chaos. ‘Where’s my shoes! Where’s whatshisface? Where’s my beer!’ (Drinking, by the way, is a normal part of the shows. No complaints here!)

My noteworthy walk so far was for Levis. They didn’t want to showcase the jeans like they usually do, so they dressed up all of the strange gear. They gave me jeans, a leather apron and two knives (no shirt) and said ‘look menacing’. So I did. I thought thoughts of murder and destruction and let them all show on my face as I walked down the ramp. The effect was, apparently, quite something according to all the compliments I got afterwards. I must have looked like an absolute psycho, with a cleaver in one hand, a sharpener in the other and murder in my eyes.

Anyways, things have finally got going so I’ll leave you with that and I’ll be sure to update you all soon.