London calling - Another season
Queues, unreliable PR girls, lying supermodels. It can only mean one thing: London Fashion Week
While what seemed like a large chunk of the British population queued outside branches of Northern Rock - which I always thought was a company that made climbing gear - to withdraw their hard-earned cash, inhabitants of Planet Fashion from all four quarters of the globe descended upon London for the second leg of the four city jamboree, during which designers preview next summer's fashions.
It's crazy to think that while summer is only just ended, fashionistas are already a few seasons ahead. In fact, I have a theory: Fashion people are a bit cuckoo because they are going through somewhere between three or four seasons at one go. I'll give myself as an example (not that I consider myself in any way to be a fashionista, but I do work in the industry, so...). In summer, I'm working with autumn/winter samples, helping create others for the following spring/summer while thinking ahead for the next autumn/winter, which in this case will be 2008/9.
But to see just how cuckoo the whole thing is you have to witness the shows. People queue for hours to spend more time sitting down and waiting until all the Big Shots - the editors, stylists, celebrities - of the front row - who of course never, ever queue are seated in their front row seats (I've made it to row two this year! Wow!) giving the designer - who in most cases is in the back having a nervous breakdown - the go-ahead to start. The show usually lasts no longer than 10 minutes, but they are usually the longest and most important - not to say heinously expensive - 10 minutes for a designer. Everyone sits there looking bored, showing no obvious signs of enthusiasm because fashionistas don't really like showing enthusiasm. It's only after everyone walks out that the criticism starts. Of course, all it takes one is a negative comment by one Big Shot to send a designer to Fashion Hell.
Of course Fashion Week is not only about shows. There are parties, lots of them, to go to every night. Book launches, shop openings, post-show parties, magazine dos... This year, Vogue and the Victoria & Albert Museum threw a big gala to launch the Golden Age of Couture exhibition, which became my headache of the week - well, the main one, I was given a few others by a few unreliable designers and PR people - thanks mainly to one supermodel who cancelled one hour and five minutes before she was due to be picked up, giving her mother's ill health as an excuse - only to be shown out partying with a 1980s pop star turned DJ on the following morning's papers.
Another of the main events of the week - strictly by invitation only - was a memorial service held to celebrate the life and work of the late Isabella Blow who died earlier this year. It was a beautiful event held at the Guards' Chapel in St James's, and was attended by everyone who was in town, from royalty to rock stars. As Isabella Blow had been one of the industry's biggest hat wearers, women were asked to wear hats, so it was a Philip Treacy extravaganza in there: Joan Collins in bright pink plumes, Anna Piaggi in a metallic purple flat number with a black bow.
Speeches by Anna Wintour, Suzy Menkes and Geordie Greig (the editor of Tatler, for who Isabella Blow had worked) were interspersed with musical offerings that varied from Cole Porter to Gluck (a heartbreaking Che farò senza Euridice, sung by 15-year-old Charles Eliasch).
But the highlight of my week was finally getting the chance to belt out William Blake's words to Sir Hubert Parry's music on Jerusalem, something I have wanted to do since first hearing the hymn on the Chariots of Fire soundtrack back in 1981. I've never been one to sing in a church - in fact I don't remember ever having done it except for when I was at school, and even then, it was never done with enthusiasm! But there I was, channelling Pavarotti (very badly, I must say, but what the hell!)
Fashion? Who cares!
It's crazy to think that while summer is only just ended, fashionistas are already a few seasons ahead. In fact, I have a theory: Fashion people are a bit cuckoo because they are going through somewhere between three or four seasons at one go. I'll give myself as an example (not that I consider myself in any way to be a fashionista, but I do work in the industry, so...). In summer, I'm working with autumn/winter samples, helping create others for the following spring/summer while thinking ahead for the next autumn/winter, which in this case will be 2008/9.
But to see just how cuckoo the whole thing is you have to witness the shows. People queue for hours to spend more time sitting down and waiting until all the Big Shots - the editors, stylists, celebrities - of the front row - who of course never, ever queue are seated in their front row seats (I've made it to row two this year! Wow!) giving the designer - who in most cases is in the back having a nervous breakdown - the go-ahead to start. The show usually lasts no longer than 10 minutes, but they are usually the longest and most important - not to say heinously expensive - 10 minutes for a designer. Everyone sits there looking bored, showing no obvious signs of enthusiasm because fashionistas don't really like showing enthusiasm. It's only after everyone walks out that the criticism starts. Of course, all it takes one is a negative comment by one Big Shot to send a designer to Fashion Hell.
Of course Fashion Week is not only about shows. There are parties, lots of them, to go to every night. Book launches, shop openings, post-show parties, magazine dos... This year, Vogue and the Victoria & Albert Museum threw a big gala to launch the Golden Age of Couture exhibition, which became my headache of the week - well, the main one, I was given a few others by a few unreliable designers and PR people - thanks mainly to one supermodel who cancelled one hour and five minutes before she was due to be picked up, giving her mother's ill health as an excuse - only to be shown out partying with a 1980s pop star turned DJ on the following morning's papers.
Another of the main events of the week - strictly by invitation only - was a memorial service held to celebrate the life and work of the late Isabella Blow who died earlier this year. It was a beautiful event held at the Guards' Chapel in St James's, and was attended by everyone who was in town, from royalty to rock stars. As Isabella Blow had been one of the industry's biggest hat wearers, women were asked to wear hats, so it was a Philip Treacy extravaganza in there: Joan Collins in bright pink plumes, Anna Piaggi in a metallic purple flat number with a black bow.
Speeches by Anna Wintour, Suzy Menkes and Geordie Greig (the editor of Tatler, for who Isabella Blow had worked) were interspersed with musical offerings that varied from Cole Porter to Gluck (a heartbreaking Che farò senza Euridice, sung by 15-year-old Charles Eliasch).
But the highlight of my week was finally getting the chance to belt out William Blake's words to Sir Hubert Parry's music on Jerusalem, something I have wanted to do since first hearing the hymn on the Chariots of Fire soundtrack back in 1981. I've never been one to sing in a church - in fact I don't remember ever having done it except for when I was at school, and even then, it was never done with enthusiasm! But there I was, channelling Pavarotti (very badly, I must say, but what the hell!)
Fashion? Who cares!