E-Paper
The Fashion Circus
So, it's that time of year again - when the fashion world creates its own parallel universe within the air-conditioned environs of a five-star hotel while the rest of us gawp on from the sidelines.
So, it's that time of year again when the fashion world creates its own parallel universe within the air-conditioned environs of a five-star hotel while the rest of us gawp on from the sidelines. Yes, Fashion Week is upon us with all its frills and thrills, spinning stories out of gossamer thin fabric, creating controversy and copy with equal elan and spawning its own Life Forms in the process.
First up is the fully-certified Fashion ista, who lives by prêt and dies for couture. Her life revolves around her wardrobe, always in perfect sync with the styles of the moment, and completely refurbished with every season. You find her resplendent in the first row (to be seated anywhere else would spell social death), flaunting an outfit from the latest collection of the designer on show (even if it means changing three times in the course of the day), exchanging excited noises with the Social X-rays seated on either side of her, clapping dementedly as the models slouch by on the ramp, and blowing kisses at the designer as he makes his bow after the show. And then, as everyone makes a beeline for the exit, she hangs around hopefully in the foyer, hoping that some TV channel will ask for her comments on the clothes, or that, at the very least, a photographer will take a picture that can feature on page three. If that doesn't work, she will look around madly for the Fashion Editor, hoping to rate a mention in his/her copy.
Aha, the Fashion Editor, that's where the action is at Fashion Week. Everyone from the Designer of the Day to the Hostess with the Mostest is targeting this elusive creature. The good news is that there are more than one of them, so you have a fair chance of snaring at least a couple. The bad part is that they all want to be seated in the first row, last seat down the length of the ramp, so that they have the longest possible time to look at the clothes. It is a brave organizer who crosses the Fashion Editor and he who does, reads all about it in the next day's newspapers.
But at least you can peg the Fashion Editor down. It's not quite so simple with the Hybrid Hydra, that two-headed monster who seeks to be a socialite among the journalists and a journalist among the socialites. She has a rich father/husband/boyfriend (strike one as applicable), is part of the social whirl but likes to think that she is somewhat above it all because, you know, she runs a magazine/doubles as a stylist/pens a column. But with her `It' bag and designer clothes, she is not quite the humble hack either. So, she veers between the two worlds, teetering precariously on her Manolo Blahniks, acting superior in both and fitting in with neither.
Not that anyone is paying much attention to her. They're too busy chatting up the Social Reporter from the television channel of the moment, who can make them famous for 15 seconds. If you're very, very nice to him/her, he/she will feature your sound byte on his/her show or even air a clip of your after-show party, thereby reinforcing your celebrity status in front of an enthralled nation.
That brings us right up to the Party Animals. It's not the shows that interest them, it's the champagne; it's not the clothes that have them captivated but the models wearing them. But while they may not know their Rohit Bal from their Rohit Gandhi, they know that it's important to be seen in the right places, in the right labels and in the right company. So, how could they possibly pass up on Fashion Week?
Herding all these Exotic Creatures together is the harried Event Manager, wireless headset clamped around his head, who flounces from one location to another, looking madly distracted about everything that can go wrong (and it usually does). This is the guy everyone yells at about everything, from shows running more than an hour late, the paucity of front-row seats, the lack of invites to the after-show parties, to the champagne being somewhat flat. No wonder the poor chap looks as if the worries of the world are upon him.
Somewhere within this mad whirl are the people this event is supposed to revolve around: the designers who make the clothes and the buyers who bring them to stores around the world. But if you tend to lose sight of them in the midst of this social jungle, who could possibly blame you?
