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.
WHO’S WHO AT THE SHOWS AND WHERE THEY SIT
Seating politics is serious business at the shows. Production companies and PR firms work literally twenty-four/seven to get it together, chomping down pizza, sipping Red Bull, and staying up all night to figure out who to seat where (can’t put this person next to this person because they hate each other, and—oh, my God!—what about Carine from Paris? At the eleventh hour she hasn’t a seat, and that is a major faux pas and grounds for immediate firing). It’s very tricky, getting it all right. It is a time of catfights, cutting remarks, painful tears, and dirty politics. Seating charts go back and forth from designer to PR company to fashion show producers until everything is right . . . and even then, things change at the very last second. Editors have stabbed other editors in the back with a ballpoint pen over seats. Luckily, it’s usually Montblanc.
Front row Editors in chief of major magazines (Vogue, W, Bazaar, etc.) and their offspring (Anna Wintour’s daughter Bee gets front-row every year); fashion and creative directors if they’re very A-list; buyers from major department stores (Barneys, Bloomingdale’s, Saks, Bendel, etc.); celebrities (Britney Spears, Sarah Jessica Parker); socialites (Nan Kempner, Aerin Lauder); crashers (notice them by their shifty eyes and not-quite-Manolo shoes!).
Second row Fashion directors/senior fashion editors from national newspapers and major local newspapers (the New York Times and the New York Post), however, editors in chief and style directors from the New York Times get front-row props.
Third row Regional papers; associate editors; fashion assistants.
Fourth row Small local papers; small boutique buyers that don’t have premier status in the biz; corporate sponsors.
Fifth row The designers’ families.
Standing FIT students; any of the above if there are more of the first- and second-row people—i.e., Puffy bumps down the accessories director, who bumps down the assistant, who bumps down the regional paper . . . and so it goes. . . .
FASHION WEEK ON THE WEST COAST... AN OXYMORON?
Rocking the House MELISSA
I was skeptical about the whole notion of Los Angeles Fashion Week. I mean, c’mon. First of all, there is no such thing as weather in Southern California—it’s a breezy, sunny eighty degrees every day, even in the middle of January. When it rained in Silver Lake, it was actually on the news.
“John Smith, caught off guard by the rain,” flashed on the television set, as confused Angelinos confronted the cloudy skies. Since there’s no opportunity to wear crocodile boots, tweed and fur coats, or even high heels, what passes for high style in La La Land is simple: Juicy sweats, Ugg boots or wedgies, wraparound sunglasses. The men climbing out of Bentleys wear tracksuits instead of Armani.
The first sign that I wasn’t in Manhattan anymore (Toto!) was that everyone at the Smashbox Fashion Week (held at the groovy Smashbox Studios in Culver City) was given a free goody bag. Now, in New York only registered members of the press merit the overstuffed freebie. But in LA anyone could walk to a booth marked, helpfully, GIFT BAGS, flash an ID, and waltz off with one. It was very democratic.
The second sign was that there was free booze for everyone. Absolut set up vodka bars, and everyone was milling around drinking. In the Big Apple, the champagne is reserved for those privileged enough to be invited to the Moët & Chandon lounge.
Next, most of the models walking the shows were Hollywood progeny. Kim Stewart (Rod’s daughter) and Jake Sumner (Sting’s son) at Rock & Republic, Malcolm Ford (Harrison’s son) at 2BFREE, and so on and so forth. But what really struck me as purely Los Angeles was the way the crowd responded to the fashion shows. Instead of sitting quietly and clapping tepidly after a presentation, the crowd hooted, stamped their feet, and actually cheered the models on the runways, calling their names.
I was appalled. This was no way to conduct a fashion show! I kept my New York face on and frowned. Then I remembered one of the first fashion shows I attended. It was for a major designer— and this was in 1994—when supermodels still walked the earth. RuPaul was sitting in the front row, and whenever someone walked out who was truly divine (Kate, Naomi, Christy, Helena), she would stand up (all six-six of her) and snap her fingers and yell, “Work it!” The kids in the rafters (where I was standing) loved it. I cheered and hollered along with everybody. The models were stars. The show was fun. It was electric and crazy.
When the models from Rock & Republic slipped on the beer that they were spilling on the runway, a laugh went up, but when one dusted off her butt (not hard, considering the skirt barely covered it!) and continued her walk, the crowd erupted in cheers worthy of an NFL football game. I found myself standing and yelling as loudly as the rest of them. The excitement was contagious.
The Fashionista Poker Face
At fashion shows no one ever smiles. No one cranes her neck to catch a glimpse of the celebrity surrounded by flashbulbs. Everyone is too cool and above it all. Here’s how to master the proper show gaze:
Whatever you do, never clap enthusiastically. Once you reach fashionista icon status, like Polly Mellen (former creative director of Allure), feel free to cartwheel down the runway in joy. Otherwise, a tepid two-finger clap will do.
Keep your face straight. Never show them what you’re feeling. No gasping. No choking. No rolling eyes. Fashion is a serious business. Show the designer some respect.
No smiling. No nudging your seatmate. No having fun. (If Derek Jeter i
s nearby, however, it’s okay to ask for an autograph for your boyfriend/husband/son/nephew—or a phone number. Even the editor in chief of Marie Claire has done so.)
Complain. Endlessly. Fashionistas always complain about Fashion Week. The tedium of going from show to show, how there is never anything “new” on the runways, how terrible to see all the same people and their attitude again. Part of the fun of going to Fashion Week is being privileged enough to complain about having to cover it, as if someone is forcing us to drink champagne, gobble down canapés, and take cabs all over the city. Right. We know we’re ridiculous, but if you’re part of the tribe, a jaded attitude is par for the course.
FROM THE SIDEWALK TO THE CATWALK
Lessons from a Runway Master MELISSA AND KAREN
Drew Linehan, a thirty-something flaming fashionista with a razor-sharp wit, short-cropped white hair, pale ice-blue eyes, and fantastic Prada shoes, is a casting director for runway shoes. A former antiques dealer, he moved to New York and fell sideways into fashion. “I didn’t even know this kind of job existed!” he says.
He cast a DKNY men’s fashion show as his first job and got hooked immediately. Few can resist the charms of the fashion world—a curse and a blessing at once. After stints at casting powerhouse Bureau Betak (the company responsible for the book FashionCues by Bureau Betak, which published the designers’ directives to models, like “Glamorous, but not modely!” and “Keep your look deep and intense with your eyes forward directly ahead of you” and “You’re at your lodge in Montana. . . . It’s chilly . . . but you’re wrapped in cashmere!” and “Gentlemen, for the swimsuit finale, please wear your willie down!”) and doing shows for the likes of Michael Kors, Drew went on to be a modeling agent at DNA.
The Fashionista Files Page 31