The Vogue Factor

by Kirstie Clements

  Given that our bosses were some of the chicest women in the country, the junior staff also, by osmosis, began to imitate the way they dressed. We’d arrived on the first day in what we thought were our best clothes, only to be swiftly influenced by their sartorial style, albeit on our tiny budgets. If you wanted to be rich, it was best not to work at Vogue. Nancy, who owned a vast wardrobe of designer clothes, very generously gave me a navy Giorgio Armani jacket, knowing I couldn’t afford one. I wore that jacket for years until I finally had to retire it because it had gone shiny from too much dry-cleaning, but it made me feel so Vogue. I remember looking around the fashion office once and we were all wearing navy jackets, with white Hanes or Fruit of the Loom t-shirts from the US, batik-sarong skirts, amber beads and woven tote bags from Bali, with silver-hoop earrings. Still not a bad look today, in fact.

  There was a white shirt or t-shirt under a little strappy black dress phase too, which was rather random in hindsight, but we all played along with that. There was the full-length, silk taffeta skirt, put back with a crisp white shirt and a wide belt for evening: that was easy and economical because you could have a dressmaker whip you up one. There was also a platform gym boot trend embraced only by fashion editor Tory Collison.

  I loved Tory; she was utterly consumed with fashion. Never a victim—she is far, far more stylish than that—but if she loved something, she had to have it. We worked together for years. I once called her from the Gucci store in Milan to ask her if she wanted me to buy her the latest must-have Gucci shoe. It was the floral, round-toed, sling-back sandal from Tom Ford’s Cher-inspired collection. She was pregnant with her first child and couldn’t make it to the shows. ‘Yes, yes,’ she said excitedly after I told her how much they would cost.

  ‘What size are you again, Tors?’ I asked.

  She replied, ‘6. But if they don’t have that, anything from a 5 to 6½ will do’. Tory was so crazy about fashion she often bought things that didn’t fit.

  I did buy the shoes for her and a few weeks later, popped them on her feet while she was in bed in the maternity ward. She probably never wore them anyway because, truth be told, I bought a pair too and they hurt like hell.

  2

  LOCATION, LOCATION

  Until the launch of other competitive titles such as Marie Claire, Elle and Harper’s Bazaar in Australia, Vogue had few rivals at the luxury end of the market. Since its inception, every page in Vogue had been created from scratch, not lifted from other Condé Nast titles overseas, so costs were always closely watched. We certainly never operated with anywhere near the budgets of our sister publications internationally. The team always strived to be just as excellent though, and this often came down to plain old resourcefulness.

  Vogue Australia has always championed the Australian model, and there were many beautiful local girls who became an extended part of the Vogue family: beauties such as Sarah O’Hare (now Murdoch), Gillian (née Mather) Bailey, Anneliese Seubert, Jenny Hayman, Kate Fischer, Ruve, Kristy Hinze and Emma Balfour. Photographers such as Monty Coles, Grant Matthews, Richard Bailey and Graham Shearer were also in the club, as were all their preferred hair and makeup artists. At times the dynamics had the same amount of family dysfunction, angst and emotion as a Christmas Day lunch.

  Karin and I set up our own large-scale beauty shoots almost every month using local talent, which is a luxury in publishing today. Our impetus was to promote a new beauty product or trend, but the larger goal was to establish a certain style of Australian beauty, rather than just mimic how Linda Evangelista looked in the latest Vogue Italia.

  Editorial budgets have been reduced so drastically that shooting beauty in this way went by the wayside years ago. The expectation now is that an editor will pick up beauty shots from international syndication instead. While it’s true that this reduces costs, it also means the magazine is no longer a platform to showcase the creativity of Australia’s best hair and makeup artists, and it limits the work for Australia’s top beauty models and photographers. Karin produced a seminal beauty shoot for Vogue Australia’s thirtieth anniversary issue in 1989, featuring Elle Macpherson and shot by photographer Graham Shearer on location in Broome. Elle later recounted that the resultant work ‘was just unbelievable. Graham was at his peak ... and we did pictures I hadn’t done before. I think Vogue were the first people that used me for beauty and not just for body’. Naomi Smith was the assistant on the trip, and recalls that when the 4WD became bogged on the bank of a tidal river, Elle nonchalantly dove into crocodile-infested waters and swam for help.

  Australian models have always been good sports. They are such brilliant team players, never taking themselves too seriously. And they always loved doing Aussie Vogue, knowing how proud their families would be.

  One memorable beauty shoot with Graham at Bondi Icebergs pool came with its own set of problems when we were shooting New Zealand supermodel Rachel Hunter. Graham had decided, for reasons unknown, that a wall of gigantic ice bricks should be built behind her as she posed next to the pool. Given that it was February (summer time in Australia), the ice was melting as soon as it was stacked, so more and more ice needed to be delivered by truck. At one point I was sitting in the location van with the very young and spectacular Rachel, waiting for construction to finish, and she said to me, apropos of nothing, ‘I’m going to marry a rock star’. Obviously the likelihood of her luring one was rather high, and she did in fact go on to marry the middle-aged Rod Stewart. I have no idea how we made the tenuous connection to a melting ice wall in the beauty pages. Probably ‘Winter Glamour’ or something suitably oblique. Locations for shoots were normally decided between the photographer and the stylist, and could be either literal, as in say, silks and brocades (‘I see Turkey!’), or contradictory, as in ballgowns in a car park.

  For another story, Karin and I travelled to the Hyatt Regency Coolum in Queensland to shoot a spa-inspired story with model Emma Balfour. We would aim to produce ten or twelve conceptual beauty photographs, covering topics such as massage, hands, feet, hair, hydration, yoga and so on, that could then be used over a long period of time to illustrate stories as they came up. The photographer was a prickly American who had a tendency to turn nasty towards other, usually more junior, members of the team. The resort had just been completed and the foliage was in early stages, so the property had no shade and was bakingly hot, and the only way to get around was by painfully-slow electric buggy. All the clothes and props were in my room and we had decided to shoot near the beach, which was pretty much the furthermost point you could go on the buggy.

  At one stage during the shoot, the photographer decided he needed something that was back in the room. I was dispatched, and returned some twenty minutes later. He then requested something else. Again, I dutifully ran the errand. The heat was unbearable and the sun at the perfect point in the sky to be blinding. Then something else was requested. I knew what he was doing. Over the years I have witnessed various degrees of bullying by photographers, because on a shoot, they are considered God. Not because they possess any God-like qualities in particular, that’s for sure, but because you need them to succeed and take the best shots possible. You have to come back with the goods. I appreciate the pressure on them is intense, but the humiliation of other members of the team is never necessary.

  After the fifth or sixth time he ordered me back for some dubious reason, and even though I felt dreadful for leaving Karin there, I parked the buggy, locked the door of my room and didn’t return. I’ve never had the patience or the personality to put up with tantrums, or to be manipulated. Fashion editors, it seems, have an ability to endure psychological torture as part of their job; I have huge admiration for them. I saw some awful behaviour from a lot of photographers and a few models when I was in the position of assistant, and it put me off ever becoming a fashion stylist myself. That, and the fact that I’m crap at it.

  I soon found myself in the very fortunate position of being able to go on most of the location trips, b
oth fashion and beauty, because I stretched across all areas—I could assist the fashion editor, style a beauty shoot (because few clothes are required) and write the attendant travel story. It was economical to send me.

  One of my first fashion trips was, once again to Queensland, this time in the tropical hinterlands of Surfers Paradise, with photographer Grant Matthews and fashion editor Tory Collison. Despite her petite size, exquisite manners and blonde good looks, Tory is one of the most tenacious, dogged and determined fashion editors one could ever encounter. She is never satisfied, and her relentless quest for perfection in a photograph, or indeed in everything, is equal parts inspiring and exhausting. The outcome is always worth it. But if anything can go wrong for Tory, it will. A desert salt plain that has seen no rain for years will flood the day she arrives to set up. If a hostile alien spaceship were to visit Earth, it would land on Tory’s shoot location. I used to call it the ‘Tory principle’, which is ‘if it’s not one thing, it’s another’. But despite the incessant calamities, Tory always keeps her sense of humour, and forges ahead undeterred.

  On one particular day of this shoot we had the model standing in the water at the top of a rocky waterfall, which would have been at least ten to fifteen metres high. Tory waded in to adjust something on the girl’s outfit, with her model pack filled with pins and clamps strapped around her waist, when suddenly she slipped, went under, was swept up by the current and disappeared over the edge of the cliff. The whole crew looked at each other in horror, mouths agape. Grant quickly threw his camera aside and thrashed his way through the scrub to look over the edge while we all stood in grim silence, expecting the worst. I was sure she was dead, dashed on the rocks—a fashion casualty.

  Then came the sounds of Tory in fits of laughter. There she was at the bottom of the waterfall, sodden but unhurt. We all burst into relieved hysterics and cheered her on as she clambered her way back up to the top, doing a hand-over-foot commando climb Bear Grylls would have been impressed with.

  ‘You have to be more careful, Tors!’ admonished Grant. He was always the grown-up on a shoot. The hilarity subsided, we thanked our lucky stars and continued on with taking the shot. Tors, once again, ventured in to tweak the clothes. And we all watched in disbelief as—in what felt like slow motion—she slipped and shot over the edge once again. This time we all laughed like drains.

  I have another indelible memory of that trip, shooting in the late afternoon sun on the main beach of Surfers Paradise. The model was leggy Australian beauty Jenny Hayman, all long, tanned limbs, swan neck, big smile and short cropped blonde hair. Jenny was cute and uncomplicated, and one of Vogue’s most popular models.

  As she was cavorting around on the sand, happily dancing in a long skirt, a young couple who were taking a walk along the beach approached. The boy, who would have been in his late teens or early twenties, glanced shyly at Jenny, naturally enough. His girlfriend, who was—I must say—dumpy and plain, shot a death stare at him. ‘Wayne,’ she growled. ‘Wayne, stop lookin’ at her. Don’t look. She just loves herself.’ She delivered this with her eyes downcast, focused firmly on the sand. I found it funny, and very Aussie, but at the same time, poignant. It is a not uncommon attitude towards high fashion and beauty, one that speaks volumes about a person’s self-esteem. We all admired Jenny as a vision of loveliness and that’s what the photographs were celebrating. But beauty can challenge some people. Poor Wayne. His girlfriend felt threatened and therefore wouldn’t allow him to rest his eyes on something extraordinary for a few seconds.

  It was the early nineties and tragically the fashion industry had been struck hard with too many deaths due to HIV/AIDS. Many of Vogue’s preferred hair and makeup artists passed away: huge talents like Robbie Snow, Nick Zeigler and Stephen Price. Another great, Aaron, drank himself to death after the passing of his beloved mother. Stephen Price was the hairdresser on the Queensland shoot, and he bravely revealed to the team one night at dinner that he had just been diagnosed with HIV. It was mostly a death sentence back then. No one said a word. Grant simply reached for his hand and we all joined hands around the table while Stephen cried, but not for long. He looked up, sniffed, got the usual cheeky look back on his face, made some rude joke, and we didn’t discuss it again, bless him.

  I adored accompanying Tory on trips, even though I admit I was probably close to the world’s worst assistant. It was becoming reasonably apparent that I prefer to tell people what to do, rather than be told. But dear Tors seemed to overlook that. She even took over the ironing, which she actually likes and excels at. She irons tea towels at home.

  One of our best trips together was a voyage on the brand-new Club Med 2 cruise ship, which sailed from New Caledonia to Vanuatu and the Isle of Pines. Sarah O’Hare was the model, a 21-year-old ex-ballet dancer who had begun her modelling career at Vogue in her teens. Sarah had the most perfect, flawless skin, thick blonde curls and an athletic, yet curvy, body—a complete knockout. She also has a kooky sense of humour, which is always a bonus on long trips.

  When we boarded I made a point of telling Sarah not to use her mobile phone, as the satellite dish on the ship meant calls would be incredibly costly, and Vogue would not pay the bill. But she confessed to me she was missing her boyfriend at the time, and I noticed that when we were not shooting she would often be on her phone.

  The light was so strong that Graham could only shoot first thing in the morning and again at sunset, which left us all a lot of free time in between. Graham was a keen windsurfer, so quite a few hours were filled in either surfing or waterskiing. I never gave it a moment’s thought that we were in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, until the Tahitian waterski instructor took me to the stern of the boat after dinner one night and pointed over the railing to the ocean below. The kitchen was throwing out fish scraps. Eerily illuminated by the strong spotlight were four huge sharks feeding furiously. I shuddered. The instructors had been dragging dozens of happily unsuspecting Japanese waterskiers through shark-infested waters all week, none of whom I ever saw even stand up.

  Fashion trips were always quite intrepid. We got so caught up in our fashion bubble that we were often stupidly oblivious to our surrounds and their hidden dangers. In the Isle of Pines we went very far inland into dense forest to shoot inside a dank, watery cave. At one point, a native Kanak arrived and stood watching us closely for almost an hour, stony-faced and almost naked, holding a huge curved machete. And we just kept shooting. Nowadays there are so many occupational health and safety regulations that they want you to predict how many power cords might potentially be tripped over. It’s so bureaucratic it’s better to ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ or just drop the idea entirely. Can you imagine an occupational health and safety officer’s face when you confess that your fashion director was nearly eaten by a lion in Botswana because her hair got caught in the Velcro opening of the tent?

  Fortunately, we made it back to the boat, and the shoot—with Sarah looking impeccable in fifties-style fashion, with slicked-back hair and bright-red lipstick—was one of her best ever for Vogue. Just before the ship docked, the staff presented me with her phone bill. I handed it to Sarah as the team all met for sunset drinks to toast the success of the shoot. It was close to $7,300. Sarah, to her credit, lay back on a lounge chair deathly pale for a couple of moments, took a few deep breaths, and said: ‘Oh well.’ We not only all made it back alive but Nancy loved the shoot, and Sarah made the cover of the June 1993 edition.

  In addition to the various disasters that could and would happen on a major trip, there was always the very great possibility that the editor-in-chief would not like the results. There was huge pressure to deliver something phenomenal, because location trips obviously ate up most of the magazine’s monthly editorial budget. Melbourne fashion editor Mary Otte once did an entire issue with one male and two female models, shot all around Australia, from Tasmania to Broome and Far North Queensland. It was a mammoth effort and the photographs, taken by Graham Shearer again, were wel
l received by all the team in the fashion office, but the then editor June McCallum didn’t like them for some mysterious styling reasons.

  Fashion editors feel devastated when their shoots are rejected because they have obsessed over every tiny detail to get to the end result. It is almost impossible for them to be objective. Mary composed a very calm email to June stating that if she had to do it over again she would make the exact same decisions, and then promptly resigned, which I always thought was tremendously chic.

  During Judith Cook’s time as fashion director she once chose Africa as the prime destination for a major issue. There was so much excitement in the stockroom as all the fabulous pieces she had collaborated on began to flow in. There were black-and-white zebra toe thongs with black fringing, ocelot-print parasols with cane handles, voluminous handpainted Maasai-inspired ballgowns in brilliant red, gorgeous safari suits in black linen, and piles of colourful beads and bracelets and cuffs. Naomi was the assistant, and as with any trip to Africa it was arduous, expensive and thrilling.

  After the team were safely home, the photographs duly arrived in to the art department and the verdict began to trickle through the building. Nancy hated them. She thought the model was spectacularly unattractive.