FINALLY the fashion week tales continue...
PART II
Tuesday
Day 2 (or is it 3? I lose track) of February fashion week adventures, and I awoke to the sound of rain. This does not bode well when trying to construct an outfit which is waterproof, cold-proof and still looks decent. It cleared as I left the house to go and meet Annie at Chateau d’Eau metro, not the most salubrious of areas, for the Lutz show.
As I got out of the metro station, I looked up and groaned at the grey sky, expecting rain again. But no, Paris is a city of extremes and it’s certainly not going to rain if it can snow madly instead. So we’re clomping about in the snow searching for this venue. Neither of us had any idea what or who Lutz was but we had tickets so we figured we should go. I think deep down I was secretly hoping that by some weird twist of fate (and a typo on the invite) that it would be a show for the cashmere brand Lutz and Patmos, and that Carine Roitfeld would be front row admiring the jumper she designed for them. No such luck.
The seating was on benches upon which were placed apples for the audience. Pretty much everyone was Japanese, a sign that this is going to be a weird one. The show finally started, in this dark room in some odd building which had been piping through Morrissey from the moment we arrived. I mustered all my ability to try and like it, but I couldn’t. Penny Martin from showstudio described the collection as “something a saucy intellectual might wear around the house” but all I got from it was cheap looking silk tops and slips which look like something bought down the market and a really feeble attempt at that tired old notion: ‘underwear as outerwear’. The models’ walks were so awful and awkward it made you wince and the man next to me giggle. It was all lace and asymmetric silk, stuff that Primark wouldn’t ever consider stocking. On the plus side, I stole more apples for me and Annie at the end.
Jean Paul Gaultier was taking place down the road, and we knew we had not a hope in hell of getting in, but it was prime spotting territory. As we walked down, one of the photographers outside, snapping at the assembled fashion editors stopped us to take our photo. We were richly rewarded for our waiting, with appearances by Andre Leon Talley, whose scarf was as long as my entire body, (and sans Wintour, as he has been all week. Where is she?), Lisa Armstrong, the pristinely highlighted US Vogue ladies, and Fabien Baron who seemed to growl behind me. I turned round and saw some guys hanging around smoking down the street, one of them being Terry Richardson no less. The man looks so normal and nice in real life, like none of those stupendously filthy photos could ever be conceived by him. But, as Bill rightly put it later on: ‘you have no idea what he’s thinking though’ haha. Emmanuelle Alt, the beanpole fashion editor at Paris Vogue (and a definite style icon) came out to find him and got him into the show. By this point, Paris had decided it was going to be sunny, so I lumped all my stuff on Annie to take my jumper off. Suddenly these Japanese people who’d been photographing people’s outfits stopped me and said: “Take photo!”. I went to put my coat on and they shrieked “without the coat”. So I obliged and then had to tell the woman where all my stuff was from, while the man zoomed in uncomfortably on my necklace, while I tried not to giggle. They were just leaving when he spotted my shoes and actually kneeled down on the floor and started photographing them. Nuts.
Louise was late to meet me at Grand Palais later on. Whilst I was sitting on a bench trying to get all my clothing as close to my body as possible for optimum warmth, it started snowing again. My nose was cold, I couldn’t find my gloves and the wind was whipping up a storm.
The security at Dior is akin to what I imagine that at 10 Downing Street is. The entrance is populated by a group of mean looking security guards (and it’s no use sweet-talking the nice ones because the meanest looking one is always the Big Boss Guy). Anyone trying to enter has their ticket scrutinised by about 6 people, and even that doesn’t guarantee you entry. The photographer from the Telegraph (and his assistant who looked like she was dressed for skiing, clever girl) weren’t allowed in for ages despite having all the valid documentation (maybe you have to sign over your soul?). By the time my feet went numb and my toes started hurting we decided to call it a day. It was supermodel heaven though, with Daria Werbowy, Mariacarla, Gemma Ward, Sasha Pivavorova, Caroline Trentini, Raquel Zimmerman and Angela Lindvall all turning up at various points, and seeing the photographer Ellen Von Unwerth who chose wisely to stay in her warm car until she needed to get out.
Annie went to photograph the proper arrivals later on, catching Kate Hudson, Jessica Alba, Carine and Jean Reno (at which she cried cos she loves him), but by that point I was slowly thawing out in a hot shower and thanking the lord for the twin inventions of heating and double duvets
Tuesday
Day 2 (or is it 3? I lose track) of February fashion week adventures, and I awoke to the sound of rain. This does not bode well when trying to construct an outfit which is waterproof, cold-proof and still looks decent. It cleared as I left the house to go and meet Annie at Chateau d’Eau metro, not the most salubrious of areas, for the Lutz show.
As I got out of the metro station, I looked up and groaned at the grey sky, expecting rain again. But no, Paris is a city of extremes and it’s certainly not going to rain if it can snow madly instead. So we’re clomping about in the snow searching for this venue. Neither of us had any idea what or who Lutz was but we had tickets so we figured we should go. I think deep down I was secretly hoping that by some weird twist of fate (and a typo on the invite) that it would be a show for the cashmere brand Lutz and Patmos, and that Carine Roitfeld would be front row admiring the jumper she designed for them. No such luck.
The seating was on benches upon which were placed apples for the audience. Pretty much everyone was Japanese, a sign that this is going to be a weird one. The show finally started, in this dark room in some odd building which had been piping through Morrissey from the moment we arrived. I mustered all my ability to try and like it, but I couldn’t. Penny Martin from showstudio described the collection as “something a saucy intellectual might wear around the house” but all I got from it was cheap looking silk tops and slips which look like something bought down the market and a really feeble attempt at that tired old notion: ‘underwear as outerwear’. The models’ walks were so awful and awkward it made you wince and the man next to me giggle. It was all lace and asymmetric silk, stuff that Primark wouldn’t ever consider stocking. On the plus side, I stole more apples for me and Annie at the end.
Jean Paul Gaultier was taking place down the road, and we knew we had not a hope in hell of getting in, but it was prime spotting territory. As we walked down, one of the photographers outside, snapping at the assembled fashion editors stopped us to take our photo. We were richly rewarded for our waiting, with appearances by Andre Leon Talley, whose scarf was as long as my entire body, (and sans Wintour, as he has been all week. Where is she?), Lisa Armstrong, the pristinely highlighted US Vogue ladies, and Fabien Baron who seemed to growl behind me. I turned round and saw some guys hanging around smoking down the street, one of them being Terry Richardson no less. The man looks so normal and nice in real life, like none of those stupendously filthy photos could ever be conceived by him. But, as Bill rightly put it later on: ‘you have no idea what he’s thinking though’ haha. Emmanuelle Alt, the beanpole fashion editor at Paris Vogue (and a definite style icon) came out to find him and got him into the show. By this point, Paris had decided it was going to be sunny, so I lumped all my stuff on Annie to take my jumper off. Suddenly these Japanese people who’d been photographing people’s outfits stopped me and said: “Take photo!”. I went to put my coat on and they shrieked “without the coat”. So I obliged and then had to tell the woman where all my stuff was from, while the man zoomed in uncomfortably on my necklace, while I tried not to giggle. They were just leaving when he spotted my shoes and actually kneeled down on the floor and started photographing them. Nuts.
Louise was late to meet me at Grand Palais later on. Whilst I was sitting on a bench trying to get all my clothing as close to my body as possible for optimum warmth, it started snowing again. My nose was cold, I couldn’t find my gloves and the wind was whipping up a storm.
The security at Dior is akin to what I imagine that at 10 Downing Street is. The entrance is populated by a group of mean looking security guards (and it’s no use sweet-talking the nice ones because the meanest looking one is always the Big Boss Guy). Anyone trying to enter has their ticket scrutinised by about 6 people, and even that doesn’t guarantee you entry. The photographer from the Telegraph (and his assistant who looked like she was dressed for skiing, clever girl) weren’t allowed in for ages despite having all the valid documentation (maybe you have to sign over your soul?). By the time my feet went numb and my toes started hurting we decided to call it a day. It was supermodel heaven though, with Daria Werbowy, Mariacarla, Gemma Ward, Sasha Pivavorova, Caroline Trentini, Raquel Zimmerman and Angela Lindvall all turning up at various points, and seeing the photographer Ellen Von Unwerth who chose wisely to stay in her warm car until she needed to get out.
Annie went to photograph the proper arrivals later on, catching Kate Hudson, Jessica Alba, Carine and Jean Reno (at which she cried cos she loves him), but by that point I was slowly thawing out in a hot shower and thanking the lord for the twin inventions of heating and double duvets