Forget The Red Carpet, Paris Fashion Week Is On

Its (drumroll) Paris Fashion Week … That means craziness and beauty (and memes) for seven magnificent days...

I consider myself realllly lucky to have worked in fashion media. Discussing fashion trends, brand backstories, new collections and sifting through the most beautiful images of the most beautiful people was beyond thrilling. Especially at the bottom end of Africa, when the simple feat of Zara opening its first store was almost cause for a national holiday. The holy grail of this career in fashun, was, of course, access to the international fashion weeks… Hard to come by when seated behind a spluttering computer in Mzanzi and - once an invite secured - even more difficult to get the media powers to sign off on an international travel budget in ZAR for what they thought was a few days of fizzing around in teetering heels. But god, it was marvellous if you made it.

When I was editor of Grazia, my prayers were finally answered and I sat court-side at Milan Fashion Week a couple of times, with other international editors of Grazia jetting in from around the globe. And Other Editors in general. You know the ones – whisper it – Anna, Andre, Carine. You can just imagine the imposter syndrome, but back then, you didn’t get the global stage to revel in the horror of your fashion choices! There was no Insta moment. There was no Insta at all. Fashion week meant the fashion media, as a rule, all wore black and your status was cemented generally by how close your town car could get to the front doors of the show on drop off, so you didn’t have to wobble over cobbles for more than a metre or two.

Here’s the only (rather blurry, very rainy) pic of my first giddy Milan Fash Week back in 2012. I think the beanie was to protect my blow-dry since I hadn’t thought to pack a bloody umbrella!

Street style had just taken off, so there were photographers outside to snap pic of great looks – usually the models (and Anna Della Russo), legging it from walking one show to watching another. Paparazzi was ever-present for the odd stolen moment of Anna Wintour sweeping from said car to said front door with her glossy honeyed bob, sunnies and Andre Leon Talley firmly in place, or the occasional designer muse accepting an invite. And for the rest of us, we marched in, clad in noir, high on nothing more than adrenalin and caffeine, completely ignored.

There was no time to eat or drink between the shows if you were actually working. The best tip I got – untested, I might add – was to nab extra sugar sachets from your espresso stop so that you could shake them into your mouth while running between the shows. That should age my story – is sugar even allowed to pass one’s lips these days?! I’m sure it’s not. You simply pirouetted from one show to the next., until you dropped into bed, a few after parties under your belt. It was colourful, chaotic and stressful and you’d have to find your seat in the pitch dark, settle, watch for 15 glorious – TRULY! – artistic and inspired minutes with your notebook in hand, hoping your scribbles would be legible in Actual Daylight, before racing off and doing it all again! Closest brush I got to Honest To God Celebrity was sitting opposite Salma Hayek. She’s tiny, she wore deep purple, it was so dark I could stare openly! There she is, circa 2012, in all her glossy-maned glory.

All of this to say, it’s a far cry from today when who is walking into the show and seated on the FROW is almost more important for marketing than the show itself. It’s PFW. The week when the ateliers of some of the last remaining couture maisons dream up poetic fashion shows that can fall more within the realm of fantasy art collection than wearable fashion. Schiaparelli’s lion head a case in point. Not just a masterful feat of embroidered sculpture but a part of designer Daniel Roseberry’s vision of Dante’s Inferno, his inspiration for the show. And now also a hilarious meme of the Lion King, starring Kylee Jenner.  That said, between the faux Big Five of Schiaparelli (and Doja Cat as a fully bedazzled little red devil); the upside down Alice In Wonderland world Of Viktor & Rolf and Valentinos’ unwearable heels (all-stars supermodel Kristen Mcmenamy feel off her heels, again - cue viral moment), there’s also levels of understated luxury of which one can only dream. Bonjour, Chanel…

As one paper snarked: ‘In contrast to Schiaparelli’s Instagram-bait of Kardashians and faux-taxidermy, the Trojan camels, stags and birds at Chanel were abstract plywood sculptures by artist Xavier Veilhan, and the models who emerged from them wore demure glitter tweed suits. Drama came with a light touch, in circus-master top hats and bow ties worn as chokers.’ Heavenly, just look at these gold boots. Dead.

At Dior, Josephine Baker took centre-stage - a smoky jazz club draped in sequins. Miss Baker was born in Missouri but lived much of her life in France, and was a muse to Christian Dior and one of his best customers, spending a fortune on an haute couture wardrobe. “The latest Dior haute couture show, a dazzling homage of kiss curls and swishy fringing, velvet tailoring and crushed silk lamé, restores Baker to her rightful place in Dior’s history.”

So, I have questions… Who’s style are you stealing? Is Miley Cyrus’ sister looking a lot like Marilyn Manson? Would you wear embellished crystal tights a la Anne Hathaway? And how did Doja Cat wash her off her red beads at the end of the night? Wrong answers only please.