Friday, February 6, 2009

Loren: Mother says, "You don't need a social life."

Fall Fashion 2009
NEW YORK  Feb 12-Feb 20 2009

LONDON Feb 20-Feb 25 2009

MILAN Feb 25-Mar 04 2009

PARIS Mar 05-Mar 12 2009

and closer to home,
L'Oreal MELBOURNE Fashion Festival Mar 15-Mar 22 


And I think I'm going to miss New York's, cause I will be moving house during that week, thus no internet. 

Like every other girl who follows the runway shows, I dream about being able to one day, sit in one of those white tents at Byrant Park. So in the spirit of dreaming while in real life, my situation is the color of bleakness, here is how it would go.

If Tilly and I weren't living together, we'd probably rendezvous at a corner cafe before the show. (Yes, I included Tilly because NYC and Tilly are somewhat synonymous.) Dashing into the cafe's warmth to escape the chilly lashings of winter, my eyes would scan the bustling place that smelt like coffee and warm pastries for that familiar short haired girl. Spotting her, I'd wave as I made my way around the long queue for coffee and tables of people with their neat laptops. I'd apologize for being late, she'd hand me a muffin and a bottle of juice while remarking that she knew I probably had a wardrobe crisis of some sort which explains my tardiness.

We'd discuss each other's outfits. Laugh over how we bought new outfits to the shows, admire each other's accessories. After a quick touch up in the ladies, we'd squeal excitedly as we cross the street, narrowly getting missed by an irate taxi driver. Tilly would cuss back at him, I'd show him one of my ring laden fingers. (Today, we'd just apologize meekly, but I'm counting on living in NYC to toughen us up.) In the crowd at Bryant Park, we'd recognize some familiar faces from work and trade hellos, taking time to network and predict what the designer might send down the runway. We'll get in line, showing the security guards our invites and follow the usher to our allocated seats. 

After draping our coats over our seats, Tilly would check her palm pilot for any messages, I'd scan the rows to people watch, pausing every now and then to nudge Tilly and murmur a comment into her ear. Most probably about the person's outfit. The air in the crowded tent would be thick with whispers, occasionally injected with a squeal as friends meet. Everyone is watching everyone else, a look of calculation bred with speculation in their eyes. Its not personal, its fashion. Excitement and anticipation spreads when the lights dim and the announcer makes the introduction. 

From the bag I shoved under my seat, I'd pull out my organizer and hold my pen poised over a blank sheet, ready to scribble and sketch my thoughts. Tilly glances down and sees the familiar orange binding with the letter H keychain, and smiles. She remarks quietly that her Xmas gift to me is still being kept in great condition, while I snort that my gift to her, her palm pilot, has been dropped more times in the gutter than a drunk. She slaps my shoulder in retaliation, I grin, and the music starts. A catchy, thumping beat that probably came from a remix. The crowd hushes instinctively. I make a note to get the soundtrack to the show from a friend I know who is working behind the scenes. 

The first model makes her way down the long runway, eyes scrutinise her every movement and detail on the garment. At the end of the runway, she poses before a horde of photographers and the collaborative flash that goes off when they take her picture is blinding enough for Tilly to slip her Chloe shades over her eyes as jest. Model after model is sent down the runway, carefully choreographed to fit the music, color schemed to make the show flow seamlessly together. My pen scribbles over the papers rapidly, Tilly watches the show quietly, fingering her Tom Binn necklace and taking her own personal notes for future purchases. When the YSL ring on my finger seems to slow down my writing process, I silently slip it off my finger and hand it to Tilly to wear. Accustomed to it, she pulls it onto her thumb to keep it safe for me.

Before we know it, the show is finished. The models make their way down the runway one last time, clapping with the audience. Several people stand up to cheer for their model friends, but the loudest cheer comes when the designer makes his appearance and bows gratefully to his admiring audience. The music dwindles down and switches to something light and breezy, and the lights come back on. People have already gathered their things and stood up, making their way out to have a smoke and trade opinions on the collection before going back in for the next scheduled one.

"Are we finished?" Tilly asked, gesturing to my organizer. 
"Nope," I reply, snapping it shut. I look around the tent, breathe in the air of mixed perfumes, money and hairspray. We've finally made it here. I turn to look at her.

"We've only just begun."

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