Groundhog Day in Fashion Land
It's Wednesday night, the end of Day 6. Actually it's Day 7 for me since I started my Fashion Week a day early to catch some showroom walkthroughs.
Those of us in the little corps of regional press are starting to feel the wear and tear of Fashion Week.
One of my colleagues had her meltdown tonight. She's leaving tomorrow morning; she said she just couldn't take anymore. She had a dream last night about a fashion show and decided that was a sign. Not to worry - she does this every Fashion Week. She just hits a wall and says "enough."
Several of my colleagues are coming down with colds. Again.
I'm one of those who came here recovering from a cold; hopefully this means that we're immune or something. Probably not.
It's funny in a way. Civilians - those outside the tent life - think Fashion Week is so much fun. After all, they read about all the fancy parties and beautiful people and think how fun it must all be.
The reality is that it's a glamorous grind.
Most days, we start at 8 a.m., run to shows most of the day, and finish around 10 each night.
Writing, being what it is, sometimes the day lasts into the next morning. One of my colleagues confessed he'd been up until 4 a.m. He just got on a roll and didn't want to stop once he got going.
Our work days go something like this: We cajole ("Please, can I just sit here; I would really like to be actually see the show."). We grovel ("Wow, thank you soooo much."). We beg. We get indignant ("what do you mean, I don't have a seat. I just did a story on ..."). We get jostled and bumped and banged by the television crews and paparazzi shooting some celebrity of the week. We have skirmishes ("Excuse me, I think you're sitting in my seat). And on and on and on.
Sometimes the experience is a nightmare. Several of mjy colleagues were still in a rage this morning over the Heatherette show last night. It seems that they and a lot of other people were kept waiting in the lobby for 90 minutes, jammed together to await their seat assignments, then were told no other people would be admitted to the show.
Yikes! Good thing I decided to skip that one. Not that I was napping. I was struggling to maintain an internet connection so I could file. Of course mine is reporter drama that everyone here is also experiencing. We commiserate each day about the story that just disappeared from a screen, or the story that came out garbled when it was transmitted.
Some of the unlucky amongst us have been grappling with deadlines in the middle of the day. You can spot them easily because they have a hunted look and are usually asking what time it is so they can gauge when they have to race back to their computers.
Sometimes, for 10 or 15 wonderful minutes, we are transported from all that craziness, the ugliness and the pressure. That's if a show is wonderful, entertaining or both.
Those 10 or 15 minutes can make it all worthwhile.
Those of us in the little corps of regional press are starting to feel the wear and tear of Fashion Week.
One of my colleagues had her meltdown tonight. She's leaving tomorrow morning; she said she just couldn't take anymore. She had a dream last night about a fashion show and decided that was a sign. Not to worry - she does this every Fashion Week. She just hits a wall and says "enough."
Several of my colleagues are coming down with colds. Again.
I'm one of those who came here recovering from a cold; hopefully this means that we're immune or something. Probably not.
It's funny in a way. Civilians - those outside the tent life - think Fashion Week is so much fun. After all, they read about all the fancy parties and beautiful people and think how fun it must all be.
The reality is that it's a glamorous grind.
Most days, we start at 8 a.m., run to shows most of the day, and finish around 10 each night.
Writing, being what it is, sometimes the day lasts into the next morning. One of my colleagues confessed he'd been up until 4 a.m. He just got on a roll and didn't want to stop once he got going.
Our work days go something like this: We cajole ("Please, can I just sit here; I would really like to be actually see the show."). We grovel ("Wow, thank you soooo much."). We beg. We get indignant ("what do you mean, I don't have a seat. I just did a story on ..."). We get jostled and bumped and banged by the television crews and paparazzi shooting some celebrity of the week. We have skirmishes ("Excuse me, I think you're sitting in my seat). And on and on and on.
Sometimes the experience is a nightmare. Several of mjy colleagues were still in a rage this morning over the Heatherette show last night. It seems that they and a lot of other people were kept waiting in the lobby for 90 minutes, jammed together to await their seat assignments, then were told no other people would be admitted to the show.
Yikes! Good thing I decided to skip that one. Not that I was napping. I was struggling to maintain an internet connection so I could file. Of course mine is reporter drama that everyone here is also experiencing. We commiserate each day about the story that just disappeared from a screen, or the story that came out garbled when it was transmitted.
Some of the unlucky amongst us have been grappling with deadlines in the middle of the day. You can spot them easily because they have a hunted look and are usually asking what time it is so they can gauge when they have to race back to their computers.
Sometimes, for 10 or 15 wonderful minutes, we are transported from all that craziness, the ugliness and the pressure. That's if a show is wonderful, entertaining or both.
Those 10 or 15 minutes can make it all worthwhile.
posted by Karyn Collins at 10:30 PM
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