Tailored Coat – La Redoute x Carven. Trousers – Stylenanda. Heels & belt – Bally. Bag – Vintage. Scarf – La Redoute
Coat – J Lindeberg
Top – La Redoute. Flares & Coat – La Redoute x Carven. Blue cashmere tube-top – Mandkhai
Place Charles de Gaulle: the deathtrap of a roundabout in central Paris where twelve straight avenues cross intersect in a star-formation – a place where I have sworn I will eventually die no matter what mode of transport I’m in/how veteran of a driver may be commanding the wheel/handlebar – is possibly the best I can do to explain Fashion Month to those outside the industry. It’s that noise, the lack of traffic lanes of any sort, the uncomfortable closeness to fellow comrades marching around the roundabout, and having to manoeuvre through the full circuit without crashing into, say, a scooter, or a blithe pedestrian (most possibly a tourist – even in the metaphor) (how many a German tour group experienced a Lion King-esque streetstyle photographer stampede towards Kendall, I do wonder) trying to jay-walk his way across to the Arc de Triomphe and wreaking havoc to any conceived order in this chaos. That is Fashion Month, for me.
In this equation, London is a relative comfort zone only due to the fact that the bed is familiar and the husband is baffled IRL (instead of ‘Y U DO DIS’ goodnight messages on WhatsApp), but the chaos is as thick. Tickets are missing, Simon – my source of enthusiasm in all this – ever scrambling in pursuit of some order in chaos (an impossible feat), and of course, the new Soho venue is simply a ‘hilarity’. Between all that, the fresh, new collections are the only clear sound in the commotion, that and the Apartment – a sanctuary known to digital somebody’s in the same plight. It may hustle and bustle, but anywhere that’s stocked with burgers, nap-pods, emergency Kurt Geiger, and infinite charge-stations is a clear win in this roundabout of death. In fact it’s like taking residence in the Arc de Triomphe, which coincidentally is also one of the best vantage points of the city (Alice knows).
Here’s a scribble and a song, on the past season in London. More a scribble, because even after three weeks of supposed R&R my ears are still ringing of shell-shock. But I suppose that’s just me, getting closer to my 30’s and the bottomless barrel of excuses that come with. Call us a cab, BECAUSE I’M 30 AND WALKING IS DIFFICULT. Heck, I can’t wait to be 50.
GTG, husband’s just texted me a ‘Y U DO DIS’ from the other room.
this is a photo Diary(ish) of a twenty-something year-old taking on seven days in new york city for fashion week, one hot minute a time. watch as she steps into a puddle of trash juice and denies the whole thing happened, then does a marylin monroe over subway fart in front of a gaggle of construction workers. it’s ok, she is proud about it all.
I can never go back, can i.
As usual, the effect of New York to this European-to-the-core is that of whiplash, whatever medal I mentally award myself for packing semi-appropriately for the weather (contrary to the numerous occasions in the past in which I had completely missed the memo about either blood-stopping cold or biohazard heat). The minute you get in that Uber at JFK, it’s Keep your hands in at all times, and better secure those sunglasses because they will fly off on the next loop. If a New York minute is to Johnny Carson, the interval between a Manhattan traffic light turning green and the guy behind you honking his horn, to me it’s that (ever so slightly dejecting) micro-moment when the tax gets added onto a bill. One minute you have the exact change, the next minute you’re splitting your $100 note and getting a Robin Hood sack of change in coins. My point is, seven days in New York is but a blink of an eye, and at the end of it all, you’re just in sheer amazement of how much you managed to take in such beautiful grandness, smelly, screaming awesomeness, in that split second of a minute. Well here’s me trying to explain in photos.
And of course, it’s just too bad a London Minute is essentially the customer ahead of me in the Royal Mail Post Office checkout line, which means I’m looking forward to being in New York again in about TWO BILLION YEARS.
Every six months my parents ask me via Whatsapp, “so… what exactly is it that you do now?” And every six months, I struggle to explain what exactly it is that I do now. If they asked this morning, I would add ‘5-minute spaghetti chef’ to the list, alongside photographer, web designer and blogger, and my mother would show me the true spelling of ‘tsk tsk’. (It’s true, I am this close to a Michelin star tyre) There is no doubt that I do lead a bit of a double life, if not triple – just like any ambitious (read: charged with the crazies) individual today. Plus, it comes with the territory when working in the visual industry.
For this reason I don’t have a uniform, there is no one cape that I can wear to all three jobs, unless stained Pyjamas count (thank the heavens for Skype conference calls). Truth is, I rely heavily on versatile, multi-purpose pieces that can minimize the stress of having to face an important client in the morning and then go on a physically demanding photoshoot in the afternoon. On this collaboration with Fay, I thought I’d show you exactly how I live this double, triple life quite comfortably with just one coat called Virginia.*
Don’t forget to check the Double Life feature over at Fay.com with the full scope of the campaign and rest of the Double Life babez.
* I don’t really change three times a day (unless I spill curry twice a day, which has happened in the past, mind.), this is simply to illustrate the multiple scenarios of styling a coat.
** Apologies if my third-grader handwriting offended anyone’s eyeballs this morning. I blame the rise of the machines…