Fashionista

Every girl loves her first fashion show, don't they?

My life in Hong Kong has turned out so far to be more glamorous than one might expect of a homeless magazine intern with a pocket full of moths and exactly two contacts. The free flat, free lunches, the free drinks in cool Soho bars, the free gym membership…I was in freebie heaven even before I was invited to Hong Kong Fashion Week to check out Vivienne Westwood’s Anglomania show.

The Convention and Exhibition Centre in Wanchai, where it was held, is so huge that it took me 23 minutes to get to the Grand Hall from the entrance. I knew I’d come to the right place as everyone was wearing black – the women with 3-inch spiked heels, the men with 3-inch spiked hair. Luckily I also looked the part, having chosen my corporate Barbie look that morning.

I shuffled up to the press desk and had a mild altercation with the stupid bimbo on the desk, who attempted to justify a policy of no-pre-registration, seemingly unaware that she was talking to someone who had bothered to pre-register and so had a fair idea that she just meant ‘I’ve left the press list in my office’. I wasn’t the only person talking very slowly through gritted teeth, but still (massive moment of snobbery, sorry!) what kind of intellect do you expect from a fashion PR?

Inner rant over, I snuck through the ropes, past the press pit, where the paps and the papes were lingering for the celebrity arrivals, and into the arena. The runway wasn’t as tall as I’d expected – more like a wide step down the centre of the room, painted a dark chalky red. Giant cardboard letters specifying which pen people had been allocated backed banks of covered chairs up both sides. As I was directed to my seat in ‘D’ by someone who could only be an art student (glasses with plain glass, some kind of Nuevo spiked mullet), I felt a frisson of excitement to be at my first ever fashion show.

It wasn’t really my thing of course: the loudspeakers were pumping out some typically arty whale-sex music, like a 25th century cover of Holst’s Planets, while the girl next to me kept making cooey noises and fluttering her fingers at people who were undoubtedly someone in the bank of chairs across from us. I couldn’t help a smattering of schadenfreude when she was totally ignored.

Still, when the lights went down and the music started rocking out, I sat bolt up and was hooked throughout. It’s a lot faster than I thought it would be. Models practically sprint down the catwalk (catrun?), looking like a stop-motion video of wild horses.

They exude sex – this also surprised me, as they’ve got such boyish, boobless figures – they smoulder, they strut, they could kill you with a look. It helps that they walk from their hips – when your groin enters a room full of people before you do it does send a bit of a message – but this sex appeal screams confidence and sophistication. Needless to say I have been practising my model walk ever since.

The clothes were great too, for the most part – and it wasn’t too mental, considering the rep Viv has in the press (aside from a wicker hat shaped like a wedding cake that did the impossible and made a male model look like a homeless troll).

Strutting their stuff

It was all over way too quickly. I only had time as each passed to make a quick note and to wow, or frown, at what they had on. But I had a great time, especially when I got my aftershow goody bag (more freebies for the freebie queen!)

And I learnt a little something, I think. For anyone who cares to know what we’ll be wearing next winter: skirts and dresses with big prints and lots of volume, capes (lots of capes), hats (sailors’, baker boys’, aforementioned wicker cakes), patterned leggings, high-waisted trews (for men) and high high heels for the girls (natch).

Well, some people will be wearing that. Most of us will be wearing whatever they’re selling in Warehouse or Top Shop or Primark, sadly. Unless someone wants to give me some designer freebies? …Viv?

Homeless, jobless...suddenly glamorous. Who knew?

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