In keeping with my last post, the erotics of traversing levels of meaning, I'll admit it: fashion week is interesting to me. Now, I can't buy designer clothes, but Fashion Week in NYC is kind of a big spectacle and being a Leo with a personality disorder, I always feel left out. I want to participate but have no real reason for being at these runway shows, parties, etc. Last spring during Fashion Week, I resented the fact that there was this big world going on and I wasn't invited. I went to my acupuncturist to quit smoking (which didn't work) and took diet pills all week. Through some miracle of circumstance, my friend Mordecai suggested we go to "Agyness Deyn's birthday party", and because he's glamorous and well-connected we got in and Brad took the photo to my right while I was there. I felt like I was participating.
Last night, I worked at a party at for folks in the Fashion Week milieu at a swanky downtown hotel. I had never before really encountered paparazzi before, but there were definitely cameras, on a roof top of the building across the street, taking photos of everyone going into the building. I can't get into details of why I was there, because I'm still waiting to get paid, but suffice it to say that it was very upscale. I'm not really sure what I was there for, but I was given a list of important names (ones, even, that I recognized), then promptly told to forget the list. The hotel manager was furious that the guests would have to suffer the indignity of waiting while someone checked a list. So, then: everyone up to the roof deck!
This is the type of crowd that doesn't say "I like what you're wearing" or even "Where did you get that?". Again, this world is: "Who are you wearing?" I showed up in my work clothes (H&M and Gap). Big important party fashion man, the run running the show, the one who invited me to work last night after seeing my face, invited me up to his hotel room and got me a key card so I would have access to it. We smoked cigarettes and drank gin while waiting for the party to start. He had me wear the following outfit and memorize where things came from so that I could tell our guests who I was wearing. This is what I wore:
- Maison Martin Margiela bracelet
- Louis Vuitton belt
- Dior Homme jeans
- Paul Smith socks
- Vintage shirt from La Rosa
- Payless shoes, circa 2004 (model's own)
Maybe it's because I only ever "work" in the fashion industry as a model (or I should say near-model, faux-model), but the reality is that "work" in fashion is comprised of only three things:
- Smoking cigarettes that people give you
- Drinking free booze
- Wearing clothes that don't belong to you
Bold enough, in fact, to chat up this cute party guest all night. (You understand that by "bold" I now mean drunk). Bold enough to spend the rest of the evening tearing this guy away from his boss (who brought him to the party) and make out with him all over the party. In front of numerous photographers, and at least one video journalist who wanted to get a quote from him when we had taken a break from sucking face. I don't know if my coworkers were particularly amused by me necking all night, but to be fair I'm not, really, a model.