My most awkward fashion week moments
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Version 0 of 1. I met a reader the other day who was surprised when I told her that I am no longer on the Guardian's fashion desk. In fact, I left in 2008. What's surprising about this isn't that I left, but that I ever was on it at all. It's not that I'm an especially bad dresser (although one of my closest friends once described my approach as like that of a drunk child), but I have absolutely no chicness, no stylish decorum, no je ne sais quoi. If I see a mouth, I will gaily stick my foot straight into it. If there is a chance to make myself look like a dunderhead, I will run straight towards it. I'm not quite sure why this is, but it's a wonder I'm allowed out of the house unchaperoned, let alone to any fashion weeks. And so, here is a – by no means exhaustive – list of my most shameful and therefore most characteristic moments at fashion week. The Kanye West incident I love Kanye West. Have done for years. I love his ridiculousness, his egotism, his tackiness, his idiocy. To be honest, I think I see some of me in him, with added talent and Kardashian. So when I saw him at a Chloé show in Paris a few years ago, I knew I'd have to ask for an autograph. As I approached his chair, however, I noticed that he was sitting next to Vogue's Anna Wintour who, unfortunately, I wrote for occasionally and had met on several occasions. This was awkward but not, I decided, insurmountable. So I walked up to Kanye, shoved my notebook at him and asked, carefully avoiding eye contact with Wintour, for an autograph "for my niece". "Sure," he replied. "What's your niece's name?" Wintour looked at me, and I thought to myself: "Well, I could save face here or I could go the 'fuck it' route." I went the fuck it route. "Her name is H-A-D-L" I began, and from the corner of my eye I could see Wintour laughing. Whatever. Totally worth it. The Richard Ashcroft incident Occasionally, I would remember during fashion week that I was supposed to act like a professional grownup and, instead of ordering room service every night and passing out in the hotel bar, which was my usual style, I'd go out for dinner with a fashion PR. One night in Milan I went out with the one PR whose name I could remember, the lovely Marsha who was then at Burberry. For an entire hour, I almost successfully pretended that I was a competent adult human being as we chatted and gossiped over spaghetti in some Milanese restaurant. Being American, I have quite a loud voice (it's not my fault, it's a national disability) and one of the many things I like about travelling abroad is that I can talk at my normal volume without worries that I'll be overheard by strangers. Because if they can't understand you, they can't hear you, right? That's science. Anyway, we were sitting in the restaurant, chattering away when I noticed some dude across the restaurant. "Hey!" I bellowed, "That looks like Richard Ashcroft." Marsha stared at me. "Look, look, he looks just like Richard Ashcroft! The guy who's looking at us!" "That's because he is Richard Ashcroft, and he can hear you," Marsha growled. My work, I felt, was done. The Japanese fashion bloggers Outside the shows in Paris there is always a big group of Japanese style bloggers and fashion magazine writers who photograph the people going into the event and ask them about their clothes. Occasionally, I'd be photographed, give them my name, and not think any more about it. One time going into the show, a style blogger asked if she could photograph me and then asked for my name. "Hadley Freeman," I replied. "Hadley Freeman? Oh! Oh!" she cried, and started to laugh. "What, does my name mean something weird in Japanese?" I asked nervously. "No no!" she gasped. "On Japan style sites you are famous!" "Oh right," I smiled. Of course I was famous. Look at me! Who doesn't want to dress like a drunk child? "Yes," she continued. "Because your clothes are so wacky!" My smile froze and faded. "Wacky"? I wanted to be chic but "wacky"? I looked down at my clothes and made a decision. Maybe it was time to leave this fashion malarkey after all. |