Toronto Fashion Week is almost a whole week behind me and most of the events have become a blur. A blur of pretty clothes, pretty people, bitchy people and sore feet. I've been keeping up with all the recaps and street style galleries from fashion week and can admit that it all seems pretty damn glamourous.
Even though I enjoy spending a week with decidly glamourous people, I'm more than happy to sing from the mountain tops that I'm not one of them. I trip, spill, snort and swear way too much to ever be considered elegant.
To that end, I've decided to write up a short list of my own personal horror stories from Toronto Fashion Week that stem from my being less than important, glamourous or even sane.
Fashion Films Make Me UncomfortableGetting to the tent on opening day before any shows were even close to starting was already a little weird since it was still being vacuumed. I had arrived to catch a 'retrospective' film on 5 seasons of clothing from an assortment of designers. I went into the studio, I watched, I was confused, I looked around and confirmed I was the only confused one and I left soon after. In my defense a good portion of this FASHION film was spent on naked girls with face paint silently screaming. I spent the next few hours hearing people around me comment on the amazing films we had seen and felt secure in thinking I was a simpleton who would never understand art. Sweet.
45 Minute WaitI understand that this is a 'hurry up and wait' industry but I'm a little OCD when it comes to interview times. Which is why I was early for my interview with a designer I won't name and it's why I was supremely pissed at being one of the last to get my interview after waiting an abysmal 45 minutes. Obviously, the designer isn't to blame but as I waited and watched bloggers get their interviews even though they had arrived after me and hadn't even checked in, I felt myself wanting to give the whole show a terrible review (I didn't). What annoyed me even further was that the PR women weren't paying attention to who arrived when and who had slotted times versus who didn't but instead allowed everyone to bunch together, called it a lineup and patronizingly called us all 'good girls'.
Take The V and I Out of VIPBackstage beside the photo wall there was a really cool device that let you take a picture looking into a mirror and tweet it out. Well, YOU can't...only VIPs. A friend and I naively waltzed up to the camera and were just about to pose like rockstars until the woman running it threw up a hand and said 'Oh, I'm sorry. This isn't for just anyone.' Unable to answer when we asked just whose golden ass was allowed a Twitter photograph, the woman simple assured us that we weren't on that list and motioned with her hand to slide out of the way for, you know, important people.
Haunted AccessoriesGetting to the tent late one night was actually a bit of a benefit because lying on the curb was a fabulous accessory I spotted and loved right away. Now, I know I should have turned it in to the desk but I was late, I didn't know if the accessory's owner was leaving or arriving and whatever, finders keepers and all that. Later that night, after going to bed, I had a super terrifying nightmare about human heads being dug up in my lawn and woke up screaming. So I decided the accessory that was still in my purse was evil and haunting whomever had it in their possession. The former owner had been right in leaving it behind like it was Jumanji.
Stolen SeatIf you don't have a reserved seat in the front row, you'll know what happens when audience members are instructed to move down a row or two. Mayhem, that's what. I was at one of the more popular shows when a volunteer let everyone know that it was time to scoot down. My seatmate went and snagged a front row spot with a beautifully open chair right next to her. I almost got to it when another volunteer stopped me and told me that I couldn't sit there because that seat was meant for her. Weird, considering she had a guarenteed spot standing right at the end of the runway. I questioned her motives and in those few seconds someone else sat in the volunteer's precious seat and I went back to sitting behind someone's rather large head. But of course, not before asking the volunteer what her fate was now that 'her' seat was gone. Oh right, stand at the end of the runway.
Confusion Done RightI've already complained about the hustle and bustle that goes on backstage when you're trying to get an interview along with every other fashion publication in the game. After my experience with the PR ladies from the earlier show, I seriously considered bailing on another designer interview that was sure to be another shitshow. Instead, I went and was delighted by the organized confusion. Once again, the interview time sheets were wasted paper and signing in was a foreign concept. Except this time the PR pros took note of who arrived and when and those of us that were there early were ushered in quickly and able to leave without wanting to slap someone with a clipboard. Yay!
You know I love ya Toronto Fashion Week!
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