Sweaty, with two toothpaste stains and greasy hair because I overslept that morning - that was yesterday's fashion week look, while my camera and I were politely pushing past 6 foot women in stilettos. The tent and all its theatrical self-enactment is one number too big for me. Most of the time Fashion Week feels like overdosing on chocolate. "Zu viel des Guten" as we would say in German. I always remind myself of the fact that I am there to capture the moment, document the collections, meet some friends and then get the fuck out of there. To put it bluntly. As each season passes, I find myself leaving the tent, or rather the Chanel-perfumed sauna earlier, quickly squeezing past the barriers and going straight to Starbucks for my Java Chip Frappuccino. There is no point in standing in line for a sip of Jules Mumm.
I know this text is overflowing with irony and sarcasm and you have most likely heard it before but I really can't help but want to avoid the circus at all costs. It drains the magic out of the shows, which deserve far more attention than the prancing around outside or the thunderstorm of flashing cameras that make the whole runway light up like the 4th of July because everyone is suffering from front-row mania.
BUT to slightly more pressing matters: what a show. The DfT Award Show never disappoints and will always remain a personal highlight of mine. Jamie Wei Huang may not have won but her Daft-Punk-entourage of models that paraded down the catwalk with reflecting lampshades and 10-kilo-heavy encrusted garments did cause slight breathing problems. Iona Ciolacu's tennis-playing mermaid collection came out as a well-deserved winner and was my second favourite collection. I think I may have to go on a search for a perspex and raffia visor.