Maxine Tanner | September 25, 2015
Here’s how Fashion Week would have gone down if I were there.
My suitcase would look like a Jackson Pollock. A flourish of colours and prints in hundreds of different styles. From boyfriend shirts to turtle necks, moto jackets, cigarette pants, denim culottes, knitted grandma sweaters, studded Jeffrey Campbell platforms, floral printed overalls, colour blocked bodysuits, and faux fur stoles. I would wear anything that had the remote possibility of getting photographed as part of Fashion Week street style.
Whilst pulling my best blue steel out the front of the Topshop Unique show, I would have to compete for the limelight with the parade of internationally renowned bloggers that just rolled in, in one of those oversized black SUVs that the entire cast of the OC drove. In one of my skilful attempts to be in the spotlight I would call out to them as if we were friends, but of course they have no clue who I am and let’s face it I only know them from social media, turning into one of those awkward moments where you call someone by their Instagram name in public. ‘Songofstyle hey girl! How you doing?’ ‘Theblondesalad! You look so fierce in that Chanel fanny pack.’ ‘Whoworewhat! I adore your shoes. Are they Prada?’
Still facing the fact that I am a fashion student on a budget I couldn’t afford any fancy transportation to the multitude of shows that I would of course be invited to. Therefore the only plausible form of transport would be by foot. And no I don’t mean walking. I would never make it to all the shows on time and I wouldn’t pull a Kimye and hold off the show until I arrive, even though I know they would be willing to. I mean rollerblading. Rollerblades are fast, flash and fashion forward. Trust me, Kanye’s next shoe to be released will be the Yeezy Blades 350.
In this modern day and age I would be one of many audience members religiously snap chatting every stride on the runway. Sitting back in the second row I would have to push aside Grace Coddington’s frizz to get clear vision of the Tommy Hilfiger boardwalk styled runway for an A grade snap chat as Grace, stuck in the golden years takes her time sketching each look. At least her mane of red hair would shield me from the splashes of sister act Gigi and Bella Hadid frolicking through the staged beach for the finale.
Cast under a spell of timeless elegance at the Burberry show, I would nudge Anna Wintour out of the way just to get a shot of those sports luxe sandals, adorned with the gold chains – no, literally gold chains, I’m not referring to Kylie Jenner’s boyfriend Tyga. After giving the entire audience a new obsession, I would then ask Cara (yes, we’re on a first name basis) to hold up her personally monogrammed Burberry backpack for a photo, because well, those eyebrows wouldn’t fit on my phone screen anyway.
Embarrassingly enough, I would also have had to apologise to Candice Swanepoel for my letting my Superstar Adidas shoelace go astray on the runway, as I walked across to take my front row seat, leading to her topple at Givenchy. I would have then turned to my left and told Pharrel that he needs to re evaluate his quality control procedures because his laces are to blame for a Victoria’s Secret angel falling from the heavens that night.
[ Credits: Words by Maxine Tanner, Illustration by me. ]