It’s one thing to work in fashion, it’s another thing to be invited to the shows, but it’s a whole different ballpark to actually have to work the event. And although at the end of the weeks leading up to it, I did get to enjoy some of the shows from rows usually reserved for “fancy” people, the stress that came with the preparation of it all actually put me in therapy.
OK, who are are we kidding? I needed a therapist in the city anyway, but I did finally go looking for one after working my first and last Fashion Week.
The company for which I was working was representing more than a few designers who were going to be showing their collections at the Bryant Park tents (yes, this was a few years ago.) Because the majority of them were still on the “rise,” they made our large Soho loft office their home base — literally. One of them even hung “inspiring” kitschy photos on the wall in his corner.
Do you know what it’s like to be at the beck and call of a bunch of designers who not only think themselves geniuses but are frazzled beyond belief because it’s their debut? I’ll just let you ponder that, while I continue.
While the energy was intoxicating, it was more grating than anything else. I spent the several days before Fashion Week roaming the city in search of either random and evidently non-existent props, or food of which I had never heard. I was constantly placing massive lunch orders for designers, agents and models, and yelling at the restaurants for fucking up these orders which they managed to do every single time. I’d go out on coffee runs for sometimes up to 15 people, without the help of an intern, and lug them all back in a damp paper bag hoping they wouldn’t all come crashing out the bottom, just so I could be sent out to do it again in a couple hours.
I’m not even going to take the time to point out that I was an office manager and not someone’s assistant, or that if a call went unanswered while I was doing these errands, it was my fault. See the need for therapy?