What it's really like to go to London Fashion Week
The hierarchies, the hissy fits, and the unrelenting power of Anna Wintour
First, an apology: this newsletter is landing in your inboxes slightly later than usual. I’m sorry. That’s because I’ve been at London Fashion Week for the last few days and let’s just say it’s been fairly hectic thus far. In short, not enough sleep and too much caffeine.
It’s a cliché but there isn’t much time to eat properly when you’re running around London from show to show. My diet has primarily consisted of Deliciously Ella snack bars, Itsu’s seaweed thins, and fizzy strawberry sweets, which I’ve decided will count as one of my five a day.
Having been going to the shows for seven years (!) now, I’m pretty used to all the pomp and pageantry that surrounds them. But because LFW is primarily a trade event, attended mostly by press, buyers, and influencers, a lot of people aren’t privy to what really happens on those runways, let alone the fanfare that takes place before and after a model has even walked a single step.
So, allow me to share a few insights with you. Because it’s not all like The Devil Wears Prada, but it’s also not exactly not like that, either.
Let me begin by saying that I love going to fashion shows. As a kid, it was always a pipe dream of mine to be sitting on the front row, racketing my head back and forth looking at clothes on the catwalk. The first one I went to was Mother of Pearl back in 2016. I didn’t have a ticket but was working in the Condé Nast press office at the time, and one of my colleagues who’d been invited could no longer make it. So, off I popped, over the road from Vogue House to Claridges.
The first thing I noticed was the street style photographers, huddled outside, avidly darting between cars to take their snaps. I was wearing a vintage Missoni mini dress I’d found in a shop in San Francisco a few months prior (a shop called Wasteland in Haight-Ashbury that I swear is a treasure trove for secondhand designer clothing) with a black faux fur coat from Zara and some chunky ankle boots from Office.
The show was wonderful. But that wasn’t what enraptured me. It was watching the editors line the front row with a divine superiority that seemed comically exaggerated, overhearing stressed PRs desperately trying to get hold of celebrities who hadn’t shown up, and seeing people walk away when they were told their seat had been moved to the second row.
Since then, I’ve been to the London shows almost every season and these sorts of things never fail to make me laugh. I also did a season in New York, which was on an entirely different level given the financial backing American brands have. Everything is bigger, flashier, and more A-list. I’ll never forget going to the Tom Ford show in the Bank of America, and keeping my eyes fixed on Julianne Moore, who sat front row, for the duration.
Then there was the Calvin Klein show. This was when Raf Simons was creative director — what a time — and Trump was in power, so dystopia was very much the aesthetic. I walked in at the same time as Anna Wintour and Hamish Bowles, totally starstruck (it’s only ever editors and writers that seem to do this to me rather than celebrities, though it’s not like I’ve ever encountered Beyoncé… I imagine you’d have to be some sort of robot not to get starstruck by Beyoncé).
But back to the UK. There have been some hilarious moments over the years that really have felt like they belong more on the screen than in real life. Like the time I was sat next to a senior editor I admired and recognised from Instagram who happened to be wearing a very similar checked blazer to mine. This was my in. “Nice blazer,” I said, playfully, knowing full well hers was probably from Celine while mine was H&M. She turned to look at me and immediately looked away, staring in the opposite direction for the remainder of the show.
It always amazes me how unfriendly people can be in these environments. Generally, the seating at fashion shows tends to be fairly unforgiving. Think tiny, narrow benches built for tiny, narrow bottoms, all squished up next to one another. Not exactly comfortable at the best of times, particularly not when you’re sitting in silence because the person next to you deems you too unimportant to warrant the effort of making conversation. Still, it makes me laugh.
Then there are the countless occasions when someone else takes your seat. And you’re relegated to the row behind. Or when a PR desperately pleads with people to voluntarily move because an important editor is running late and couldn’t possibly be seen standing or sitting anywhere other than in the front row.
There is never food at fashion shows. Back in the day, when Topshop had its own show space, they’d give you champagne and salad bowls. Now, you’re lucky if you so much as get a free can of Coca-Cola. I’ve also heard stories of models fainting backstage, which is fairly grim.
That’s another thing: it’s astonishing how quickly you immunise yourself against the thinness of some of the models. It’s wrong to comment on the health of someone based on the size of their body, of course. But most women can tell the difference between a naturally slim woman, and one who is unwell. Sadly, I think I still see a lot of the latter on the catwalk.
The shows almost always run late — an 8pm show will typically start at 8.15/8.30pm, depending on whether or not Anna Wintour is present (Anna famously hates it when shows run late). And they only ever last around 10 minutes, which is pretty astonishing when you consider how much time, money, and effort is spent into putting them together.
The only reason anyone ever gets anywhere on time (and not looking like a frazzled, soaked rat, as I have on occasion) is because most editors and VIPs are driven around to the shows. This season, I was lucky enough to be chauffered by Lexus in its RZ450E Takumi, which was incredibly plush and comfortable (particularly because they provided me with a huge bag of delicious snacks!).
As for the parties, well, I’m usually too exhausted to go. This year I did manage to make it to one for a few drinks before pootling off home to bed to get a good night’s sleep before another full day of shows. I am planning on popping into one party briefly this evening, too, if exhaustion allows.
I get quite a lot of messages on social media around this time of year from people telling me how glam LFW always looks. Don’t get me wrong, it is a lot of fun, particularly when I get to spend time with friends in the industry and former colleagues. But it’s not as chic as it looks. In fact, everyone who I’ve spoken to this season has replied to my “How are you doing?” questions with the same answer: “Fine… bit tired.” Yeah, I know the feeling.
That’s it from me for now. If you’re interested in reading my LFW coverage, keep an eye on Instagram as I’ll be sharing it there when it’s live.
See you next week.
All my love,
OP xxx