The great thing about a fashion week - and New York is no exception, is that it makes you uber sensitive about what to wear.
As part of the press pack, it shouldn't really matter as you can rest assured that by the 8th hour on your feet trudging lemming like from show to show, you are sure to be lookng more like stig of the dump than that papparazzo ready look you were chanelling earlier that morning - when, to be fair, there aren't that many papps around anyway - they're more likely to be nursing a sore head after burning the midnight oil trying to get shots of the late night show arrivals.
You can choose to be whoever you want at fashion week - a sleek pulled together media/buyer type, dressed elegantly and efficiently in office attire with this season's twist, who needs to get the show over and done with fast so she can get her copy posted or buying decisions made.
Noor Alsabah (buyer) wearing Behnaz Sarafpour dress, Mories statement necklace
You could be the quirky arty type who throws a creative look together and hangs around the tents with no ticket but safe in the knowledge that some blogger or other will papp you for a shot for 2 seconds of fame in the blogosphere. Conversley you could be a 'lookeylikey/wannabe' - see previous sentence.
You could be working your nuts off as a celebrity stylists right hand man and seat filler...
Or you could simply be your own quirky self...
The point is it's all about the fashion darling after all...
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Posted: September 15, 2010 -
So Fashion Week is upon us and as ever, the crowd are more interesting than the clothes so far.
I don't know about you, but armpit hair - male or female is a tad of a turn off. The fabulous Lady Fag hit New York Fashion Week in style - beautiful bangles, tattoo and killer heels - all was going swimmingly well until I spotted the armpit hair - noooooo - it's just morally wrong - or is that just me?
Then there was the top chicky chick at Michael Angel - apparently it's Julia Stegner - or that's what celeb blogger Bryan Boy told me and actually posted a better pic than mine.
Grace Jones was in town for the Alexander Berardi show - last time I saw her I think it was the 80's and the venue was Brixton Academy and she kept the crowd waiting for 4 hours - I still haven't forgiven her for that.
Finally there was Ms J from Project Runway fame who at Ports 1961 was sat front row next to a kid - who I'm sure when I look in the papparazzo press tomorrow will be named as the next big Jodie Foster or Alexa Chung or whatever. But quite frankly both Ms J, Kid & big guy next to her (who am thinking might be the guy from the new A-Team movie) all looked totally bemused by the juxtaposition they were in.
Plan for tomorrow - read enough celeb/papparazzo/naff press to be at least in shape to spot who's in the front row next time around....
For more blogtastic news on Fashion Week check out Notes from a Stylist
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Posted: September 8, 2010 -
Just when you thought there was no earthly reason to continue your downward spiral into credit card debt oblivion, the wonderful world of fashion has come up with a pretty good reason to celebrate shopping and all that is fab about fashion.
Yes those clever marketing fashionistas have put together another 'Fashion's Night Out'. With Vogue's Anna Wintour as the lynch pin behind this scheme, the event goes global with a frenzied fashion fest set to kick off from London to Taiwan.
Set this year in New York for September 10th, the night is billed as 'Shopping for something good'. Stores stay open till 11pm whilst Designers mingle with staff and celebrity stylists to give the whole thing that authentic block party feel.
You can plan ahead if you scope out Fashion's Night Out web site, which gives you a comprehensive blow by blow shake down on which neighborhoods are doing what so you'll be armed with the nouse ready to hit the stores on the 10th. There's also a fab google map gadget that helps you figure out how far and wide your shopping frenzy can stretch - I'm currently optimistically planning on hitting SoHo, Meatpacking, Bowery & Brooklyn...hmmm.
Be sure not to forget your best fashionista attitude, your credit card and some blister plasters for those battered tootsies at the end of the night.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Much like Joaquin Phoenix I've had a strange and surreal 12 months.
It's exactly a year since I packed up my life in Cardiff and arrived at JFK with a sobbing Teenager. She shedding tears for the boyfriend she left in Wales, me still in shock at my Dad's death a month previously. At my feet some seriously bulging excess baggage.
The American picked us up in a rented SUV and we drove into Manhattan. I was all broad smiles and endless chat, but with a belly groaning with nerves. This is home now. Excited and scared for what lay ahead. Bye bye Cardiff. A fresh start packed to the brim with hope and blindness to any troubles that may lay ahead.
There was no time to ponder on my grief. No pontificating on the enormity of what I had done-giving up a great job at the BBC, renting out my beloved house to strangers, leaving my recently widowed Mum. I was the project manager of this whole new family life and there was a lot of gluing to do, or things would fall apart.
The work started pretty quickly with enrolling The Teenager in school, which was swiftly followed by finding another school, as she hated the first one. Next, the blistering footwork to find an apartment, followed by ploughing all our savings into securing the right one-which then had to be decorated and furnished. We moved from our temporary digs in Queens to our permanent bijoux box in the West Village and wondered how we were all going to live in harmony in such a tiny space.
There was then the small matter of getting married in Central Park by a naval captain in the freakish hot Autumn sunshine and then a rodent infestation in our perfect apartment in place of a honeymoon. Then began immigration and all the ridiculous, comedy bureaucracy that accompanies it. Have you ever been engaged in vice? Are you planning a coup against the U.S. government? Were you a member of the Nazi party between 1939-1945?
When the excitement wore off and it no longer felt like we were here on a long holiday- the missing came. Missing my Mum, missing my friends, really missing my Dad, missing working, missing Corrie and Cadburys, missing the NHS and missing someone knowing what a wanker is.
I had to find my way around New York and my new family life and there was maps for the first but not for the second, but in both I got lost frequently. Some real personal stuff happened, that even I as a chronic oversharer didn't want to blog about. Winter days got shorter and darker and colder and then snowy. Then there came some even bigger problems which I couldn'tblog about and then there was some money problems due to the stuff I couldn't blog about.
Throughout it all I missed not having girl mates to talk the extra 15 thousand words a day that women need to say. Finding them became my mission and I was horribly desperate at first, a girl's girl starved of female company. But by the time there was spring blossom outside our window the friends came. Then the friendships had to be fostered through NY girl activities like toxic cocktail drinking and $20 manicures from women who bitch about you in Korean. But mostly it was about the drinking. There is little that cannot be forged over a Manhattan mixed Martini.
Summer, the last season in the cycle. (More) Tears (than usual) for my Dad on the anniversary of his death,temperatures of 100 degrees giving birth to an obsession with air cons. Our green cards arriving in the mailbox and the U.S. immigration service using the worse photos I have ever seen of The Teenager and I. A deliberate ploy I believe, so immigrants will not commit crime and end up with an unflattering picture of them on the news.
I blogged about most of what happened over the year here on Welsh Alien. In fact, I wrote so much I didn't actually write my book, but then I have not been writing my book for at least a decade, so at least that's one comfortable consistency to keep me warm at night. I can safely say I penned at least a book's worth of blogs, except none of you paid 12.99 for my hard work on Amazon. Although I'd like to think you would, given the chance.
I have written 66 blogs so far. This one makes 67.
66 would have been nice. An even, rounded number that evokes World Cup wins and famous American roads. But then that's not my number.
My life here is far more of a 67. A lovely, odd imperfection.
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