View the London Fashion Week galleries
At my first fashion show, I was somewhat underwhelmed to find myself waiting two hours for a five-minute performance with the grandiosity of a school play peopled only by anorexics. Afterwards, I was approached by a man asking me to be his mistress. The style of his proposition was much like being offered a journalistic posting. He maintained three such positions in New York, Paris and London, and the latter office was vacant. I confided this to a fashion editor friend. “Oh, darling,” she chuckled, “it’s just show time. Things are a good deal worse by the time the carnival moves on to Milan and Gay Paris.” Subsequently, I attended the shows only when compelled to for professional purposes; that profession being journalism rather than the oldest.
And yet, when Mac, London Fashion Week’s official make-up guru, invited me to go undercover with it backstage, I could not resist. Surely the real excitement would be behind the scenes: bitch fights and hissy fits and no one getting out of bed for less than $10,000? Wielding a mascara brush would be more surreptitious than brandishing a notepad. And, unlike many undercover roles, I would be unlikely to find myself in physical danger. “Hmmmn,” said my fashion friend on hearing this. “Hmmmn.”
Three days before my infiltration, I receive a backstage briefing from Mac’s national training manager, the fashion week veteran Caroline Young. Some of Young’s advice is straightforward. Be aware that the look may change. Don’t forget to work your magic on ears, neck and “manky feet”. Be prepared to be branded with curling tongs. “You need skin of steel to work backstage,” warns Caroline, clearly speaking as much literally as metaphorically. “I’m not saying that I prize attitude over artistry, but it’s as near as damn it. Deadlines are manic, and if you get in the way or something isn’t right you will get screamed at.”
The models themselves are adept at head games, the newer ones being notoriously surly, particularly the Americans. A thought occurs to me: “How old are these people?” “Between about 14 and 17. Some may bring their mums.” I decide that I can handle being dissed by a flat-chested 14-year-old. By way of revenge I inquire about spots. “Should be OK,” muses Caroline. “Their skin won’t be as bad as in Milan. By Paris they’ll be shot to pieces.”
Seventy-two hours later I am en route in my Mac artiste disguise: face scrubbed of make-up, top-to-toe black, flat shoes. Just the kind of look one yearns to adopt around lithe-limbed teen Venuses. Stricken by food poisoning, I have spent the night thunderously vomiting in a manner that is oh so fashion, and resolve that if anyone asks why they’ve not met me before, I’ll say I’ve been in rehab.
Call time is 11am at the Natural History Museum, the grounds of which have been transformed into a temporary Planet Fashion. The coincidence with half-term makes for a surreal prospect: queues of babbling children massing one way, queues of jaded fashionistas the other. Security is tighter than I’ve seen at some airports, as if at any moment al-Qaeda terrorists might burst in and denounce the wearing of satin with tulle. I find our area: a couple of trestle tables amid clothes racks and light bulb-ringed mirrors. Caroline, the only backstager in on my deception, berates me for my lack of piercings, strapping me into my brush holster. I stow my array of catwalk bribes: paracetamol, Tampax and cystitis cures.
Our show is Gharani Strok. In the past it has attracted the über-models Lily Cole and Naomi Campbell. Our “key” — ie, key make-up artist — is Petros Petrohilos. He and the designers will have decided “the look” at eleventh-hour fittings, and it is his job to impart it to us. I am in fear of false lashes (last season an artist amputated a girl’s own lashes while trimming a pair). However, faces have been atypically low key. There is a sticky moment when I mishear the theme as “young whore” — it is “young, cool” — but I am relieved to learn that there will be no foundation, blending being the skill that sorts the sheep from the goats. Elsewhere, our instructions are smoulder eye pencil tight into the eye, shading in the brow, pinkish rouge and a glossy beige lip. Ingénue rock chick. Things could be worse.
Our original summons was 10.30am for a 1.30pm strut-off. Three hours is an unusually long call time, and only a couple of models are about, the rest are still at other shows (most have several a day). Everyone mills about bleating that the place is “empty”, “too calm”. This translates as 40 or so individuals rammed clammily up against each other: dressers, coiffeurs, stylists, make-up artists, manicurists, photographers, caterers, hangers-on, hangers-on to the hangers-on, and a man whose job seems to be to shrill: “Oh, rilly? No, rilly?” into a series of mobile phones. The scent of Elnette lies heavy in the air, that and a periodic whiff of drain.
I find myself gazing at the few models in evidence, loitering like members of some exquisite alien race. A fellow artist sees me marvelling. “It’s no mystery,” she shrugs. “They pick them for their height, weight and hanger appeal. What they have over us is symmetry.” That’s it, of course: the almond-eyed, alien quality common to every one of these ectomorphs. I have never looked more like my mother. I feel bosomy, thankful that my hips are wedged under my holster.
I approach Felicity Gilbert, 18, a vision of strawberry-blonde loveliness. It is her first season and she is lamenting being hit on by some ancient cheesmo. I must line her eyes “on the waterline”, ie, inside the lid. It is, quite clearly, agonising: her eyes are already inflamed from having had only three hours’ sleep (this not due to carousing, but to a fitting that ended at 2.30am, followed by a 6am call). I see why models tend not to wear make-up off duty. Also I am rubbish. Mac’s expert, Christy Bergin, takes over. The process takes a squint-inducing 40 minutes. Felicity smiles seraphically.
A peculiar status shift is taking place. In the outside world models rank highly; here they are largely ignored, the objects rather than the subjects of the process. No one I speak to is actually that young. Regardless, the situation has the feel of child exploitation. When I do address a girl I am greeted with suspicion. Me: “Do you want some tiger balm?” Model: [glares: a collision of angles]. Me: “Would you like me not to speak?” Model: “Are you pushing this?” Me: “No, I’m being nice.”
A handful are all attitude; most gratefully return smiles; one should be given her own show. Ines Crnokrak, 21, says drolly: “In New York I’m 19.” An old hand, she has been in New York, Madrid, and “woke up after my first show”. In London she will walk five in a row for anywhere between £300 and £2,000, “average for a good working girl”. The Mac posse apart, the make-up artists are not being paid, participating merely to keep au courant. “People think it’s glamorous,” says one, “but you’re having to check for eye gunge and bogeys.” Ines gamely picks a crisp crumb from her lip, deadpanning: “Look, a model eating.”
At times matters go beyond the unglamorous to the downright cruel. I spot one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen, and say as much to a photographer. “No, she is ugly. London girls are no good. They do things on the cheap.” “Too blonde and commercial,” I overhear about another, and a “positive heifer” at 7st (45kg). I, too, am being sucked into this insane relativism, noting how many of these teenagers sport shadowy moustaches, a symptom of the unearthly glare.
Noon, and we are still largely girl-less. Caroline brings me my first Red Bull cocktail, a backstage rite of passage, and mighty fine. The food is good, too: roasted vegetable sandwiches, soup and the ubiquitous Krispy Kremes. Ines apart, I’ve yet to see a model eating.
A torrent of hail traps me in a Portaloo with a pregnant woman who regards me curiously. Later I realise that she is half of Gharani Strok, and should have been recognisable as the most important ego in the room, only somehow wasn’t. The designers bring an influx of husbands and nippers. “Eugh,” sniffs one of the camper hair boys, “children.”
12.45pm: “Rehearsal!” the choreographer barks. We straggle out to watch. The heels are reminiscent of those that Naomi Campbell toppled off in her notorious catwalk plummet and I am frightened for our girls, despite their metamorphosis into haughty giraffes. “Gifting, people, I want to see gifting,” cries a goody bag-wielding flunkey.
An hour later, 15 minutes after frocks were supposed to hit the catwalk, and the scene is crammed to bursting. Film crews interview other film crews. A celebrity muse is ushered through the chaos, surrounded by an entourage of men of a certain age. “High as a kite,” says an onlooker who managed to air-kiss her. “She’ll need thousands of trips to the toilet to see her through the day.”
And, then, in a flurry of nipples, it is kit-off time. Men flock from everywhere, many brandishing cameras, and a great goaty smell of testosterone goes up. Security intervenes. The girls look startled, wide-eyed and infantile. Luca Cannonieri, Mac’s photographer, is one of the few allowed to remain. Is he blasé about flesh after 16 years doing the shows? “I am, unfortunately. My assistant, he has a few problems. I occasionally have to . . .” He mimes cuffing about the ear.
It’s the final: a chaos of limb-moisturising, smear-checking and lip-loading. The girls are stapled into their shoes and yanked into 2ft-high hats. Felicity, originally my height, towers above me; Amazonian Sonny’s mouth is almost inaccessible. The girls are presented with mini-Moëts to give them a lift (the bottles had to be hidden in dustbins, away from prying mouths). They line up, reminiscent of a primary school crocodile. The choreographer’s elementary admonishments (“Walk. Pause. Walk.”) only reinforce the analogy. A bass line throbs, and the models storm in and out, a riot of elbows and writhing bodies. One has to be cut out of her dress. Petros, eying each girl as she goes on, suddenly explodes. “Who? Who? Somebody’s doing lips.” All eyes turn to me, gloop in hand. He charges over: “Please! Please, stop!” “The change,” mutters Caroline. The models swarm back to whoops and declarations of love, and then on to the next booking.
I catch sight of myself as I pack up my brushes. Never have I looked so haggard, my teeth sticky with hairspray. As I leave, my gaze falls on a spotty infant exiting the Museum; I catch myself sizing her up for a makeover. Give her a couple of years . . .
A guide to backstage etiquette
1) Work that fashion lexicon, baby: tired, hideous, genius etc. Nothing is ever ho-hum.
2) Enjoy long conversations regarding the merits of Krispy Kremes.
3) Treat the “girls” with disdain. If you must remark upon them, do so only to carp.
4) Do not bat an eyelid at nudity, fisticuffs or drug-taking. But look truly horrified should a model consume food.
5) Being on time is not even last season.
6) Say: “I’m not religious, but I am a very spiritual person.”
7) Male fashionistas may find it useful to deploy strategic homosexuality.
8) Do edgy. For edgy read ugly: tattoos, piercings, remedial shoes.
9) Try to find some means of occupying your time: iPods, mobile phones, an unsavoury-looking dog.
10) Should one have the misfortune to be the designer, come to terms with the fact that this is soooo not about you.
