Photos by: Derek Cheung (https://www.facebook.com/drkimaging/)
Top: c/o Oasap ... Skirt: Miss Unkon ... Shoes: Jeffrey Campbell
Clutch: Bardot ... Watch: Swatch & Citizen
It is now one month after the hustle and bustle that was Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week Australia. It was a week filled with the clip-clopping of heels, incessant fashion chatter and whole hordes of people more stylish than you.
Overwhelmed on the first day like a little year 7, I was desperately scanning all the cliques (buyers from The Iconic, Harper's Bazaar team, the renowned bloggers) for anyone I knew. Naturally, I knew no one. However as the week went on, numerous introductions were made, business cards exchanged and faces placed to a URL. It hit me that although I was an 'independent fashion blogger', in this industry it's quite impossible to be alone.
Fashion week is a bit like high school. Except instead of teachers telling you what to do, it's the photographers telling you how to pose. Roll call is in the form of an industry registration desk complete with a pass to hook around your neck (and ruin the whole cohesion of your carefully planned outfit). Likewise you are assigned a name, a grouping and consequently defined by a bar code.
What surprised me was the energy! This exhilarating, intimidating, claustrophobic (and all the synonyms in between) vibe which everybody fed off, was definitely something I have never experienced before. Not even those crammed peak hour trains or the adrenaline rush from any aerial camp activity could have prepared me for this. Everyone was so alive and even if you were living off 4 hours sleep and 45 espresso shots, you sure didn't let anyone see that.
Such is the irony because here lies my real 'job'. To sit at 9pm at night in my pj's and type. It's time to take off those deadly heels and attend to my blisters ...