London Fashion Week 2009: Pixie Geldof, Anna Wintour, and Alexa Chung
As a photographer covering London Fashion Week, the catwalk shows are the least interesting aspect. They are work; simple stuff, dull stuff, visually not terribly exciting, even when the creations scream at you, "Look at me, look at me".
Of far more interest, visually and socially, are the unfolding events pre- and post-show, the mad mingling outside venues, the arrival of front-row stars, the self-conscious preening and prancing of fashion tramps and sluts; the purposeful, almost arrogant stride of long-limbed women in Louboutin heels; the pitiful attempts of some to look unique in their own cobbled together confections; the longing glances thrown by the less fortunate at A-listers who are waved into every catwalk show without having to stand in line or pretend to be important.
Pixie Geldof
Then there's the amusing chav rudeness of pug-faced Pixie Geldof; the upstart preening of Alexa Chung, who doesn't really have a style but rather mixes and mismatches. Always front row, she looks at times as though she has tossed together whatever lay on her bedroom floor, at other times thought of sorts has gone into the process, and on other occasions she is wearing something to please a friend or promote a cause. She's a billboard of the moment, a frame on which to hang the latest good, or bad, idea.
Anyone who has had the misfortune to see Pixie Geldof on the runway will long for the end of this demi-celeb madness, where anyone with two legs, a bit of cheek, and outrageously bad taste is allowed to "model" clothes that some poor soul has taken time to design. Pixie is rather like Susan Boyle, a woman who can't quite believe her good fortune. There she is with no discernible talent, nothing approaching good looks or a decent figure and she is allowed to sit front row alongside the likes of Anna Wintour, editor in chief of American Vogue.
Icy Wintour
The icy Wintour must wonder which planet she has landed on as Pixie Geldorf and Alexa Chung lark about like yobs at a football match, so desperate to be seen, so eager to outperform and outshine the very people who have invited them to provide some sort of cachet to their event. If Wintour had her way, she'd send tubby Pixie packing. "Learn the ropes, little girl. Pay your dues, acquire some understanding of the business, and most of all, find yourself some good manners."
Not that Wintour is averse to peddling celebrity in order to sell her mag. Gone are the days when models were the stars. Today it is starlets, wannabes, tween bloggers, football wives, and reality tv stars who imagine that they can become designers or writers overnight.They imagine, too, that their own vapid lives are of more consequence than those who have gone before them.
Pitiful Victoria Beckham
A pitiful sight at any fashion show, whether London, New York, Paris, or Milan, is the skeletal Victoria Beckham posing for the paps alongside catwalk models who stand a head tallen than her. Beckham believes the thinner she gets, the more fashion cred she acquires. One need not listen for more than a few seconds to her dreadful estuarine dialect to understand that Beckham knows almost nothing about style, grace, poise, design, or fashion in general.
Victoria Beckham is yet one more example of the look-at-me-generation, pitiful in their desire to be seen, loved, and worshipped. Beckham has as much class as a pork chop in Asda. Surely the emperor's new clothes charade will end soon and some bright spark will yell, She's crap!
Among the public, those folks whom the starlets both despise and require, can be seen far more fashion disasters than successful attempts at self-expression. A theme this Fashion Week among Japanese visitors has been a manga-inspired theatrical look in which grown men dress as bunny rabbits or coy schoolboys. It is a look so laughably stupid that as a photographer one takes pity on the person, snaps a few pix, and then laughs all the way to the digital darkroom.
Then there are those who with no sense of history dress, talk, and act as though they invented punk. Those of us who have been around a while yawn, sigh, and admit, yes, we have seen it all before. Torn tights, black boots, spiked hair, childish makeup, yes, yes, yes, been there, done that. It was crap in the 70s and it is no less crap today.
Jaeger catwalk show
At the Jaeger catwalk show at Somerset House, I spotted one man in his late 20s or early 30s wearing a pink and green romper suit, the sort of thing that fastens at a baby's crotch. The man wore the outfit, or rather fancy dress, with brown shoes and black socks. It would not have been out of place at London Pride but clearly it wasn't Jaeger. The poor chap stood in line for half an hour after the doors had closed, realizing embarrassingly late that his presence was not required, not even in row six pressed against the wall.
The most pleasing sight before any catwalk show are the models standing out back in stockinged feet puffing on fags, sipping on coffee and looking just a tad bored or spaced out. Catwalk models are a hard working bunch but away from the spotlight, they are the least glamorous in a crowd. They live fashion, it is their job, they have no need to make "Look at me" statements on the street. They leave that for the poseurs and pretenders.
London Fashion Week will soon have been and gone, and truth be told, most Londoners will have been unaware of its existence. Pretty young things have danced through the night, ego-burdened editors, buyers, and hangers-on have been wined, dined and ferried about at the city's expense and perhaps some good will come of it all.
A greater number of established names will launch their collections in London. Perhaps some talented designers will be lured home from New York, perhaps middle England will become piqued enough to take an interest in the notion of a multi-million dollar industry built and based on vanity telling the masses what to wear, and equally telling them what they have no right to wear simply by virtue of not being able to afford it.
Wintour and Obama
Once in every person's lifetime they should treat themselves to the sight of stern and steely Anna Wintour arriving in town and acting as though she is more important than President Barack Obama. The woman has not quite twigged that she is sitting on the front row not to end world famine or bring warrring factions to the negotiating table, but to shift cloth. That's all she does. She thinks it matters, and perhaps it does.
It's all good fun, mind you. One shouldn't take it too seriously. Once a year, a few thousand people take a great interest in dressing themselves and their fellow human beings. Then after less than a week it is all over and we can return to important matters such as who is going to win the Premier League.
By Giles Devos. With thanks to Anna Wintour