The World of of Paris Fashion Week
This week, the streets are looking even more stylish than usual. The cafés are mobbed, the nightclubs are packed and in spite of the financial crisis, it feels like everyone's in the mood to shop. It's Fashion Week and it's hit Paris.
Twice a year, designers descend upon the fashion capitals of the world – New York, London, Milan and Paris – to showcase their latest collections to the press and public. This year, Paris's Semaine des Créateurs du Mode for Spring/Summer 2009 takes place from September 27 to October 5th. Apart from the shows themselves, which number about a hundred, Fashion Week is also an excuse for lavish promotional events, exhibition unveilings, boutique grand openings and celeb-studded parties that run until dawn.
In my mind, Fashion Week has always been a distant fantasy, accessible only through runway footage on Style TV, party pics in Vogue and the DVD of "The Devil Wears Prada." But this year, I'm infiltrating the scene for the first time as a freelance fashion journalist. This world unlike any other. It's populated by beautiful people and brimming with creativity and ankle boots.
I kicked off the week at a Saturday morning show for Impasse de la Defense at Le Train Bleu, a beautiful Belle Epoque restaurant in the Gare de Lyon. I was nervous. I mentally checked myself at the door, threw my shoulders back, stuck my chin up and strode into the venue like a true fashionista. Unfortunately, no one was there to witness my little performance; they were still busy setting up. A little wounded, I checked my phone. I was on time, which in this world, I discovered, means unfashionably early.
After snagging a coffee and macaroon from the breakfast setup – one of the perks of attending an early-morning show – I selected a corner from which I could observe the scene. The crowd was a mix of fashion folk and journalists, peppered with the occasional misfit – disgruntled photographers, misbehaving kids and heavy-set older women in loafers.
When it seemed as if the show was about to begin, I sat and asked a nice-looking Asian journalist next to me about the assigned seating; she shrugged her shoulders and said, "There is, but nobody seems to be paying attention to it." I thanked her, relocated to the front row and prepared my equipment for the start of the show.
Against the ornate gilded interior of the restaurant, Impasse designer Karim Bonnet showcased an energetic line of his signature hand-painted textiles. As an accordionist threw her entire body into a discordant, melancholy tune, lithe African models streamed one-by-one down a red-carpeted runway. The collection was composed of bright, gauzy sheaths and separates, accented with ethnic accessories and sexy black footwear. Some pieces incorporated a springtime floral scheme with white accents, while others used a darker palette that mixed animal prints and urban-inspired graphics.
The whole show took about fifteen minutes and at the end of it, Bonnet took a turn down the runway to rousing applause. The second he disappeared backstage, everyone sprung from their seats and hustled out the door, no doubt heading to other shows across town. I joined the crowd of people filing out, my head still swimming with the colors, the textures, the music. I was hit by the sheer reality of Saturday morning at the Gare de Lyon. For a while there, my world had been fashion.
Jessica Marati is a freelance writer based in Paris. For more up-to-the-minute coverage of Fashion Week, visit her fashion blog at: http://crashinfashionweek.wordpress.com.
