Photos: © SwO magazine
I could endlessly talk about the dreams that finally came true. I could sigh and stutter trying to express the feeling when you open the door of your new London home (to which I am almost getting used by now) and find a card lying on your doormat. The very first invitation. With your own name, which looks somehow extraordinarily important on it. My invitation to London Fashion Week.
I was trying to come up with the name for a device that could measure the level of fuss. Also, what size of a scale would I need in order to measure my nervousness in the morning. And how frequent was the tremble of my hands. And how many times the weather in London changed. And how many times because of that I had to put on and take off my blazer. And what size of a bag would I need for another day when all the stuff, notes and collected business cards don‘t even fit into mine – Narnia‘s size one.
However, my fuss disappeared sooner than I could have expected it to. To find any time to be nervous would have been a luxury. On my way to Somerset House only a couple of thought kept spinning in my head: how to be there on time / what the map that i scrawled in my notebook in three seconds looks like exactly / how to find a way to run and not fall down with my wedges of unexplainable height (which today could also be called‚ a mistake‘).
I always knew that fashion can be called a different world; however, I never would have thought that Fashion Week is a separate life continuing for a couple of days. A separate world, surrounded by the walls of the Somerset House, where every single visitor is telling at least a part of one‘s story just by the way one looks. Where, wherever you turn to, you‘ll see lips that can‘t stop talking about fashion. A world where flashing cameras and the words ‘can I take a picture of you’? Stopping you every half a minute are absolutely casual.
To be honest, I found out that the first fashion week of mine has to be full of surprises. One of them – endless standing in the crowd and waiting to get into the ten minute show. The presentation of collection takes you to another world – the one that the designer wanted to create. And after that…waiting around in another line. Or hurryinghurryinghurrying because the designer whose creations you ought to see is having his fashion show in fifteen minutes…In a completely different place in London.
The first day of London Fashion Week leaves me smiling. To live in a rhythm of this event means never rest. An ache in my feet and hurting legs don‘t at all repel from checking the pictures of the collections online and all the business cards under my left hand invite me to wait until the photos, which I got captured in, are going to appear on the big web. A thought that I‘m going to miss the ‘official’ day 2 of the fashion week because of my permanent London job makes me sad. The only thing left is to wait for the Sunday and create new thoughts and moods for my writing.
VIKTORIJA_
