SEPTEMBER 2008

NEW YORK TIMES – SEPTEMBER 2008 – FASHION DIARY – BY GUY TREBAY

“HEY, OLGA, DO YOU WANT TOPLESS WITH HEIDI?” THE MODEL JESSICA STAM SHOUTED ACROSS THE BACKSTAGE AREA BEFORE THE RICK OWENS SHOW HERE ON SUNDAY. SHE WAS TALKING ABOUT WHO WOULD WEAR THE RICK OWENS DRESSES THAT EXPOSED THE MODELS’ BREASTS. OLGA WAS TOO BUSY TEXTING TO PAY ATTENTION TO THE QUESTION. IT WAS MOOT ANYHOW, SINCE THE MODELS WERE ALREADY PAIRED UP WITH THE OUTFITS THEY WOULD EACH WEAR FOR EACH EXIT, AND THERE WERE NO REAL DECISIONS FOR THEM TO MAKE. THERE REALLY NEVER ARE. IT’S FUNNY TO THINK BACK ON THE DAYS OF THE SO-CALLED SUPERMODELS — FOUR SPOILED WOMEN WHOSE CAREERS SOME PEOPLE IN THE PRESS ARE CURRENTLY TRYING TO REVIVE — AND THEIR INFAMOUS BACKSTAGE ANTICS.

THERE WERE LINDA’S IMPERIOUS FOOT STAMPINGS ABOUT RUNWAY PRECEDENCE. THERE WERE NAOMI’S TANTRUMS ABOUT, WELL, ANYTHING. (INCLUDING A LUNCH AT LE GRAND VEFOUR, WHERE SHE ORDERED, OF ALL THINGS TO EAT AT A HALLOWED TEMPLE OF HAUTE CUISINE, A CLUB SANDWICH AND THEN SENT IT BACK BECAUSE THE BREAD WAS SCRAPING HER GUMS.) THERE WAS THE UNWELCOME PRESENCE AT SHOWS OF ONE MODEL’S BOOKER WITH WHAT SEEMED LIKE A STOPWATCH, CLOCKING THE BILLABLE HOURS AS THEY TICKED BY.

THE MOVIE-LOT THEATRICALITY OF THOSE TIMES HAS LONG SINCE DISAPPEARED FROM THE RICH BACKSTAGE REALM, WHICH ITSELF SHOWS ALARMING SIGNS OF DYING OUT AS DESIGNERS LIKE MARC JACOBS AND DONNA KARAN AND DONATELLA VERSACE RESTRICT THE ACCESS THAT HAS FOR SO LONG BEEN A PART OF KEEPING THE IMAGE MACHINE STOKED.
“WHEN I STARTED OUT 20 YEARS AGO, THERE WAS NO ONE BACKSTAGE, BECAUSE NOBODY WANTED TO BE THERE,” SAID THE PHOTOGRAPHER ROXANNE LOWIT. “PEOPLE THOUGHT I WAS CRAZY NOT TO DO THE RUNWAY AND SPEND ALL MY TIME BACKSTAGE. BUT THAT’S WHERE THE MAGIC IS.”

THAT’S WHERE YOU WOULD WITNESS A THEATER AS FASCINATING AS ANY SPECTACLE ON ANY RUNWAY, WHERE CRAMMED INTO SOME UNLIKELY SPACE THERE ARE LIKELY TO BE, AS AT MR. OWENS’S SHOW, RELATED BUT ONLY MARGINALLY COMPATIBLE ECOLOGIES LIKE THOSE OF HAIRDRESSING, MAKEUP, FOOD SERVICES AND DRESSING THROWN TOGETHER FOR TWO HARRIED HOURS AND CONJURING OUT OF THE TUMULT A CLEAR 15-MINUTE DISTILLATION OF THE DESIGNER’S DREAM.

THERE YOU’LL ENCOUNTER THE UNASSUMING HAIRDRESSING GENIUS WHO LOOKS LIKE A GARDEN GNOME AND WHOSE ANNUAL EARNINGS ARE RIGHT UP THERE WITH A SENIOR EXECUTIVE IN THE FORTUNE 500. THERE YOU’LL MEET THE ETHEREAL CANADIAN MODEL WHO GREW UP ON A PIG FARM AND WAS DISCOVERED AT A DOUGHNUT SHOP. RIGHT NOW SHE’S CHEWING GUM AND FIDDLING WITH HER SOLID GOLD MEN’S ROLEX WHILE CHATTING UP A FELLOW CANADIAN OF LUNAR BEAUTY, A YOUNG WOMAN WHOSE BIG BREAK CAME WHEN A MODELING AGENT HAPPENED UPON HER DURING A HOSTESS SHIFT AT EAST SIDE MARIO’S.
“WHERE IN THE WORLD WOULD I BE IF THAT HADN’T HAPPENED?” THAT WOMAN, THE MODEL ALANA ZIMMER, SAID ON SUNDAY. PERHAPS SHE WOULD HAVE WORKED PART TIME WHILE FINISHING COLLEGE. PERHAPS SHE WOULD HAVE GOTTEN A JOB THAT PAID SOMETHING IN THE MID-FIVE FIGURES. PERHAPS SHE WOULD NEVER HAVE KNOWN WHAT IT’S LIKE TO EARN IN A SEASON THE EQUIVALENT OF A CHIEF EXECUTIVE SALARY WHILE DOING A JOB THAT, SHE SAID, “I NEVER TALK ABOUT TO ANYONE BACK HOME,” IN KITCHENER, ONTARIO.

“I NEVER EXPLAIN WHAT I DO,” SHE ADDED, AS THE DRESSERS BEGAN FITTING THE MODELS INTO CLOTHES THAT LOOKED LIKE SOMETHING FUTURISTIC NUNS MIGHT WEAR IN A MARGARET ATWOOD NOVEL AND WITH GAITERS THAT WRAPPED AROUND THEIR ANKLES AND MADE THE WOMEN SEEM TO HAVE NOT FEET BUT HOOVES. “YOU NEVER COULD,” SHE SAID.

BY NOW IT’S PRETTY CLEAR THAT THE ENTERTAINMENT VALUE OF FASHION IS AT LEAST AS COMMERCIALLY VITAL AS THE MORE STRAIGHTFORWARD ENTERPRISE OF SELLING CLOTHES. AN AWFUL LOT DEPENDS ON THE LUSH VISUAL CONTENT FASHION CRANKS OUT. AFTER ALL, LITTLE ELSE TRANSLATES AS WELL ACROSS CULTURES, OTHER THAN SPORTING EVENTS AND ACTION FILMS; AND THERE IS PROBABLY NO PLACE IN THE WORLD WHERE PEOPLE ARE NOT ENSORCELLED BY THE IMAGE OF BEAUTIFUL WOMEN ON PARADE.
DOES IT MATTER EXACTLY WHAT OR “WHO” THEY ARE WEARING? TO MOST PEOPLE IT PROBABLY DOES NOT. AND SO IT SOUNDED PARTICULARLY INAPPOSITE WHEN A CHORUS OF HAND-WRINGERS STARTED RAISING A COLLECTIVE PLAINT ABOUT THE INAPPROPRIATENESS OF ATTENDING TO STUFF SO APPARENTLY INESSENTIAL AS FASHION IN “THESE HARD TIMES.”

YET, STANDING AMID THE GAIETY AND TEEN-GIRL HIGH SPIRITS BACKSTAGE AT RICK OWENS — A BLUR OF MODELS POSING, PHOTOGRAPHERS SNAPPING, HAIRDRESSERS DARTING FROM ONE WOMAN TO THE NEXT AND, AT THE CENTER OF IT ALL, THE MUSCLED GOTH FIGURE OF MR. OWENS HIMSELF — IT SEEMED ALTOGETHER OBVIOUS THAT THE NEED IS NEVER GREATER FOR ESCAPIST SILLINESS, THE BREAD-AND-CIRCUSES FRIVOLITY OF PAINT AND GLITTER THAN IN TIMES AS TOUGH AS THOSE WE FIND OURSELVES IN.
“FUN, FUN, FUN,” THE MODEL IRINA LAZAREANU KEPT SAYING ON SUNDAY, AS SHE DARTED MANICALLY BACKSTAGE HOLDING AN UNLIGHTED CIGARETTE IN A WAY THAT MADE HER LOOK LIKE GROUCHO MARX, BUT MORE CHIC. “WE USED TO HAVE FUN,” SAID THE MODEL. “WHERE’S THE FUN?!”