I got asked to photograph London Fashion Week by the guys up top. Wait—no, they didn’t ask me. More like forced me. At first, it seemed like a chore, but the kind of chore you learn to tolerate, maybe even love—like sweeping crumbs off the kitchen floor or scrubbing mould off the shower.
This was my first fashion week as a so-called “important” person. I’m not sure if they know it yet, but I’m the Photo Editor of i-D now! Not that it matters. The minute I walk into my first show, I’m met with immediate shouting. “And who are you?!” Lovely. Just what I needed.
Day One
Walking around the main space of the Mainline:RUS/Fr.CA/DE show, I awkwardly scan the room for familiar faces. It’s just me and my trusty Powershot—a Canon G12, for those who care. I feel incredibly anxious. Everyone else has a real camera. I do too, but I left it at home. I don’t need it for this.
I wrap the strap around my hand so tight it hurts. I glance around. Sony. Nikon. Some have multiple cameras dangling from their necks. Not me. Just my Powershot. I feel ridiculous.
Snap, snap, snap. Sometimes my camera freezes on a model, and they awkwardly smirk. I smirk back and smack my camera in a bid to make it less awkward. The photo’s out of focus. I run off and pretend to fiddle with settings, return, nod my head, and snap again. I hope that one’s in focus. “You’re just warming up,” I tell myself. I need a pint.
Day Two
Three shows scheduled. I only make it to one: Dilara Findikoglu. Everyone warned me it would be hectic. I arrive early, and my name’s not on the list. Great start. Then I remember my title—time to test if it holds weight. Success. I take a deep breath and head upstairs, backstage.
I’ve been lied to. The atmosphere is surprisingly calm. I wander aimlessly. No one’s dressed. I take a photo of the bin. I hear there’s a party later—that’s all I can think about.
The show is meant to start. No one’s dressed.
I fall briefly in love with a model, but they’re probably married. I swear they keep staring at me. I think I’m delusional.
I dissociate—a tip I was given by a friend at a previous show. It works. Time blurs. All I know is they’re an hour and a half late and I’ve never been scolded so aggressively for simply existing. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I laugh.
Day Three
I arrive at my first show at 2PM, barely functioning on three hours of sleep. I see Lynski, the makeup artist, who immediately pushes me into a chair, tilting my head back. Eye drops. “I needed that,” I say. I wish she had coffee too, though.
Eight photos in, and I realise I’m already late for the next show. But who’s more important—Sinéad O’Dwyer or Jawara Alleyne? I don’t understand fashion the way I’m supposed to. I find a cab and head to Shoreditch.
One thing I’ve learned: everyone is always late. Except me. I arrive at every show first, eager.
I wish I’d stayed at Sinead’s show. This one’s mid. The clothes are fine, but the energy is off. I finally head home—well, I try. The pub calls my name.
Day… Three? Four? Two?
I’ve lost track. All I know is I need to be at St. Paul’s station by 3 PM for Simone Rocha.
Classic. I’m early. Time to smoke. Lots of waiting. They love to make us wait.
They finally release us from a makeshift cattle pen. I step in and immediately get told to leave before my camera even leaves my pocket. “Who are you? Photographers only!” a producer shouts. I try to explain I’m shooting ‘first looks,’ a term I still don’t fully understand. I’m given four minutes. What’s the point?
Fashion is full of sadists.
They cut my time to three minutes. “Please exit the venue down the stairs you came in.” I entered via the runway. Should I?
I hop on the bus and head to Conner Ives. No fancy cars for me. Backstage is surreal. Am I even meant to be here? The room is swarming, models barely dressed. My eyes dart to the ceiling and back to my phone. Where do I look? The producers shriek. I get it—it’s their job. But why am I always in the way?
It’s Sunday. I could be having a roast. Instead, I’m photographing a hairclip and a sequin dress. I question my life choices. Someone grabs my shoulder. My heart sinks. It’s fine—I just accidentally headbutted a makeup artist. Sorry.
I nearly get into a fight. At this point, I don’t even know what people here do. I mutter REDACTED under my breath. He hears me.
I’m ready to quit. Throw my camera into the Thames and be done with it. Instead, I b-line to the Beaumont Bar—infamous for its extortionate cocktails. I order The Big Apple. It costs £28. I can’t expense this. (But maybe I’ll try.)
I head to the pub—again. But not for pints. This time, for fashion—Paolo Carzana, to be exact. To my shock, I’m not being screamed at. It feels… unfamiliar. Have I developed a shame kink? Possible. Yet, somehow, I miss the aggression. Stockholm syndrome?
I float around, snapping photos of clothes being arranged and pinned. No rush. I stay for a swift pint, then head home to bed.
Burberry. The Finale.
We’re lined up like school kids on a field trip. It feels like one of those excursions where you pan for gold or dig up fake fossils.
More waiting. But this one, I understand. Naomi Campbell. Anna Wintour. Cool.
I’ve made friends. People greet me as they arrive. Maybe I am enjoying this?
We’re escorted around the back by Simon, the security guard. I hate to admit it, but I’m excited. I also really need to pee.
We reach the entrance. They’re not letting us in. Ugh. Simon works his magic. We’re in. Seven minutes.
A model asks me about my recent trip to New York. “Six minutes,” I say.
“Flash.”
They stare at me. My time is up. I know it.
Simon walks toward me.
Fuck.
And it’s over.
I leave, wearing my fake Burberry trench. A deliberate accident.
No one paps me.
