Sometimes I’ll tear up when I see an elaborate cut. I’m especially weak when it comes to vintage designer pieces. I spend my days scrolling through online shops. I literally do it every day. Do I buy them? No. Except when I stumble upon a piece in the most obscure corners of the internet. It’s then that a fashion savior wakes up in me and I feel the urge to salvage this poor piece forgotten under a pile of high-street brands. A torn Prada skirt from Moje krpice? Mine. Two sizes too big set by Dior’s first financier Marcel Boussac I found in an Instagram shop? When can you send it over?
I consider scrolling through designer vintage shops to be an important type of therapy. However, the real magic happens when you get to see, and - oh my - touch the clothes in real life. The only problem is that it’s nearly impossible to do it. In September I traveled to Milan to see the new Diesel show. I paid for everything myself, got tickets from the Croatian PR team, was registered as a journalist from Croatia, and had arrangements to meet and interview Glenn Martens backstage after the show. As I sat down in my fifth-row seat, I noticed there was a fence guarded by two security guards separating me from the first two rows. Those were filled with my colleagues from Vogue, BoF, and other mostly American magazines. The show was cool but the real excitement was backstage. I couldn’t wait to get there, but I realized something was fishy when I saw Lauren Sherman and Tim Blanks leaving backstage while I was still waiting to be let in by the two guards. When they finally let me pass, I still had to go through one more security guard who told me to wait again because Glenn is busy meeting influencers.
Chaos backstage at Diesel.
“You cannot ask him questions. You have to wait in line, shake his hand when it’s your turn, and then quickly leave the backstage, ok?” she said. I opened my mouth but before I could argue, I found myself squeezed into a queue of sweaty influencers dressed in Diesel head-to-toe, waiting to get a photo with Glenn. Disgusted by the erratic atmosphere, seeing people fight for champagne and secretly stuff metal buckles adorned with big D’s into their pockets, I wanted to turn on my heel and leave right then and there. But I waited. Even though I was warned not to, I asked Glenn a few questions as quickly as I could before the PR lady standing next to him shoved me away. She had to make room for Melanie Kieback, an influencer better known by her Instagram name Vanellimelli who was waiting for a photo with Glenn.
Vanellimelli is one of many people who sit in front rows at fashion shows, dressed head-to-toe in pieces by the brand whose show they’re seeing, pieces that were sent to them by the PR team before the show. These people create fake street style trends by getting dressed in perfect PR outfits that turn them into walking ads. These people are also the ones very likely to start their own brand on the count of their Instagram followers, with headquarters in a big Western city and factories in China and Bangladesh. They also might add the word couture to the title of their brand. Vanellimelli couture. It sounds like it already exists.
The PR lady waiting to push me away.
I have nothing against Melanie Kieback. Nor any other person who knows nothing about fashion, but decides to start a brand anyway. And adds the word couture to its name. I have nothing against journalists who get paid to come to shows and write positive reviews after. I just don’t want to be a part of it. And I keep wondering how some of the oldest living voices in the industry, like Sofie Fontanel or Cathy Horyn, who are still genuinely excited by clothes, have survived. Are they not saddened by the direction in which everything is going? How do they continue to write with such enthusiasm? How did they not become cynical and angry with the partakers within the industry who prioritize Instagram photos over a fantastic cut? Yes, yes, capitalism, brands want to sell as much as possible, blah, blah, bullcrap. Brands have never sold more and never cared less about clothes. So how can we, who find the texture of the fabric more exciting than the number of likes, keep caring?