Mercedes Benz Fashion Week Australia is over for another year – and let’s face it, it’s pretty hard to miss because if someone was there, they’ve already told you about it. 1000 times. Because 10 billion Instagram Stories of models walking down a catwalk doesn’t get boring at all. Sure.
And while the ‘gram does its best to perpetuate the idea that it’s glamorous and exciting and totally A-listy, we’re breaking down the truths of what really goes on behind-the-scenes at MBFWA…
First things first, you want to be photographed but you don’t want to look like a try hard. Extra is good but then there is such a thing as too extra. And too extra is worse than not extra enough. It’s a seesaw of fashion emotions and one that you never know if you’re on the up or the down.
Front row goodie bags
I’m the first to admit that the front row goodie bags used to be EPIC. I remember when Camilla actually GAVE AWAY a kaftan to every single person sitting in the front row. Never has discovering that you were sitting in the second row sucked so much. These days, the front row bags really aren’t worth the hype. You’re lucky if they hold a hair product or a few sample sachets, and you’ve really hit the jackpot if there’s a cookie or a cupcake. Don’t feel too bad for missing out.
Talking about the seat squabble – for those of you new to the fashion week world, the front row is reserved for the fashion elite. You know you’ve made it on the style scene if you’re scoring the front row. Which means that people with “Priority Standing” seats want to squirm their way into the notorious front row seats. So suddenly the spot that has been earmarked for two butt cheeks is squeezing on six. It becomes awkwardly close, sometimes sweaty, and always uncomfortable.
Street style paps
You’re standing there right in full view of all the photographers but not a single one is taking your picture. Not one. You didn’t spend three hours getting the right kind of extra to be ignored. You don’t even know the people who they actually are getting their cameras out for. You’re pretty sure they must have bribed the paparazzi.
The shows themselves, not going to lie, are pretty damn cool. The music is pumping, there’s insane fashion displayed in front of you, and the vibe is electric. Sounds like a dream, right? Only thing is, with most dreams – you haven’t had to line up in the hot sun in your fur coat (because… farshun) and then sit around pretending to be on your phone so you don’t catch the eyes of people squeezing their butts into a spot you know isn’t on their ticket stub.
The parties they all talk about? You’re either waiting in countless lines making small talk or you’re standing there drunk pretending to be cooler than you are and probably talking to someone you’ve never met, unsure of who they are but presuming they must be some kind of VIP. Feet swollen from stuffing them inside your pointed boots /9they look off the chart but hurt like fuck), you’re already dreading the early morning wake up call for tomorrow’s show schedule. Punish.
BUT… despite all this, damn it’s a lot of fun. I’m already practising my casual bored glance off to the side for next year’s street style photographers because maybe next year they’ll actually take my picture…