I’m huddled up with a hot water bottle and a tom yum stir-fried tofu, and it’s only Day 2. And by Day 2 I really mean it’s been roughly 30 hours since Fashion Week opened.
Seeing the venue transform has been magical. It didn’t help that I turned up to the wrong place, slightly hungover and definitely sleep deprived, on Saturday Morning. But walking through the doors I genuinely feel like I have passed through the pearly gates. It’s a deconstructed, floral atmosphere; fresh out of Instagram. And it’s paradise.
If anything can argue a case for fashion as a form of art – it’s Fashion Week. Seeing the way designers, stylists, hair and make-up artists – and even the photographers, can transform something so regular into these crazy cool objects (and literally) pieces of art is pretty fucking cool.
And while I’d love to list everything groovy that’s going down, I’ll keep you informed with an old Holiday Hunnies game of mine.
- Lots of sneakers. Everywhere. The more sneakers, the better. Congrats sneakers, you made it another year.
- Murray Bevan is my boss. Head of arguably New Zealand’s best fashion PR agency, and just genuinely pretty great. It’s a big deal.
- Linen. Linen is your friend. Embrace it, grow some daisies in your victory garden, love your linen.
- Jumpsuits over t-shirts. Straight out of the Georgia Alice lookbook and a guaranteed great time.
- Front row seats to Fashion Quarterly, accompanied by Moochi seats, Food Snob antipasto treats and a Kate Sylvester x North Wharf collab blanket. Credit to my online competition winning skills.
- Feet are a little sore.
- Unsure if I’ll ever smile sincerely again. Or I will be stuck in a permanent state of smile. Either way I’m screwed.
And I’m getting up in 7 hours to do it all over again, and probably could every day for the rest of forever. Because it’s pretty fucking amazing.