Ephemera

THURSDAY

9:00pm Prototypes

My first show of the season is Prototypes, held in a gothic church, dramatically lit, on an unseasonably warm night. Inside, the energy is high and everything’s running on time - a director is running this like the navy. 

The looks channel working-class English subcultures: a skinhead complete with braces, a quintessential essex lad - slicked back hair, too tight jeans, ripoff emporio armani top, roadmen in matching tracksuits. Versions of the union jack are everywhere, sprayed onto reeboks, reworked into a dress, flag keyrings attached to chest chains. 

But the mood is more antagonistic than celebratory. Models wear riot gear and bulletproof vests, faces covered in black spandex, identities erased. Look names, Vest Knight, Hoodlum Gilet, Freemason, speak to a violent Britain that's unfortunately recognisable - the collection is entitled a fitting “In memory of british culture”.

I watch the show from the press pit, the music is scary thumping techno, the walks are stompy and aggressive. For the final walk a coffin is carried by six pallbearers with balaclavas on, followed by the collection like a funeral procession. Quite the start to fashion week.

FRIDAY

1:00 Di Petsa

I eat an early lunch and head off to Di Petsa, it’s gonna be a busy day. Backstage I bump into my mate Ifer, she’s modelling. We talk about the show, her look, she’s wearing a tan-coloured top, if you can call it that - it’s essentially a collection of strings draped off her chest, and a khaki skirt. The show is entitled Archeology of the Self, so I asked Ifer, if an archaeologist in the future excavated your burial site, what objects would they find? She replied, “My juul, my horse books, and my dog tag”.

The models get painted in clay, real clay, over their arms, faces, and hair, the looks are a mix of ancient greek references and a modern holiday complete with sunnies, beach bags and bikinis. 

2:00 Fashion East

I am hot and sweaty. Packed into a tight room in the ICA, three designers scramble to get their 16 models into their looks, I'm mistaken for a dresser multiple times. Its giving raw, unpolished, one designer has bulldog clips cinching in the trousers and wired headphones tangled with screws serving as a necklace, another has left each garment with raw hems.

At the last minute I run FOH and nab my seat, sat directly behind Hamish Bowles, I notice everyone’s turned up to support the Fashion East designers.

4:00 after the show I take a breather at Bar Italia for a Moretti pitstop and to download my images.

7:00 Natasha Zinko

Is at the Box, Soho’s infamous cabaret club. I’ve always wondered what it looked like inside, richly decorated, walls padded with patchwork quilting, models getting dressed in a tiny circular space with mirrors in every direction. It's hectic, I bump into Lyas and Tommy Cash, someone’s brought a dog, half the team speaks Ukrainian.

The vibe is clear at once: messy girls. Hair unkempt, ripped tights, skirts hitched up. In lineup, Zinko tells me the season is “for the hungover girls”, clothes that look lived in, handbags spilling with stockings. Fittingly, the collection is called Hair of the Dog. Natasha directs me to get a drink from the bar. Just before I leave for my seat, I hear a producer warn the models that the audience has taken their seats: “Sit on their laps!” she instructs.

The show is a real performance. After their walks, the models recline on sofas on stage, others mingling with the crowd. As soon as the audience sees the models smoking on stage, they light up their own cigs, before long the room is a smoky blur.

SATURDAY

12:00 Yuhan Wang

I think I took Natasha Zinko’s memo too seriously as I stumble into the Yuhan Wang show. Having attended my mates fashion show-cum-rave last night, I estimate I’ve had about three hours of sleep. 

After collecting myself in a corner for a few minutes, (thankfully they’re running late), I begin shooting. This collection is the best type of frilly, frilly that has a bit of edge and playfulness to offset it. There are full mediaeval armour pieces - helmets, breastplates, swords. A model clatters awkwardly in full leg armour, clearly having drawn the short straw. Contrasted with the lacy floral prints and big bouffant hair, Wang retains the house code element of playfulness, not least with my new favourite accessory: the fluffy swan bags that are just too cute.

2:00 After the show I got home to catch up on sleep - thankful today isn't too crazy, before dragging myself out of bed and into my party shoes for Sinead Gorey.

6:00 Sinead Gorey

On the tube en route I take a look at the invite, an image of criss crossing wristbands and guess a festival theme. Once I arrive, the mud soaked Converse confirm my suspicions. Fringe abounds, on skirts, bags, jackets, it's giving full Glasto. This time, it's a presentation, not a show, the tiered stage is carpeted with grass and the models will be dancing and partying away for the full two hours. How could they keep up the stamina, I wonder, before catching a member of the team shout out “You’ve got two minutes to down as much alcohol as possible!” right before they step out.

I stay for a while, appreciating the backstage playlist, The classic 90s tune Let me be your fantasy playing over the speakers. As the models get relayed in and out for dancing breaks and outfit changes, I notice the oversized fans are more than an aesthetic decision.

SUNDAY

12:30 Ashley Williams

This is a big show for me. I loveeeee Ashley Williams, and have never been to one of her shows, not for lack of trying. I’m freshfaced, having caught up on some sleep the previous night. The models are mostly streetcast, by Ashley Williams’ collaborator and casting director Carola Monteleone. 

The first thing that I spot is how homebody-like the collection is, a sharp contrast to all the party girls I’ve seen so far this season. It’s granny-like and childlike simultaneously, particularly in the small cosy life elements. Its watering cans, floral printed loo roll, nighties, trinket necklaces, one dress looks like the spilled contents of a costume jewellery box.

Its soft and pastel, an Ashley staple, and it suggests a perspective of finding comfort in the small things, dressing up in your room, and early bedtimes. The wigs, plasticy and neon, have the innocence of childhood, while the heels, with a sort of medical padding look comfortable, are the sort of thing you might spot in a nursing home. The softness goes sickly in some places, an underlying current of uneasiness that I find so compelling. 

After the show, almost every model flashed me a peace sign - the perfect summary of Ashley Williams’ spirit.

1:30 Lucila Safdie

I run over to the mint green–fronted Soho Revue to catch backstage at Lucila Safdie before the presentation, arriving just in time to see a hairstylist fuzzing up a model's hair with a balloon. Four models pose in a girlish bedroom setup. Hand mirrors scatter the twin beds, Joan Didion’s Play it as it Lays sits in the corner, and the models wear knee-high socks and pleated skirts, with Lucila’s classic Alice bands piled high on the bedside table.

As the performance starts and the crowd files in, The Virgin Suicides is an unmissable reference - we are voyeurs, watching the girls float around. They clasp and unclasp oversized pearls in slow motion. It’s giving xanned-out, and as I leave I pinch a goodie bag with a Lucila Safdie–branded eye mask, fitting. Later, scrolling Instagram, someone captions her story: “Loved watching this girl pretend to read for 10 minutes.”

8:00 Jawara Alleyne

I arrive at the ICA for Jawara in a good mood, having cycled from home along the Thames at sunset to avoid the football crowds near my flat - during fashion week I forget other things are going on and the world hasn't stopped for the shows. 

The room is unrecognisable from Ashley Williams earlier that day, now a full workroom with sewing machines, fabric bags, and taped-up to-do lists everywhere I look. The vibe is the best so far, everyone friendly, even the usually standoffish photographers.

We’re got the Jawara classics, safety pins, stretch strings of jersey, lovely vibrant colours. One person on the team described it to me as “beach meets rave”, with definite Carni energy. Makeup is bold, gorgeous yellow and pink mascara, scarlet and bright blue lipstick applied unevenly, super skinny brows, it works. 

MONDAY

12:00 Charlie Constantinou

Final show! I'm exhausted. Charlie shows in the Newgen space, much bigger than last year, and backstage is a maze. My boyfriend once called his style “gorpcore boys on acid. He’s not wrong. It’s technical, there are gators and macintoshes, but it’s not boring, shirts and skirts are textured with a Puffprint you want to touch.

In my seat, the notes explain the show begins at night, the lighting brightening as the colour scheme shifts: Charcoals turn into maroons, which fade to taupe then khaki. Next comes violet, simulating a vivid winter sunrise, then finally the sky blue finishes. The models rustle as they walk. 

When Charlie’s last model walks off the runway, I finally exhale. My camera roll is crammed, my notes are a mess of half-finished thoughts, and my body feels like it’s been dragged from one venue to the next. Fashion week always ends the same way: not with a bang, but with me going home for a long long (long) sleep.

TUESDAY

This season, London felt less about chasing a single theme and more about slipping in and out of different worlds. From coffin processions to festival stages, messy girls to granny nighties, every show asked us to step outside of normal life for a moment and put ourselves into the minds and experiences of the designer. I’m reminded of a recent conversation with a designer friend who told me the show is a chance for worldbuilding. It's not to show off clothes, that’s what a photoshoot is for. Fashion week can take itself too seriously, sure, but that’s part of the spell; for a few days, London turns into somewhere else entirely.