Seoul Fashion Week (Part 1)

Hello world,

Let me preface this by saying that I am no Anna Wintour.  I can barely dress myself without supervision, let alone commentate on fashion or the industry itself.

Make no mistake, that I am a fierce bitch. And like bloodhounds, gays and fashionistas do (italicize do) recognize me.

I am also a new writer, someone with a smidgen of experience. I’m a baby in the field. Yet somehow, I found myself writing about one of the most swank affairs on my side of the continent: Seoul Fashion Week.

Whoever approved this must have been smoking the finest [drugs] … Regardless, I’m a fan of Jesus, and I know he specializes in results. Hence, my arrival at Seoul Fashion Week.  This was the very spot where the corps de elite gathered to document new trends; These trends were forged by the same innovators that I was to share oxygen with.  In. that. very. space.

Here is my account of said event in all it’s ratchetness. The triumphs. The pitfalls.  The elegance and absurdities of it all.

Are you ready?

Do dim the lights, and wear something comfortable, reader. What I am about to give you, is the meat and potatoes of my experience.  No chaser.

It’s Sunday; 10am

Today’s the day!

I’m in disbelief.  My imaginary entourage and I arrive at the Dongaemun Design Park building. On the outside we remain cool; something cavalier. Internally, our hearts descend into our guts, then into our assholes—which feels about three seconds away from falling out of our bodies. We are not doing well.

We are not doing well at all.

In a moment of pause we remember to breathe; I personally acknowledge that I am a bad bitch from hell, and that I deserve to be here too. This realization allows me to put on my big girl panties, and I solider on.

Time to register.

“Hi! Is this where I check in?” I said in my most blithe, optimistic voice.

“Actually, you can’t register here. You were supposed to do that online?”

The woman saying this has the most monotone voice I’ve ever heard! She’s killinnnng me.

“Uh, I don’t think you’re on the list,” she says.

She must also be psychic because I didn’t give her my name. I guess I don’t look like the fashiony-type? Touché bitch.  And I am on the list.

“Nope,” she says.

You see reader? This is the practical joke that is my life! I’m usually a happy girl, but what the hell?!  My anxiety begins to creep into me as I fight to keep it tucked away somewhere deep inside of my purse. How can they not let me in? I was formally invited!

I spend the next hour spluttering, confused, and in disbelief.  I traveled 3.5 hours to witness the holy grail of fashion innovation and was rejected.

On what basis?!

Despite showing the gentlefolk my passport, invitation, and proof of employment, I find myself sitting outside without fashion. Without material for this article; without everything.

Perhaps they were expecting a confidential invitation written in sheep’s blood.  An hour later: The manager arrives, and I argue and fight my way to the entrance. I argue him so hard that I leave HIM stuttering, and confused. I actually feel quite bad.

I guess in every war there are casualties.

It’s after 11 am, and I am victorious. I enter the venue with my press pass in tow.  Security accidentally ushers me backstage with the models and designers in completely prohibited territory. Jackpot!

They’re compiling their looks for the show. Photographers with thousands of dollars worth of camera equipment feverishly snap away for the likes of Vogue, W, and Seoul Magazine.  I linger a bit longer to take pictures of my own.  They become instagram worthy.

The show starts a few minutes later and I’m seated witnessing the greatest show on earth: Front row at my first fashion show.

As I look down at my program I notice Today’s lineup:

CANEZOU
JOHNNY HATES JAZZ
pushBUTTON
JINTEOK
LE QUEEN
Lie Sang Bong
the studio K

And a slew of others.  This is my moment. This is what I have dreamt of. This is what it feels like to  accomplish something off of your bucket list: Fashion Week.

I am a pervert, so I anxiously await the fashions, and hope that they’re sexy. Let’s see how this goes.  My entourage and I put on our Anna Wintour shades and begin to take notes.

The lights dim. The first model steps out and we beg the question:

“Is anything provocative?”

Images from Seoul Fashion Week courtesy of Danielle Mitchell