Stranger Than Fiction ... aka My First Fashion Show

Toward the end of the shift on Friday, one of the senior editors of The Observer, Choire (pronounced "Corey") approached Brad (another NYU intern) and I with an assignment for the weekend: Covering Diane von Furstenberg's unveiling of her Spring 2006 line as a part of our Olympus Fashion Week NYC coverage.

Brad and I looked at each other skeptically. Not only do neither one of us know the first thing about fashion (let alone how to correctly say Mrs. Furstenberg's name) but we had no credentials to get inside, AND the show was on Sunday, September 11th.

Choire encouraged us to approach it with a sense of humor. "You're not going to be able to get in," he said, "but get the vibe about what's going on outside. See who else can't get in. Find out who IS getting in, and how. What are people wearing, what are people saying? Have fun with it. Be a sponge and absorb everything. Use a tape recorder if you can - I love exact quotes. Approach Fashion Week as if you were from another planet. What IS this thing all about, and why do people care so much?"

Yeah ... whereas Brad and I were the two perfect people for such an assignment, being complete aliens to the fashion industry and completely ignorant of the faces that pepper Page 6, the fact that there was absolutely no focus to what we were supposed to be doing had us both perplexed. I intended to lead with a 9/11-related angle. Why the hell were these people doing this, and would they do it tastefully?

I was excited/cocky about the excitement in the bar on Friday ... but by this afternoon my bedroom was covered with strewn, rejected clothing, I was running late, and had worked myself up into a panic. I didn't think I had the self esteem to chase around a bunch of models.

Finally opting on a beige skirt (with light green and pink pin stripes) and brown knee-high boots, a green shirt matching the stripes in the skirt, and my roommate's brown leather purse, I took a deep breath and prayed that I was presentable to mingle with the New York City fashionistas. Roommate-Monica pronounced me good to go, so I left Spanish Harlem with a smidgen more confidence and maneuvered my way by subway (how chic) to a studio on West 12th Street, a block over from the West Side Highway and with a lovely view of the water.

I bumped into Blooddite-Jenny at the 59th Street Station on my way downtown, and the two of us hugged and exchanged notes. Her face and neck were bright pink from having covered the September 11 memorial ceremony this morning for USA Today. She told me that I looked nice, too, so my confidence went up another slight notch. We parted at Grand Central, and I hurried my way over to the Times Square shuttle. I needed to get to a 1 train to make my way to the west side.

Miraculously, while sitting on the shuttle and watching people board, I found myself sitting in the one pocket of space underground where I could get a wireless signal. My grandma was calling. So I picked up, "Hello? Grandma? I'm underground I'm probably going to lose you."

"I just wanted to wish you luck, honey, I know that today was your fashion show."

I told her that I was absolutely terrified. "I'm so out of my league!" I squeaked. "I have no idea what to do or what to say!"

"Well I have faith in you honey," she said. "You just do the best you can. I hope that people talk to you! But if this goes bad, well, you'll just do better next time."

"Thanks-" but alas, the shuttle began to move and I lost her.

A gentleman sitting across the way coughed and asked, "Excuse me, but I overheard your conversation - are you going on a blind date?"

Flabbergasted, I sputtered out my life story. "No - I'm going to cover Fashion Week for The New York Observer."

"Oh, you're a reporter?" he asked, impressed. I felt a flush of pride at that. I'm still enough of a novice to get a kick out of being a reporter. It's kind of like rugby - years later, and even after not having played in a few months, I still get a sense of satisfaction knowing I'm one of the few, the proud - the ruggers.

"Yes," I said. "I'm just a little skeptical about covering a fashion show. I won't even be able to get in - I don't have a pass or an invite. I'm just going to be standing around outside hoping that people talk to me."

As the train pulled into the Times Square station, the gentleman said, "Well, if I was in Fashion Week, I would definitely talk to you."

I blushed, "Thanks!" and took off like a bat out of hell as soon as the doors slid open. I don't know, man - I think some part of me just begs to be single forever, hahaha.

I caught the 1, got off at West 12th and Eighth Avenue, and made my way over to the studio, after inevitably getting lost for 15 minutes first. The end of West 12th street is a scenic little road paved in brick and lined with trees. A mob of photographers with clunky cameras and boom mics were clustered around a brick building that could only be the studio. I looked upon this ridiculous scene, and suddenly had no idea of what to do.

Well, first things first - find Brad.

I saw him by the entrance, leaning against a tree. The front of the building was encompassed by a white tent. The windows were transparent plastic. There were two entrances into the tent, on either end. Guests had to go to the far end to pick up their tickets and seating arrangements. Once they were settled, or if they were very important people, they came back around to the front entrance and walked the gauntlet of photographers - or "photogs" as I would be learning later.

I tried to get a sense of what was going on, but it seemed pretty boring. The photographers were the ones who were creating all the excitment - pushing and shoving each other for spots at the front of the rope to snap pictures of people that I didn't even recognize. I saw a handful of guests with pink bags from Star magazine. I asked one woman - who turned out to be a writer from Marie Claire magazine in Japan, who had come down with laryngitis - to show me the inside of her pink sateen bag. It was stocked with some free magazines and fancy makeup and perfume samples from Lip Venom and something called "Radiant Pomegranate Blackberry".

Then Paris Hilton arrived.

"PARIS!" shrieked the photogs. "PARIS! LOOK THIS WAY PARIS! OVER HERE PARIS! THE END, PARIS, LOOK AT THE END, PARIS!"

I watched this in shock. The photojournalists had become paparazzi. Or were they papas all along?

"COME BACK THIS WAY PARIS!"

So this was Paris Hilton. Her hair is very short, now, but silky and shiney and pinned close to her head. Her camisole is lacey, white with black trim, and she's in jeans. Jeans that probably cost the same as my monthly rent. Her eyes hide behind large shades.

"WITHOUT THE SUNGLASSES PARIS!"

Paris coyly puts her hands to either side of the frames and shakes her head, no.

"AWWWWwwwwwwww" chorus the photogs. Again, Brad and I glance at each other in amusement. Blowing us all a kiss, Paris prances inside the tent. I had been close enough to touch her. Crazy.

I notice a guy with cornsilk-colored hair and blue eyes standing near by, astride a bicycle, watching the goings-on. His name is James. He had been riding along the West Side Highway but pulled over to check out what the fuss was about.

He had considered snapping a picture of Paris Hilton with his cellphone, but said, "Her head is big enough as it is." Ouch!

A few celebs that I'm not as familiar with make their entrance, and the photographers continue to go wild. I decide to perhaps angle my piece on them. These guys are very funny; in fact, these men and women - all dressed in black and somber tones, all with different variations of Canon cameras - are the ones that the designers and models are trying to entice. Who else really cares about Fashion Week? To be honest, the majority of the crowd appeared to be made up of Press.

I'm jotting notes and listening in on their conversations - did you see Paris? Did you go to the Fashion Rocks show? All you needed to get into THAT was a professional-looking camera with a flash on top. Did you check out the gift bags? Did you see Paris?

Someone catches a glimpse of Diane von Fursternberg herself - she's enveloped inside the tent.

"DIANE!" the crowd of photogs roars. "DIANE! COME OUT DIANE!"

and then, to my horror, someone yells, "PRETTY PLEASE!" and the whole crowd joins in, "PRETTY PLEASE, DIANE?"

Diane comes out. Everyone gives her a round of applause via snapping camera shutters and flashing lights. She smiles. She poses. She says she's having a wonderful time. She's wearing ... an ugly dress. But that's how it goes, I guess. Eventually she ducks back inside, and we hear that the show is beginning. Too bad we don't have passes or badges to get inside!

After milling about and talking to the spectators and press standing around outside, Brad and I decide to speak to Those At the Ticket Tables to see who HAD been allowed in. I'm chatting up one of the hostesses - gosh, so many people turned out, it's a great show, Diane always shows such wonderful pieces, Paris Hilton is here, and Jamie DiScala (Meadow Soprano) ... it's great!

So, I ask her, I'm from The New York Observer, is it too late to go inside?

"Yeah," she says, "We can't open the doors once the show starts - it disturbs the photogs."

"Oh, of course. Thank you!"

As I step away, I notice a flustered woman in a floral sundress run up waving a ticket. She too wants to get inside. The girl at the table kinda shrugs.

I watch the woman walk away, then turn, and walked toward the back door. I follow her. I'm not sure where Brad is.

The woman pleads with the security guard, for he has been cracking the door open himself and peeking inside. I watch her plead with him for a few seconds - and he lets her in!

I run up to him myself, making sure my notebook and pen are prominent in my right hand. The Observer gave us no press creds or anything, so I hope my appearance is convincing enough.

"I'm from The New York Observer," I say brusquely, "Can I get inside?"

He gives me the short speech of not being allowed to open the door.

I cock my head to the side, "But you just let HER in."

He hesitates, and cracks the door open. From what I can see, the place is PACKED - right up to the door.

"If you can find room ... " he says hesitantly.

!!!!!

I whirl around, and wave furiously at Brad to follow me. Brad isn't looking in my direction.

"Is he with you?" the guard asks.

"Yes," I say, and wave even harder, stomping my heel on the ground to get his attention. He runs over in surprise, and we both elbow our way into a room that is hot, packed, and vibrating with club music. We manage to squeeze ourselves against the wall toward the far front side, right by the exit where the models walk off. Not too shabby a spot at all. We look at each other and grin, and begin scribbling furiously in our notebooks.

It's hot. It's crowded.

It's ... boring.

This is the most underwhelming experience I've had since Prom. Prom was fun and all - don't get me wrong - but after a decade of teen movies and Saved By The Bell, as well as the months of preparation in switching dates, panicking, buying a dress - the prom was really just another dance. I've been to better keggers.

Likewise, I guess being at a fashion show in person ... once the novelty of having gotten in wore off ... wasn't the terrifying event I had expected it would be. Or as exciting. The most fun stuff had been outside.

I noticed people squashed on their benches around the horseshoe-shaped runway fanning themselves with their programs, and even yawning. There were photographers inside, but I couldn't see how the opening and closing of a side door affected anything. The room was lit along one wall by red lighting, and five bright spotlights shone down from a croquet-wicket-shaped structure on the far wall over the entrace and exit to the walkway.

The show ended about ten minutes later, and everyone clapped their hands as the models strutted out all together to make a final lap around the walk.

The lighting structure began to ever-so-slowly lean out away from the wall.

The first model had *just* exited through the archway when the slow, barely perceptible movement of the lighting structure suddenly picked up speed and CRASHED ONTO THE CATWALK AND THE CROWD, JUST missing the first model who had walked through it, and causing those behind her to leap back. As it was falling, people began to scream, "Oooh oooh !!! LOOK OUT!" and then CRASH.

Pandemonium ensued. People were screaming, rising out of their seats, rushing to lift the heavy structure off the people pinned under it. It had been over 10 feet high. No one immediately seemed too-too hurt. Those who had been hit were carried out. The models huddled to one side. Security began evacuating the studio.

Brad and I stood there in shock. At some point, Brad had turned his tape recorder on. I was scribbling notes so fast that I was convinced my pad was going to begin smoldering.

I ran over to security and asked if anyone was hurt. Just a couple of banged heads, they said. I watched them struggle to lift up the lighting. Again - huge, boxlike metal and wire contraption, with five spotlights hanging from it.

"How much does that weigh?" I asked one security guard.

"Psssshhh - it's heavy," he said.

I watch the crew run around, moving benches, escorting people out. I want the crowd's reaction. I go over to a very pretty girl in a green dress. The girl turns out to be the designer's niece.

Woah. And she's pretty laid-back about talking.

Then I notice the flashing lights, and head outside to where we have a firetruck, two ambulances, and a shitload of curious onlookers and press gawking at the models huddled outside smoking cigarettes. The police tell me two people are being taken to the hospital. The photogs now have something to take pictures of, and are swarming everywhere. All feelings of insecurity completely forgotten, I run up to one of the models.

"Are you OK?" I ask her.

She's fine. She was actually that first model, the only one who made it through the arch before it fell.

"I didn't know what was going on - I walked in, and nobody followed me. Everyone began running the other way."

"By the way," her friend, a man in a fitted red t-shirt and jeans, "you look fabulous!" (the model, not me. And of course - she does!) "I mean, I'm not just saying that, you look great."

I walk away from THAT, and am reunited with Brad. He got someone yelling obscenities at the paparazzi, which I'm sure will be a colorful addition to whatever we come up with. I call Choire, our editor, and leave him an excited voicemail.

I am not at all happy that this thing collapsed and people got hurt - but I *am* glad to have been *there* rather than cringing outside on the sidewalk, hating my internship and my inexperience. Also, I picture Professor Blood watching me right now. He would be so proud.

Brad and I continue to work the crowd, talking to witnesses, talking to spectators. I come across the production staff sitting in a circle inside the tent, smoking cigarettes.

"What are you going to do now?" I ask.

"I have no idea," one replies.

We had gotten to this show around 6, and now it's going on 7:30. The press has largely packed up. New York News 1 correspondant is speaking her final thoughts to the camera. A Daily News reporter is interviewing a witness.

"So what happened?" she asks him, and he explains that the lights fell down.

"You SAW them fall down?" she asks him. I nudge Brad. WE saw the lights fall down. Because WE were inside.

Finally, we pack up and go. It's dark, we've heard nothing from Choire, and as far as we can tell, this crowd of glittering celebs and fashionistas has dispersed, and no one is aware of any party in particular. After the lights came crashing down, no, I did not manage to catch a glimpse of Paris or Jamie. I'm sure they're fine.

For whatever reason - call it instict perhaps - Brad and I walk slowly down 12th Street. Instead of catching the subway at Eighth Avenue, we keep walking, looking for a pizza joint. As we walk .. we come across St. Vincent's Hospital.

Was this where the victims had gone?

I walk over to a couple of police officers standing outside.

"Excuse me - is this where the fashion show victims were taken?"

"Yeah - go right in there."

Holy shit I cannot believe this. I have second thoughts about going inside, until Brad says, "Oh look, Diane is in there."

DIANE!?

If I had stopped to think, I probably would have had a heart attack. Instead, I suddenly find myself dashing up the front steps and walking into the ER's waiting room.

I am face-to-face with Diane von Furstenberg and a small crowd of admirers. They look at my pen, and they glare at me.

"Hello," I say to her. "Is everyone OK?"

"Yes," she says, "Thank goodness, everyone is going to be fine."

"Are you OK?" I ask her.

"Oh yes, I was not hit."

"I mean, how are you feeling right now - after all your hard work, for this to happen?"

I am. such. a jerk.

But it needed to be asked. I have no idea if anyone else had gotten a chance to speak to her. I pictured Blood on my left shoulder, my Observer paper on my right. I HAD to ask.

She sighs. She looks so upset. What a way for her show to end.

"I am very shocked," she said. "But I'm so glad that everyone is OK."

"Otherwise, it was a lovely show," I tell her.

"Thank you," she says. And flees. A man in a beige suit escorts her quickly into a dark Mercedes, and they disappear. The remaining circle of people is glaring at me, so I duck out to where Brad is waiting on the sidewalk.

"She ran out almost the second you went in there," he said.

Sigh.

On our walk back, I'm torn between pride and guilt, excitement and sadness. I'm not happy at all that this happened ... but it was such an experience covering it. And telling my editor - he flipped out.

"No f--king way," he repeated about five times. Maybe now these guys will remember my name.

So. Snuck into a fashion show. The set came down. I managed to talk to the designer's niece, and the designer herself. My head is hurting almost as much as my feet, which suffered in four-inch-heels for three hours while I covered this story cold.

And here is where my words fail me. I'm not sure how much will make it into the Transom section of The Observer, or if it will even be credited to me (it might be engulfed in a larger story covering all of Fashion Week and credited to the staff.) I'm going relax a bit now, and type up my notes either later or very early tomorrow. Right now, I'm too much in shock.

The walk back was good, though - I saw the Memorial of Light over the trees. I haven't forgotten what day today really is. I've marveled over how quickly the last four years have gone by ... and how very, very different they have been from the four years that preceded them. My head is just overwhelmed with the events of the evening and of the way I want to put them down to paper. I'm also really starting to get involved with my internship piece for Ogintz, now.

I guess this is the way my consciousness is going to begin to run; it used to be I took things one day at a time, keeping one foot in front of the other, but now I see myself living life one story at a time.

****EDIT 5 minutes later****

Neat - it's been posted online already: http://www.observer.com/thedailytransom/2005/09/tragedy-strikes-at-diane-von.html

That's breaking news courtesy of me! I sound so arrogant, but I"ve never been a part of news like this before! Really, it's cute.