Africa Fashion Week, day 4, Sat. Finale.

Waking up. Strangely quiet.

Check phone. Message from model, already at store waiting for hair and make up. Not even awake yet. Five minutes to get ready. What happened to the alarm? Not even enough time to find out. 

Brush teeth pick outfit and leave. Texting and walking. Walk/rushing.

...

Arrive at store, no model. This was the same model no one actually asked to do this show, and no one denied her either. Apparently. Check phone. Message, " went to my car cause its cold". Ok. 

...

Open the store and set up for the make up artist to do hair and make up on a few  before call time. The model came back, rather annoyingly toting a large project she's working on actively. Suddenly the make up artist arrived and took orders from people, "are you hungry what do you need?". She left. Came back an hour later. My heart pounds, she pours me a mimosa, and slides me a chocolate bar. 

Melt into a calm. What it feels like to let things roll, while they're rollin'. 

...

Everyone red lipped and tipped, and onward to the show! The museum expected us, we think we are running slightly behind but then we arrived and it felt like we were early.

A strange contentedness and comfort eased through the room as a murmur of models and make up and hair mixed with  clangs of chairs and accessories. Shoes scuffle and people shuffle and the beat of it pulses you in all directions fluidly. Checking this that its chaotic but everything was moving along. Progress kept coming in odd tides. For hours we planned jewelry, fixed hair, found models, dressed them, explained all we knew and  learned it all over again- along with the additions and changes. The strange curve of the "green"room held more than the usual number of people than the  green room of a theatre show in a small town. This was a large group to fuse creativity so graciously. Several times when in the way, 'sweetie' and 'honey' come after 'excuse me'. Only in the south.

...

Someone shouts "45minutes till show!"

And pace picked up as if no one had been doing anything before. Bobby pins flew. Assistants ran, squeezed, jumped.  Our designer wanted coffee. Ran. Saw the gift bags sitting in the VIP rows. Our flyers hiding inside. Coffee bar closed, redirected, no coffee. Fine. Bottled water. Paid with a $5. Got three different coins back. Designer neither noticed nor minded.

...

Models looked more frantic and beautiful than ever. It became easier to point out our models as they donned our garments. 

The accessories were so African, we needed to add an edge to our girls. Gold cuffs and hammered necklace, each one had an accented spark of yellow gleaming off their black and red get-ups.

Our designer who was worried about it distracting from our pieces, turned around. Delighted, she coo'd until we were sending models down a runway. 

After they each turned and walked up and down, had taken enough snap pics to represent our line. Then she walked with her line down and back. Except for a moment I thought she wasn't  coming back. 

...

Stuck for a long moment in time, felt like perhaps someone asked time to freeze. She stood, backed by eight, six foot tall women, in front of a line of flashing photographers. Eventually the model ushered her back to earth, and they walked back. I saw her soaking in the limelight, the walk back she looked like she had just been named queen. She waved, arms outstretched and waving, the way presidents do; people grabbing her hands as she walked. I snapped more pictures. 

...

Some extra mid show chaos hit me like a big wave from behind- the kind that knocks your glasses off, and for the first time on vacation, it feels like you've lost hope and replaced it with confusion and eagerness to regain control, organization? Understanding. There was beautiful creations and visions trying to be presented perfectly, and overall it was ok. What is a green room without the mess. It's Upstairs, Downstairs- revisited. Instead of social order, it's still all about grand presentation and form and etiquette, but it's about art, and line and form. And style. 

...

 I grabbed a model for a photographer, he asked not to let her change. She was in the best dress, the one people were trying to buy, models vying to wear. She earned herself a solo photo shoot at a huge museum for running with me. Thank that model too. 

...

At the end we had waited an extra hour just to send two looks back down the runway at the flood walk, which was chaotic but quick once it happened. Then things looked again reminiscent of a theater green room. People packing their costumes and accessories, just ready o go. We had all been there hours no food, no drinks but a water fountain.

The designer wanted to leave, dismissed interns. And stuck around just long enough to hug and thank the Doctor, and some smiling thank you's rang out as we rolled our clothing to the elevator at the parking garage. Floor 3, breakdown rack into trunk. Drive. Home. Exhausted. 

The designer thanked me and dropped me at home. We would both have to be at work in the morning. The runway may end but the show must go on!

...

 

I'm so happy I got to style these ladies, and make hairpieces for the runway!
Eat, breathe, sleep, create.

Africa Fashion Week, day 3, Friday.

Sore, tired, not able to react to the alarm, and sleeping in. Wake up with 20 minutes to leave for work. Stayed up too late talking out our money problem the night before mixed with the fact that it had gotten much colder had kept all the restful dreams away. Feels like dozing off 30 times in a row. But in the middle I fighting the start of the day, the day texted me again, not out of bed yet.

...

This time a work issue, outside of the fashion show. But directly effecting the money issues, from the stolen rent case, and this bothered me. Because it was laced with subtexts that read of- or I read them to be- disrespect, and selfishness or  naïvety ?   Misunderstandings. Unhappiness, annoyed-ness, now filled more than one employee of the store, with two more bigger events hours away.

This is now everyone's problem, who works there as far as weekly shifts. Sigh, can't we all be on the same team? Work where your leader sees you as helping the most? Not everyone sees life the same way, try to focus. Fashion media mixer tonight, what to wear?

...

The intern came in to work a little after myself. Phone call from the designer, making plans. Prepare two pieces to be shown and be ready to mix and mingle with press, cameras, and the like minded fashionistas that'll be throughout the room. 

...

The designer steps into the store, she goes over the plan several times. Who's driving who, where is the bar. Her and I agree to meet the intern there. Walked to the designer'a car, put the clothes in the trunk. See the other manager and catch up receiving momentos of good wishes.

We drive. Pick up my boyfriend and head out, about a 45 minute drive north, plus 15 minutes of traffic and still perfectly on time, we park and settle in. Headache sets in as the designer begs for attention there isn't energy left to give. Boyfriend orders a gin and tonic, and a glass of wine. Cheers. Sip. Chardonnay. Better.

Smile. Finally, a drink at the event while working. Only we are actually early. The original email from the head honcho said be there at 6. But surrounded by models and only having one out of the two we were expecting, everyone waits. Models get made up, the host shows up.

...

This man is wonderful, he infused both earlier days with some much needed casual smiles and laughing as much as instruction and speeches. He is head of fashion- basically- at the Art Institute. I gave him our card and flyer, he gave me his card. I loved him, and if he liked anything, he'd say with some southern eccentricity, "Oh, I Loove it," Usually punctuated with, "Honey!"

He had earned the title of Doctor, and now proudly wore that doctorate all up in his signature bow tie. Best dressed man in Atlanta. Honey. 

...

The showcase of our two pre-view pieces was about to start. Let the frazzled intern find my glass of Chardonnay, with two sips in the bottom. 

Order myself another. 

Our model asks around for extra models but none are found. The music blares as the Doctor announces our lines one by one, and as the first girl gets back, beg her to jump into the extra dress. She flings her zipper down and the next two models assist in dressing her. Send her out in time. She saved the first model from having to change and go out of sequence. Saved our preview show. 

...

Pictures snapped on phones all night until in the car driving away. Proof of the party. The drive home was a buzz of conversation, needing to vamp up the line before the next nights show. Fears of being shown up in the designer, not held by all. A calm confidence rose over the rest of us. Maybe we wanted to hear her that engulfed in this fashion week. Maybe we were too close to turn, too fast to stop and too excited to sleep. Because upon arriving home, again bedtime was around 3 am. The finale in the morning. Hair for the finale, early. Before being able to rest the mind reviews the next day, the plan. The extra things that will happen and all the bumps in the road to look out for.

...

Before crashing, post a couple photos. Send a couple thanks. 

Set alarm for 10 am. 

...

 

Africa Fashion Week, day 2, Thursday.

Although fashion week was supposed to enter the blog nightly after each event, that simply did not happen. My plan was to use the time before bed to put photos online, and blog about the night, thinking this would preserve details and capture moods, but instead this being my first fashion week, it's taught me the hard way why they call three nights and one rehearsal a 'week'. Thus my retelling will probably give you a more squished together story. 

I had been in theater so much of my life that each "show" I do no matter what scale or slant, I get the "theatre" feeling. A week before the finale show (which featured our store's designs) I was preparing in my usual "hell week" mode. It's where you kick everything up a gear, more coffee and the list of things to do each day need to get done and not pushed off, for each day things are being  communicated, planned and changed and this only increases the more you procrastinate.

So I had us ready as you can read in the rehearsal story from earlier. But after that day, more and more like a snowball, came rolling at me picking up more details every morning, noon and night. 

Here is what happened after arriving home after the rehearsal at the museum. 

....

Posting...and posted, thumbs pecking away, like feeding chickens, at the keys on touch screen. Picture after picture needed to be cropped, saved and shared. Tagged, posted, sent. And occasionally: moved, rearranged, emailed, pinned, and all the regular extra things these phones do. 

This would last until 3am. Bedtime. 

...

The next morning, the same phone which was staying awake last night with a bright screen glowing in a dim room, now buzzed in the sunshine. This wasn't the alarm, it was a string of texts, asking where who and what, and "can you forward this," and "message me asap".

This was because later we would be going to a small student fashion show, being seen, and watching our designer judge the competition over an externship at a cut& sew company. Ugh. Not even out of bed. 

...

Boyfriend opens the front door, and a letter falls to the floor that was stuck in. It's from the leasing manager, about our stolen $600 rent. And how the residents are still required to make up the rent that was stolen. Know we don't have it. Not even dressed yet. 

...

Phone rings, unfortunate timing- about to put on pants. It's the designer, asking about details for tonight, and all week.

...

"I emailed you the details..." I started. 

"Oh, I know, I read it, yeah." She stated.

"So, did it all make sense then?"

"Yeah it did. Now, where is this at again?" She asked but this means she didn't read it. 

"I attached a map in the email but its real close to my house, I can walk. But you need to be there early they said." 

"Well, what time are we supposed to be there?" She sounded suddenly panicked like a lost child. I held her hand, 

" I think they said at five, but the fashion show starts at 8, so ill be there at 8, ok?"

"Okay," she said, "I'll just go print off the email." 

...

Didn't need to be at work, but needed to see things to know how to see some extra finishing touches and hair clips to match. So, at work on my day off, for Fashion, remind myself. Meet the intern soon. Hurry, remind myself. 

...

A powder blue mustang convertible pulled up. The 18 year old intern, driving barefoot waves from behind the wheel. 

She is a little late, but the venue was on the same street. 

We found parking in the grass and quickly she swapped shoes, a la Cinderella, and we ran to the ball. 

Inside they send us down the runway which was a hallway, opening into a room surrounded by chairs, people, we hug a wall as the music starts. Oops, the model was sorta waiting to start, oh well. 

They begin to come down the hall, and collection after collection caught rounds of applause interrupted by flashes of cameras, and the stretching of arms with camera phones. No one really spoke, except for one or two nearly silent likes and 'ooh's. The fabulous host announced each designer, he made the DJ play music for us to dance to, he escorted judges and brought them back with a decision. A unanimous result, where the first designer won. Her line a stark foil to all the other colorful, fall and amber tones. Her work was detailed, complex, striking black and white sharp and sculpted. All agreed she deserved it, and mixed and mingled for a few minutes before the mustang departed the ball.

...

At home about 9:30pm. My boyfriend was just leaving for practice. Spent the entire time he was away just posting and sending photos again. And again. Before long he was coming home and it was 2am. Talking between lovers can last hours late at night. We hit the bed around  4am, thinking about work the next morning. And then the media mixer that night.

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Africa Fashion Week Day 1: Wednesday.

Wake up, late, to a phone call from the designer. Answering tens of questions that were just answered seven hours ago through emails sent before bed. 

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Hardly any groceries: spaghetti breakfast. Well technically two bites of banana bread was breakfast, so spaghetti can be "lunch" a few minutes later. Along with an iced coffee. 

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Walked to work, began arranging clothing for fashion show-phonecall- from the designer on her way, placing a pick-up order for the fashion showpieces; to go. Car loaded, drive to the High.

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Park where we know to, take the elevator, which leads to the main entrance. At which point people are staring at the designer, the clothing you and your very out of place lot, looking like a rolling pop-up-shop with a purpose. 

Inside, security tells where to check the rack and clothes, and signs us in, with visitor stickers which allow us to wander the museum, she said. 50 minutes till rehearsal begins, see some art.

...

All the paintings we frantically pass, slowing at ones that lean our direction; we search for the Girl. The Girl with the pearl. Earring. 

She is only out of the Dutch Museum and in town for about another month, but this was an unexpected free pass, to see a painting from four centuries ago. On we searched. Remind the coffee minded the teen intern this is the only chance in life to see this painting, for all of us. Remind the rich designer not to touch the sculptures, and art, and displays. 

Ask security where to find the Girl with the pearl. 25 minutes till rehearsal. 

...

The elevator doors open revealing a huge wall sized image of the girl, as in "we put all our money into this huge sign" which must be why there aren't any signs on other floors directing us here. 

We make our way through this exhibit in a frenzy, probably to a point of offense- to an art lover. Wanting to stop at each frame and soak in the beauty until it's burned permanently into your retinal memory- but having no time, no proper time at all to inspect one element of design, or spec of paint.

We see her, walking up to her is like walking up to a queen. Framed in layers of gold and lit strategically to shine brightest in the small room. Vermeer's brush strokes inches from our faces. Stunned for a quiet moment, we just stood in a row, in awe. The 1600's woman looked back at us, relaxed. Just as she did to the thousands of other peasants she has reigned over before. 10 minutes till rehearsal- depart for coffee and rehearsal, still gossiping the Girl. 

...

Coffee and a brownie, and a bit of leering over the models collecting on the opposite corner of the room. 

We finish our snack.

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 4:00 sharp. Rehearsal. Join the ranks to be greeted by the coordinator of the show, waiting. Chatting. Then, we all continue downstairs. 

...

Models are chosen, everyone is organized and we re-collect upstairs. 

Models begin walking and we wait to see which ones we claimed walk best, which are tallest. What to wear. They spent most of our time telling models how not to walk, how they are walking, and then also how to walk. And we watched them walk and walk again. Then we reconvened below for fittings.

...

Aside from picking models and communicating to plus 40 people, fittings are the most chaotic and horrible, dealing with impatient models who are shared with other designers. Girls frantically rippig garments on and off as if they owned them. Remaining focused inside- on what to show, where to tuck, what to pin and photograph it so it's set. Getting models for Fridays media mixer,

And their phone numbers. It's never been so easy for me to get a strange pretty girls number in my life.  And also might be the only time I see the Girl in my life. 

...

Eating bits of chocolate driving back across town to the store to drop off the rack. The designer drops the items at the store and leaves. Set the clothing aside and leave, locking the door of the small dingy store, on a dreary rainy wednesday. Think of all of that art waiting, all of the paintings, they're calling out from their still life frames. And the Girl with the Pearl earring, wondering if she'll ever see me staring back at her again. 

August free-flow- thought poem

I've been brewin', stewin' over spewin' out all these crazy thoughts onto a page when I have no time to think of adequate rhymes, for the few wandering eyes that may happen to identify with the moral craze I phrase. 

Here's an example: 

Nearly going from going negative to being the only positive face, and watching the money get replaced as I make haste and less waste. 

But still the weekends ahead promise to be a competitive thread of artists and dreamers, I wait to behold the story untold but I fear for me and my peers.

We may get lost in this journey down the road of chaos- and still we tread on. 

At 2a.m. a reminder of war, floods the brain with guilt- how does one go on?

The entire scheme of daily life is meaningless when I picture my brother's wife in those pictures... 

Before he goes away I want to free him,

I want to steal him for myself and let him go, let him fail, let him fly, but let him live without touching those lies. Without having to defend a system of debates which are currently running on fuels of hate- and fear. 

It's too much to hear-

When you're far away and your loved ones are never near, to imagine they might only be here another few years.

That the people you know are only what you remember them as, and it's as if everyone is dead, undead, living in another "state"... Sending strange messages and still we'd debate. 

But they're never here and I'm never there so no matter how much I care they won't hear these things, I swear.

Not unaware, just unprepared. 

So they say, you never know how deep you care, until you are assaulted by fear and despair. Then you are molested by a world obsessed with what to buy and what to wear and you're forced to care for your share- though what else do they know? The whole word seems unfair, to all of us who care.