Tales from the Back Row

by Amy Odell

  Noticing the suitcase, the interviewer asked if she lived in New York.

  “I’m going to move here within the next week! I was just here looking for an apartment!” she explained, thrilled in a way no one should ever be when discussing apartment hunting in New York. It’s really the most soul-sucking activity ever if you can’t afford to spend $3k a month on a room that can fit a bed and also contains a sink, toilet, and shower, possibly a stove. Of course, even if this girl got the internship, she wouldn’t have enough money from it alone to afford living in NYC. Entry-level Condé jobs don’t pay enough for that either, which is partly why a lot of the people who end up at these magazines have parents who can afford to bankroll some of their lifestyle, or who have savings or an inheritance or can manage to work two jobs. Because you will also need some good-­looking clothes to work at Condé—if you want to work in a place that makes taste, it just seems to be understood that you’ll need to exhibit some of it yourself.

  Overhearing this aspiring intern’s interview was calming, in a way. I remembered when I was in her phase of career, fighting for gigs and my place in the media industry, and mostly failing, and feeling like I’d never get an internship much less a job. Now here I was, on the twelfth floor of the Condé Nast Building, waiting to interview for a position at Vogue.

  • • •

  After the chipper intern prospect said good-bye and wheeled her suitcase onto the elevator, Mark Holgate came out to get me. He is a comforting sort of Brit, and I view him as a rare fashion intellectual—interested in fashion in much more of a cerebral way than a bragging-rights sort of way. From what I gather, he’s not in it for the front-row seats or free shoes; he’s in it because he finds fashion interesting in the way people find art or music interesting, and wants to decode it the way we are taught to pick apart literature or art. Contrast this with the way many young people get “in” to the fashion world today, by starting blogs full of photos of themselves to show off how they wear shirts. Quiet study or internships that involve untangling necklaces or packing trunks just doesn’t take as well with this “look at me” generation. I never felt comfortable sharing photos of my clothes on the internet, so we should theoretically get along.

  As a prominent Vogue staffer, of course, Mark gets free shoes. Nice shoes, too. As he led me into his windowless office, I glimpsed a pair of flashy black Christian Louboutin shoes with silver spikes sticking out all over them sitting neglected in an open box.

  “Christian Louboutin sent me these shoes,” he said, either to calm my nerves via small talk or so that I wouldn’t think that he had purchased them himself. “They’ve been sitting here because I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with studded shoes.”

  At this moment I was soooo thankful that I had gone to Bloomingdale’s and purchased my nude peep-toe pumps rather than worn a pair of studded black pumps I had in my closet already. If Mark Holgate and I have the same ideas about what footwear looks passé, maybe I did belong here! Actually, seeing as I still wore my studded pumps, like, all the time, maybe I didn’t.

  As we talked, the phone began to ring. Anna (or her assistant) had called Mark’s office a healthy five to seven minutes before I was due. Mark informed the person on the other end of the line that we were still chatting and asked if she needed to see me now. He would hang up the phone, and this person would call again. “Does she need to see her now? Can you find out?” Mark would say each time. Before we could exchange even another complete sentence, the phone would ring again. After a few of these exchanges, it was determined that I would go to see Anna now. Now? Now!

  As I walked down the hallway, I reminded myself not to barf. As if I were a tennis ball in play, Mark lobbed me over to one of Anna’s two assistants in the hall. (Maybe she views hiring as a series of matches in which prospective hires are volleyed from staffer to staffer until she slams them right out the door.) She was totally gorgeous and at least as tall as me—and I had to have been six feet or taller in my heels. It was as though she hadn’t merely been hired for this job, but cast. She nervously asked for my name twice so that she could announce me properly as I entered chez Anna. I don’t remember how she introduced me, because as soon as we got to this corner nook of the twelfth floor of 4 Times Square where Her Office was located, I was made even more lightheaded by how it looked exactly as every movie or story about the place depicted it. If you’re going to Hawaii, this kind of thing is thrilling. If you’re going to a job interview, it’s a nightmare because it somehow also suggests that all the things you thought couldn’t possibly be true about the place are true.

  Though I had imagined all the wonderful things about working at Vogue, I had never thought about the consequences of being so intimidated by a boss—how that affects the work and product you put out—but it must be like the personality equivalent of owning a Chanel suit. It’s not necessarily attractive, but it means something to a certain group of people. And to many of those people, it’s just intimidating.

  The double-wide doorway to Anna’s office was flanked by two assistants’ workstations that looked remarkably similar to the workstations in The Devil Wears Prada. That legendary walk up to her desk was as awkwardly long as everyone says it is. Just long enough for her to stare you down, judge your outfit, and make you feel embarrassed about being in her presence. While the rest of Condé Nast’s office facilities were depressingly gray and dimly lit, Anna’s were a bastion of white light. Facing her desk were two silver metal chairs. To the left, as you walk in, is a sitting area with a couch. You know it: you’ve seen it in the Vogue documentary The September Issue and in The Devil Wears Prada. The ceiling in Anna’s office felt lower than I imagined, which made sitting in front of her feel that much more intimate and therefore that much more ­unnatural—intimacy being neither a state nor word commonly associated with Anna.

  Anna’s desk faced into the office, away from her windows, which looked out onto Times Square and the landmark midtown intersections lit at all hours of the day and most definitely not made to be observed at eye level. No wonder she wears sunglasses inside all the time. But if she faced away from those lights, it means anyone sitting and having a conversation with her was looking straight into them.

  So as I approached Scary Flashing Light Anna, she stood up from behind her desk. She was wearing a long-sleeved printed blue dress that looked more expensive than any single piece of furniture in my apartment, mattress included. She reached across the desk to shake my hand. I don’t remember what it felt like because I was too busy noticing my résumé sitting on her desk all by itself. This woman was not only aware of my existence but had my résumé in front of her and was going to read it in my presence. I felt my cheeks turn red as a hot flash settled over my body. Menopause in your twenties: it’s not impossible. But lots of urban-dwelling overworked women probably already know that.

  As if lifted by the neon beams of light coming out of P. Diddy’s head, or whatever celebrity’s fragrance billboard was lording over Times Square those days, she leaned forward and extended her right hand. She grinned. We shook.

  “Lovely to see you,” she said.

  “Thanks for taking the time,” I managed.

  Conversing with Scary Flashing Light Anna requires the utmost concentration just so that you do not behave like a cat that sees a laser pointer dancing behind her head. Half the time, I wanted to bat at my own face; and half the time, I wanted to bat at her face. Obviously, if you go into an interview with anyone, Anna Wintour or not, if you treat them like a cat toy, you’re not exactly setting yourself up for success.

  “So you’re one of the people who stalks me on the Cut,” she said with a half laugh. So this got real awkward real fast.

  “Haaaa . . .” I said.

  She then asked me standard job interview stuff about what I do with my time all day. I explained that it essentially involved being at my desk all the time so that I could put up a blog post every
forty-five minutes and edit posts that came in from other people in the office or freelancers, etc.

  “Do you go out?” she asked. “To events?”

  “Well, my job is to be at the office most of the time,” I explained. “When you have to aggregate a news blog, that doesn’t leave a lot of room to be out and about, unfortunately.”

  “I like everyone to be out, seeing everything,” she said. This probably meant events, but also showroom visits, which means going to look at clothes hanging on a rack. Few working in internet journalism in New York have time for this sort of thing.

  “I would welcome the opportunity to get out of my chair and go to more events, and see everything,” I said. “Unfortunately, that’s not my job right now.”

  For the most part, Anna did seem shy, as my tipster had warned me. She’d often cast her eyes down at her desk and my résumé rather than look straight at me, which could easily be viewed as a sign of nervousness in anyone. I can relate to this. I’m shy and awkward, and the fact that I’ve ever done well at a job interview goes against everything about the way I am. I suppose the one thing I’ve got going for me, even if I’m awkward and quiet and have to try so very hard to sell myself when it counts (job seeking, interviewing celebrities), is a conspicuously blunt manner. I’m incapable of hiding my emotions and opinions. I do not know how to bullshit. It does not occur to me, 99 percent of the time, to bullshit. I had no intention of lying in this interview, because I was too scared to, but also, that warning about not pretending to know about tennis stuck with me like the spikes on those Louboutin shoes that so troubled Mark Holgate.

  “What do you do on the weekends?” Anna asked.

  Luckily, I had rehearsed this one.

  “My boyfriend’s in grad school in Boston—Harvard Business School—so I go up there a lot of weekends. And I work so much, so sometimes I do work on the weekends. And I’m a runner—I run every morning three to five miles,” I said, figuring that Harvard Business School was the prestigious sort of proper noun socialites pepper their conversations with.

  “Good for you,” Anna said, with a look of legitimate impressed-­ness on her face. Knowing she was a fit woman who put a lot of energy into physical fitness, I figured this was the right thing to highlight.

  “Thanks, yeah, I love running. So every weekend, I try to do a longer run—six to ten miles—because it’s hard to find the time on weekdays. And I see my friends, of course.”

  But Anna wanted more. I could see this plainly in her face.

  “Museums?” she asked.

  “Oh,” I began, shocked by the suggestion. Museums? Do I do that? “Sure. Sure, I’ll go occasionally to see things.”

  “What have you seen recently?” she pressed.

  “Um . . .”

  Museums. Whose hobbies are museums? I enjoy looking at paintings and really old furniture and sculptures inscribed with Latin, and I especially enjoy being in really huge buildings that are very well air-conditioned. But I don’t seek out places that attract mobs of slow-moving tourists, and I don’t make a point of getting out of the house early on the weekends just so I can see the latest exhibits. So no, museums are not a part of my lifestyle—I am the uncultured person who goes once a year when family is in town and we need something to do, because that’s what museums are for most people on the planet: a place you go when you Need Something to Do. Like bowling.

  I think Anna wanted me to say “Oh, I just loved the recent [INSERT FAMOUS ARTIST HERE] exhibit at the MoMA.” Or, “I studied Latin for six years, so I find it so soothing to visit the Roman wing at the Met.” And I actually did study Latin for six years, so that was a thing I could have said!

  But no. All I could think of were fashion things.

  “I do make a point of going to see some things—like the Costume Institute exhibit”—the annual gala that introduces it is thrown by Vogue and known as the Oscars of the East Coast—“and I know that Vogue has an exhibit coming up at the Spanish Institute, and I’m very excited to go see that.” Fortunately, I had gotten a press release about that exhibit today so I made a mental note to ~casually~ bring it up during our talk. Anna, impressed by the reference, looked at me and nodded as though I had just scored a point but also as though she knew I was trying to score that point.

  “And what are your goals?” she asked.

  “Like, my professional goals?”

  “Mm.”

  “I have three. One, to write a book. Two, to run my own online women’s magazine. And three, to see my name in print in Vogue.”

  Anna laughed. It was a little condescending, frankly. Like she knew I was trying in vain because I am an uncultured museum-­shunning slob who prefers watching Jersey Shore to visiting botanical gardens. I tried to remind myself that the person interviewing you is supposed to want you to get the job. But I didn’t get the sense, when I said I really wanted a place at Vogue and Anna ­chuckled, that Anna wanted me to be The One. It was like she found it cute, the way kids are when they try on their parents’ shoes.

  “And how’s your fashion history?” she asked.

  “Not great,” I said. I still regret this answer. I think I knew more about fashion history at that time than I let on, but I was afraid of being quizzed. “It’s something that I’m working on and look forward to improving.”

  “But you can contextualize? Decades? Designers? You have reference points?”

  “Oh yes, of course,” I said only half knowing what she expected of her staff in this regard.

  “And do you have any questions for me?” she asked.

  Well, obviously. Of course, I couldn’t ask most of what I really wanted to ask, like, “Do you like cats?” Or, “Are you low-carb or just low-calorie?” Or, “Do you really make everyone wear high heels?” But anyway, I had talked this over with that mentor of mine who suggested I ask a certain question: I had made a career by not writing like Vogue—I was sarcastic about the ridiculous aspects of fashion rather than reveling in them. This turned out to be my greatest asset in terms of finding an audience and gaining traffic for my section. So it was actually quite weird that I was here, interviewing for Vogue, when I was making a name for myself by being skeptical of many things that Vogue recommends and reports on. Rather than ask, “So, what were you smoking when you had Mark call me about this job?” I said:

  “I’ve carved out a niche for myself as, I guess, sort of a funny fashion writer, with a strong individual voice. And I just wanted to know how you see me, as a writer, fitting in here?”

  “At Vogue, we celebrate fashion,” Anna replied. “It doesn’t mean you can’t have a strong voice or be funny. Vogue celebrates great writing and strong voices.” What she was saying, basically, is that there is little to no skepticism in Vogue. Despite all the skepticism its staff seems to have for everyone who walks in the door or who doesn’t fit the Vogue mold, skepticism is, amazingly, left out of so much of what it publishes. I am skeptical of everything all the time. I think there will be gum in every chair I’m about to sit in, and I can’t look at a fringed bra top on the runway without wondering about the designer’s ­ulterior motives. They want us to look foolish, I just know it.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said, signaling that our interview was over. “I hate to cut it short, but we’ve got Sally Singer’s good-bye party tonight.” (Sally Singer had recently quit her Vogue job to go edit T at the New York Times. She would later return to Vogue after T didn’t work out. So if Anna likes you, you can’t say she’s not loyal.)

  I knew the interview would be short. I was probably in there for less than ten minutes. The doors hadn’t shut the whole time, so for all I knew her assistants were standing outside snickering at me and my pathetic answers. As I thanked Anna and stood up, she walked around the desk to shake my hand. When she got to me, she looked me up and down in this really obvious prolonged way, probably to make sure that even if I’m som
e sort of museum-shunning, ignorant loser I was at least wearing an acceptable outfit. I have no clue if I was or not, but when I returned to the New York mag office after our meeting, one of my colleagues barely glanced at me before saying, “Wow, pretty outfit.” So there was that going for me.

  Anna’s assistant brought me back to Mark Holgate’s office. After I sat down, he asked me how it went. “Good, I guess?” I said. I felt comfortable with him. “It was quick.”

  “It’s always quick with Anna,” he assured me. As we settled in for him to ask me more questions, that phone of his rang again. He excused himself. He was obviously going to Anna to talk about me behind my back. It’s hard not to be excited about (and even more terrified of!) Anna Wintour being this involved in your existence.

  When he came back, the questioning finally resumed. He asked me who my favorite designers were, and I rattled off a few names like Vena Cava and Rick Owens—people in the Vogue circle of approval.