PRAISE FOR The Vogue Factor
‘The Vogue Factor is a goldmine of advice from the many facets of the fashion industry.’ Diary of a Fashion Muse
‘[Kirstie’s] is a classic, old-fashioned tale of rising through the ranks the hard way, from lowly receptionist to top job … it is evident that Clements is a hardworking professional who cares about quality writing ... [The Vogue Factor is] a follower of fashion’s nostalgic ode to the way things were.’ Sydney Morning Herald
‘Fashionistas will love Clements’ feisty memoir of her 13 years at the helm of Vogue Australia … Her readable style takes you from her life balancing celebrity fashion shoots and sitting front row at international shows to behind-the-scenes chaos of putting out a monthly glossy. For anyone wanting to work in the industry, it’s an entertaining eye-opener.’ Geelong Advertiser
‘[Kirstie’s] insightful tales of the fashion industry from when she first began to now is an exciting recollection of repeating traditions battling that of modern fashion industry influences.’ Style Magazine
‘The Vogue Factor is more than just a glossy diary of the fashion Bible, it’s a wild trip into the inner-workings of the fashion abyss, darling.’ Soot Magazine
‘[The Vogue Factor] is a glamorous ride through 10+ years of fashion and fabulousness.’ The Weekend West
Contents
Author’s Note
Prologue: Surveying the Landscape
1 Showdown
2 This Year’s Model
3 Weighty Matters
4 The Sharp End of Beauty
5 Fatal Attraction
6 Style Queens
7 Barely Managing
8 Dollars and Sense
9 The Real Deal
10 Season Finale
Acknowledgements
For my mother, Gloria.
Author’s Note
The characters and scenarios in this book are drawn from a career that spanned over twenty-five years, and are a hybrid of the many people I encountered over this period. They do not refer to any specific individual. All dates, names and titles have been changed, combined and exaggerated. Slightly.
Prologue
Surveying the Landscape
Chic’s publisher, Bernard, swung through the door of my office, planted himself in front of the mirror, adjusted his Zegna tie and admired his new Tom Ford sunglasses.
‘C’mon, we’re due at lunch at Morgans in fifteen minutes,’ he declared, citing our favourite bar and grill, a movers and shakers establishment where we regularly took the magazine’s clients. While wining and dining at lunchtime had once seemed like a terribly profligate eighties thing to do, come 2012 the world of high-end fashion publishing was in a precarious position, and placating advertising clients—including promising them editorial—had become one of our most important roles. Any editor worth his or her salt would naturally push back at this notion, believing that vision and originality were the mainstays of a magazine’s reputation, and that obvious selling out would be detrimental to the brand in the long term. But the internet had changed everything.
I took the helm of Chic magazine as editor-in-chief in 2000, just as the digital revolution really began to take hold. The scope of what we could do seemed infinite—the internet was an exciting new frontier, and it was a time for big ideas that would reach an even bigger audience, and a major shake-up of the old business model. But with global economic uncertainty came a series of savage financial cutbacks. Although the internet—and the social media that sprang from it—was obviously the future, advertising revenues were shrinking, and management was reluctant to give an editor any extra money or staff to feed the voracious content beast. The numbers weren’t in our favour. And the bloggers were circling our wagons.
I was still of the Pollyanna-ish belief that print was important and that we should stand firm and maintain an independent voice, but that quaint notion now evinced much grim mirth from the advertising department, as well as the suggestion that you were an enemy of the state. I admired Bernard because he still held some of the old-school values and fought hard to find a solution somewhere in the middle—where both the new and old profited and retained some shred of integrity—but we were fighting a losing battle.
Just to tease him, I said as we drove to the restaurant, ‘You know, I decided this morning that this would be “Tell the Truth” week.’
Bernard trembled.
‘I just say what I honestly think, or know, to be true. All week. To everyone.’ As far as I could remember, I hadn’t done that for at least fifteen years.
‘Actually, what if we started Tell The Truth magazine?’ I was floating on a wistful cloud of nostalgia now. ‘Think about it. We report what we believe to be true, readers love it and buy the magazine because they admire and respect our opinion, and advertisers enthusiastically support it because it’s really, really great, produced by experienced and talented staff, and it sells lots.’
‘Stop it,’ said Bernard exasperatedly, as he pulled his latest-model Mercedes into a car park near Morgans. ‘You sound like a dinosaur. Now, on the way from here to the restaurant, think of a brilliant idea for an app we can produce for next-to-no money, please.’ The magazine’s advertising department, in its increasingly desperate attempt to prove to clients that we were all way ahead of the digital curve, kept promising that the editorial staff would produce an app for anybody who wanted one, without having any clue about what that would actually entail.
* * *
Once we were settled in the booth awaiting our guests, I glanced around the room and noticed Milly, a prominent PR agent, who was hosting a table with one of her clients. They were with a large group of media, both new and legacy, but you couldn’t really tell who was from traditional print media and who was a blogger because everybody was on their iPhone, photographing something or other. Milly was part of the recent guard of PR people who promoted themselves first and their clients second. Previously, there was an unwritten law that said a PR would never be seen in photographs from an event. The marketing professionals I had become friends with over the years would hurl themselves behind the nearest column when a camera came anywhere near them, knowing that if their picture were to appear in any media coverage, they would immediately be fired from the account. The newcomers loved having their photos taken, though; so did a lot of the new editors, and for the bloggers it was crucial. Media coverage had moved on from the odd snap being taken at a cocktail party to having a regulation red-carpet walk, where you would be positioned in front of a logo-strewn ‘media wall’ and given a glass that you were supposed to turn towards the camera, so the brand name on it could be read.
I found it all slightly excruciating, especially because I loathe being photographed, but that did not fit with the mood of the times. Very good careers were rapidly being built by very attractive bloggers posting dozens of shots of themselves daily, and happily plugging anything. Whenever I was confronted with the prospect of a red-carpet walk, I tended to make a furtive dash behind the wall, so I could emerge—metaphorically invisible—at the other end. But it was not enough anymore merely to concentrate on what was traditionally your job and try to remain somewhat behind the scenes. Blogging, tweeting, Instagramming, Tumbling or Pinning were now also your job, even if you were flat to the boards running a top magazine and its website in a bitterly competitive market. Caroline, who was the editor-in-chief of Faux magazine and therefore my archrival, seemingly loved the limelight. She had a sample-size figure, and—damn it—was much more photogenic than me. I accepted that I couldn’t outdo her in those areas, so I had to rely on my experience, wisdom and rat-like cunning to stay one step ahead.
In terms of impervious self-promotion in the PR world, Milly was the worst culpri
t of them all, I thought idly, noting her inexplicably awful digital-print purple jacket that had, no doubt, been designed by one of her clients. Digital prints were another thing that was ruining my year. They were fine on a Mary Katrantzou runway in London but, when interpreted by a mid- to low-range local designer, could put you off your lunch.
My most treasured memory of Milly involved a black-tie dinner for a prestige department store. I had dashed there straight from being up against a crushing office deadline, frazzled and exhausted. I stood at the door, bedraggled from the rainstorm that had soaked me as I walked from my car, while one of Milly’s office staff, overdressed in a full-length strapless gown, fluttered her eyelash extensions and looked down at her clipboard.
‘Clements, Kirstie Clements,’ she said, running her finger down the list, starting from ‘A’. ‘Which magazine are you from?’
Given that I had been the editor-in-chief of Chic, the most prestigious fashion magazine in the country, for thirteen years, this was a somewhat vexing question, but I refused to play the ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ card. I considered that sort of self-aggrandisement to be the height of bad manners.
‘Well, you’re not on the list; I’m sorry,’ she said.
The downpour was starting to make her hair frizz, from which I took comfort, given the hours of hair straightening she had obviously undergone.
‘Perhaps you could ask Milly?’ I said through gritted teeth, doubly annoyed, as, apart from the fact I was pleading for entry to a dinner I had been invited to, I was missing Law & Order: SVU. ‘Ms ghd’ asked me to kindly wait and trotted over to speak to Milly, who was seated right next to the client, laughing while tossing her head back and swilling her champagne. The assistant whispered in her ear and Milly looked over and nodded, saying, ‘Yes, let her in’, not bothering to get up from her seat. I was briskly led to another table, which was nowhere near the client. Of course, it was her photo that appeared in the papers that weekend. There are more shots circulating in the press of tandoori-tanned Milly standing next to a celebrity than there are of Giorgio Armani.
Now I scanned the group at Milly’s table, which—I was pleased to see—was in Morgans’ B section. Bernard and I were at our usual table in the A section, where judges, lawyers, popular racing identities, Labor politicians and media players were always seated. We were all being made a fuss of by Jeremy, the exceedingly charming maître d, who, used to seeing us about four times a week, didn’t even bother handing us a menu. I suddenly spied Caroline at Milly’s table, looking rather put out. Milly had placed herself next to Caroline, while the actual client had been seated next to a food blogger who was vocally Instagramming her oysters, making sure the lemon half was prominent in the foreground because the yellow was pretty.
* * *
As I stood up to kiss our clients hello, I remembered they were very lovely and intelligent people who were far more global in their outlook and had better manners than most people in my current management team. They represented a French luxury fashion house with absolutely gorgeous collections, which was a perfect fit with Chic. The MD was wearing a shirt with French cuffs, crocodile shoes and a Breitling watch, and smelled of Chanel Allure Homme. I was pretty sure none of our guests were going to whip out an iPhone and take a shot of the crème brûlée. My mood started to lift.
We would do anything we could to accommodate their requests. That was one of the most exciting parts of the job, conceptualising stories for shoots to promote beautiful products, while simultaneously creating a fabulous editorial for the reader. These clients understood the power of meaningful, original content and how allowing free rein for our team made for more impact. It was when smaller, less luxe advertisers began to demand to call the shots that things became problematic. In the past we had been able to push back, but that option was rapidly diminishing. Where once a dog-food ad was out of the question for Chic, it was now a given. However, I still hadn’t relinquished my position on sex toys and Trollbeads.
Clients like today’s reminded me that I had loved the business with a passion from the day I started as a timid receptionist and became privy to the inner workings of a prestigious fashion magazine. I adored the chats where details such as the ply of a stocking or the length of a model’s hair would be discussed for hours on end. It was all so glamorous: handsome photographers dropping by to meet with effortlessly stylish fashion editors; aspiring models trooping in, nervously clutching their portfolios and hoping desperately for that big break; the stockroom bursting with the latest fashion, new-season shoes lined up neatly on the floor, expensive handbags resting on tissue-lined shelves. The features department would cluster around each other’s desks, sorting through the latest book, film and theatre releases, and deciding which celebrities deserved our attention. When I became a journalist, I relished sitting with the copy editors, spending all the time we needed to come up with the perfect pithy heading, whether it was for a political story or a lipstick launch. But that was more than a decade ago and was rapidly feeling like ancient history. In the current climate, my time was no longer spent in those ways. Instead, I bounced back and forth between various meetings, learning how to dumb down a clever heading for the purposes of search-engine optimisation, planning a breakfast for a group of bloggers who had infinitely bigger numbers than we did but little relevance to our brand, and considering our options as we stood on the ‘burning platform’ that was traditional publishing.
Caroline looked over at our table and clearly clocked with dismay that we were lunching with the industry’s biggest-spending luxury advertiser while she was forced to listen to Milly prattle on about, no doubt, her newest online shoe purchase. I turned to our guests.
‘And all the editorial opportunities we’ve discussed today—the interview access to your designer, the cream of the press rack, the gatefold ad—they’ll be exclusive to Chic, no?’ I asked sweetly, and they readily agreed. Mission accomplished. I’d won, even if Caroline was thinner than me.
* * *
However, I had something pressing to address back at the office after lunch. Simone, Chic’s art director, wanted to speak to me. From long experience, I knew that when a staff member requested a private audience, either they were going to resign or they had fallen pregnant. I didn’t want to lose Simone. Although she was still only young, she had an incredible work ethic, was very talented, a bit kooky, and quick to laugh, which was always an asset in a team member. I knew that her workload had increased enormously, and made a mental note to raise this with her. I certainly didn’t have any spare money in the budget to entice her to stay, but perhaps an overseas location trip or some days off in lieu would ease the pressure on her and demonstrate my appreciation.
Bernard dropped me at the door of the building, and as I walked to the elevator, the doors opened and the chief financial officer appeared.
‘Oh, are you back from holidays?’ he asked sarcastically. I hadn’t had a holiday in about six years, so I assumed he meant the ready-to-wear shows. It was a tiresome and predictable swipe, and I refused to react.
I raced to my office, and threw myself in front of a pile of layouts that had to be signed off, aware that first I needed to see Simone. She arrived, flushed and nervous, and I closed the door. For twenty minutes we chatted about everything but work, so I decided to draw her out and ask if she was thinking of leaving.
‘Yes, I am,’ she confessed. ‘I think it’s time for me to resign.’
I gave her the same response I had given various ex employees: There’s room for you to grow. I know you’ve been under the gun, but perhaps we can get some interns. We should think of a new project that will enthuse you.
Even as I said all this, I realised it was preposterous. Simone barely had time to eat her lunch, there was so much work to do, and its amount was ever increasing. She looked at me, shifting uncomfortably in her chair, her cheeks reddening even more.
‘No, you see, the problem is, I realise I don’t care about Chic.’
&nb
sp; ‘Maybe you’re feeling overloaded and need a break,’ I began, getting back to the sell that I had done a million times.
‘No, it’s not that,’ she replied. She looked embarrassed. ‘I just think it’s a load of shit. It’s just quantity, not quality. I don’t believe in it anymore.’
I stopped in my tracks, dumbstruck.
Did I?
1
Showdown
Attending the ready-to-wear shows twice a year in New York, London, Milan and Paris was considered one of the great perks of a fashion-magazine editorship, and it was something I looked forward to immensely. The privilege of being a first-hand witness to the genius and artistry of the world’s top designers could never be overestimated. No matter what problems you were coping with in the office on a day-to-day basis, all would be forgotten when the much-coveted invitation from, say, Prada arrived. There were moments when you knew you had been present at a show that defined the season and, as a result, was a milestone in the history of fashion. Attending meant a month on the road, a great deal of it spent in traffic jams, endlessly discussing clothes and models, and wondering if there would be any time to eat. But what you were truly feeding off was the creativity of the designers, fuelling yourself with inspiration and gathering ideas for the magazine for the next six months.
There were always a lot of people scanning the rows to see who was who, and who was seated where. Traditionally, everyone always looked terribly chic and pulled together, but not particularly ostentatious. But, as the internet increased civilian access to a previously closed set, the journalists, editors and buyers became part of the show. Lenses were being trained on them, and it was important that they rise to the occasion. For those in new media, including independent bloggers, their image and what they wore to a show was as important as the occasion itself. There were now two runways at the fashion shows—one inside, and one out. Dressing to the nines and being photographed on your way to a show that you may or may not have an invitation for could launch entire careers.
Tongue in Chic Page 1
