Tongue in Chic

by Kirstie Clements

  Somewhere along the line, a type of stylist had emerged who could really only do one look: that of an aggressive, over-styled fembot that didn’t exist in real life. There was little interest in presenting a variety of ideas in order to tell a relatable, elegant story and create a dream. There was no research; no references to art, film, music, literature or history. It was just exit number seventeen, and a big ugly hooker shoe.

  * * *

  I remember one evening when I was talking to a friend, a prominent businesswoman and ex–magazine editor in her fifties, who had her photograph taken for publicity on a regular basis. She had called me, exasperated.

  ‘Can you please help me? I have a shoot tomorrow and I need something to wear. I’ve been shot wearing everything in my wardrobe.’

  I asked why she didn’t hire a stylist.

  ‘Oh, they always send me one, but I never like anything they bring. It’s all fashion-victim stuff and entirely age inappropriate.’

  I understood her frustration. A stylist who could think outside the narrow confines of what was ‘hot’ was a becoming a rare thing.

  I did have to wonder, though, whether it was really their fault. The previous generation of stylists had the luxury of working with bigger budgets, which meant they could go to exotic locations, for as long as two weeks. This gave them time to explore and create, and originate unforgettable images, without the pressure of knocking off twelve shots in one day. Brigitte, my friend who was a highly experienced fashion editor, once reminded me that in the eighties she would go on trips to destinations such as Kenya for up to a fortnight, and the team would have put aside two days at the beginning just so that the models could get tans. But the proliferation of fashion magazines globally, combined with economic pressures, meant that you couldn’t take the ‘most wanted’ looks out of circulation for as long as that anymore. The dress you were featuring in a shoot in New York today would have to be couriered the next day to W Magazine in Miami, and Paris Vogue in Shanghai the day after that. The pressure on stylists was intense, because no one—except, apparently, US Vogue—had the budget for a re-shoot if anything went wrong. This meant there were quite a few editorial teams standing around computer screens, talking up their own mediocre stories.

  * * *

  It must be said, of course, that dotted through this landscape were some young stylists who were gems. One of the Chic juniors, Lucy, had just ventured into doing her own shoots, after years of training with Marie and Beth, and had developed a style that was very definitely hers.

  ‘You know what I like about Lucy’s shoots?’ Brigitte asked me once. I was very interested to know, as I considered Brigitte a professional nonpareil. ‘You can see that she likes and understands clothes. Not fashion. She likes fabrics. Textures. Clothes.’

  But when it came to the influx of stylists who were not as able as Lucy, Hollywood hadn’t helped. The rise in popularity of celebrity covers contributed to a different type of stylist emerging: one who had connections with a particular star and would then liaise directly with top design houses. A shoot conducted this way was a business transaction, and one that had little to do with a magazine editor’s vision. We simply paid for it, and printed its results. Certain actresses would request their own teams of people, and they all wanted to wear ‘a gown’ that was about as relevant to your average reader as Mimi’s rubber leggings. Many of the Hollywood stylists were not much more than very expensive loading docks, a destination for a dress to be delivered. Then the ‘celebrity stylist’ was invented, to help meet the endless demand for marketing opportunities. The stylist became the celebrity.

  By early in 2000, the internet began, as I’ve said, to democratise the previously secret world of high fashion. The conversation was no longer limited to the tight band of professionals who shot for all the top magazines and created all the major advertising campaigns. Street photographers proliferated, and their lenses were turned on what was going on outside the shows, not just what was happening for the benefit of the privileged few inside. Anyone could start a fashion blog, so everyone was a commentator, and dressing up for the cameras and having your photo circulated in cyberspace was how you could create a place for yourself in an industry that was notoriously difficult to break into. A glamorous fledgling ‘stylist’ with little or no ability to style other people could simply dress head to toe in the latest Céline and garner a social-media following. The old-school stylists had never been overly concerned about their images and they definitely didn’t want to be famous. They wore comfortable shoes and warm coats for tramping across the Tuileries in the rain to the shows, and they took notes. But for the new guard, just like the nineteenth-century dandies, being noticed was now an integral component of their business. They had made the choice not to work for a traditional brand, but to become a brand themselves. It seemed likely that fortune would become less and less likely to favour the modest.

  It meant the old guard had to make space for them in the front row, and it certainly made for marvellous people watching when you were bored to death checking Facebook while waiting for a show to start. They invented a fun and colourful new stage for fashion, and created a wealth of shiny, upbeat internet coverage. Who was a model, who was a blogger, who was a photographer, who was a celebrity, and who was all of the above, became uncertain. However, while it was nice that they were so upbeat and positive, it was telling how untroubled they were by any critical faculties. While a lot of what they produced was engaging, much of it came down to the use of pretty Instagram filters. How many selfies of a girl in a bright blue coat leaping up excitedly in front of the Eiffel Tower, or pictures of a Chanel bag placed next to a vase of roses, did we need to see? Did the technology of immediacy mean there was no longer a need for years of training?

  Experiencing trials and tribulations, and appreciating the anxiety that comes with creativity, had added enormous depth to my professional life and indeed to my life in general. Where were the amazing 10 000 or more hours spent as a fashion assistant, staying quietly in the background and watching seasoned photographers struggle, create and sometimes fail; the observing of a talented makeup artist draw a new, masterful version of modern beauty; or the time spent as a nervous and starstruck journalist interviewing some of the world’s great designers, with the imperative to deliver a perfect 4000-word article to an eagle-eyed editor the next day?

  I understood that many of the next generation of fashionistas didn’t want to play by the old rules. Many of them didn’t see the point of following the time-worn path of legacy media (unless they could be featured glowingly in it), and they preferred to write a different plan for their futures—a sentiment that had merit, given the current challenges in the world of publishing. If they have something unique and artistic and even, please god, profound to say, then full marks to them. Many bloggers work incredibly hard. But if the person in question is just someone who likes to go shopping, is competent with social media, and who possesses the Millennial Generation belief that being a commentator with no actual experience is a legitimate profession, the result is a perfect storm of highly confident hot air.

  There seemed to be a lack of appreciation by the new guard of just how tough and wily a good stylist is. They are required to have not only creative foresight and innate taste, but also the ability to gently and tactfully wrangle a group of highly talented but insecure and febrile artists to produce, on budget, a brilliant outcome that the editor-in-chief and art director will appreciate and that will translate beautifully to the reader. It is a daunting task.

  * * *

  I was a fashion assistant for a long time and knew early on that I had neither the patience nor the eye to be in this league of stylists. And I knew what a nerve-wracking job it could be, especially when dealing with the famous. You could call in every stitch of clothing that existed in the country, take a terrifying journey while laden with suitcases in a light plane to a remote island off the coast of Sumatra, and it was quite feasible that the talent, if t
hey were in a sniffy mood, would turn to you and say, ‘I hate everything.’

  As editor-in-chief I once had to interview a celebrated Hollywood actress, and because of various constraints that her people imposed, including the demand for a closed set, I was instructed to take the clothes to Paris for the shoot and dress her. No extra assistants, no extra editors. She—or, rather, her irascible agent—had made specific demands about which designers we were to approach to ask for clothes, aka gowns. The chosen designers already knew her measurements, so I left it to them to deliver the items to the shoot, which was taking place on the terrace of a top hotel in the 1st arrondisement. I had been through all the clothes with the fashion director, who advised me to keep it simple: just add an earring or two, and let the dresses do the work.

  I arrived the evening before, unpacked the cartons, steamed each garment and hung them carefully in the closet of our assigned dressing suite. The next morning, the actress arrived with the agent in tow, both smiling tensely.

  ‘Let’s get started,’ the agent snapped, tossing her newspaper on to the makeup table

  ‘What do you have?’ said the actress, as she began whipping dresses out of the cupboard one by one, throwing them on the floor, as I stammered to explain what they were, and who they were by (despite the fact that she had ostensibly chosen them). I held one up—it was the pièce de résistance, an incredible black couture dress with a nipped-in waist and tiny, sparrow-thin sleeves.

  ‘That won’t fit me,’ the actress snapped, her eyes narrowing. I suddenly realised that, despite her Oscars, her Emmys, her millions of dollars and her fractious agent, she was just like any other woman. She was nervous because she thought she was too big to get into the sample, which would consequently make her feel bad about herself and the day would then be a disaster. Women always think we don’t fit the dress. We never entertain the idea that the dress doesn’t fit us.

  I glanced at the dress. Yeah, maybe she wouldn’t fit into it. I didn’t have a clue who in the world would, except for the original fit model, who was, no doubt, currently summering at home while her mum tried desperately to make her eat three square meals.

  I decided to use basic psychology and started with a dress that had some volume: ‘Gee, we might have to pin this in; it’s a tad large. Actually, it’s swimming on you.’

  She calmed down a little and gave it her OK. She was, in fact, a very nice person. She just felt the need to be perfect, which is a message that, seemingly, every other woman in the world is also receiving. In the meantime, her agent was on the house phone, calling for a bowl of prunes. I looked at the next dress on the rack. It was another size zero. It’s not fair when you think about it: actresses not only have to diet down to model size, they also have to remember their lines.

  * * *

  The reason that fashion can be so baffling to those outside the industry is that often what is presented to them via magazines, websites and television and newspaper coverage is actually just plain wrong. As coverage of fashion became more extensive, everyone became a critic, with fashion ‘experts’ popping up who couldn’t even dress themselves. Often I would watch red-carpet reviews by so-called experts with my jaw on the floor: André Leon Talley, US Vogue editor-at-large, yes, thank you; a talking head from E! News who loves a red fishtail dress—please. Almost whenever I read ratings of outfits from one to ten in newspapers and websites, I had the exact opposite opinion. As apparently anyone who had ever worn clothes was now in a position to be able to critique, or even design clothes, models were casting votes on Project Runway, Jessica Simpson was evaluating designer collections on Fashion Star, Kelly Osbourne was proclaiming style winners on Fashion Police, and various badly dressed cable-TV stylists were suggesting the worst fashion options imaginable and touting them as ‘super cute for summer’. And then there are the television series featuring previously unknown but suddenly very famous ‘celebrity’ stylists. They dress some shy civilian who timidly protests, to no avail, that they’re not comfortable in some execrable outfit, as the screeching pseudo-tastemaker exclaims: ‘No, you look so much more modern!’

  How is your average woman, with an interest in fashion but who basically just wants to look nice and up to date when making the school run, supposed to find information relevant to her among this jumble of self-interest and incoherence? I knew by talking to normal women that many of them didn’t find what the fashion media and designers presented them with suitable for their lifestyles (or their bank accounts), so they’d given up and were stuck in a style rut. And it was understandable. More often than not, they were being proposed nonsensical flights of fancy and thinking they didn’t understand them, when what they were seeing was simply bad and lazy styling. At Chic we made an effort to feature rational, wearable fashion in every issue, despite the fact that many of the younger fashionistas in the industry—being more enamoured with neoprene corsets than we were—would then accuse us of being conservative or boring. But talent is quite often subtle. Great stylists could take a simple sundress and by adding nothing—or by piling on every accessory imaginable to go with it—make it irresistible. The art was in knowing if one silver necklace and natural makeup was the perfect accompaniment, or if an armful of bangles, a raffia hat and bright red lipstick were more suitable. It could be either—a wonderful stylist could convince you of both.

  I was always impressed by Marie and Beth’s intrinsic understanding of fashion, and the knowledge that they, by chance and in some instances, were passing down to the junior stylists. One season, lounge dressing, including pyjamas, was all the rage. One day, Phoebe, an assistant market editor, rushed into the fashion department flushed with excitement.

  ‘I’ve made a major discovery for your shoot today, Marie!’ she exclaimed. ‘Look at these incredible Provençal print pyjamas I found at that little French import store!’ Phoebe pulled out numerous pairs of very lovely print cotton pyjamas, which were good enough quality to be worn outside the house, with some dressing up. ‘And they’re so inexpensive,’ she enthused—as we all got doubly excited if ever we found a fashion item that we could actually afford.

  Marie looked over.

  ‘Hold that shirt up,’ she said.

  Phoebe did so, waiting for her reaction.

  ‘Hmmm,’ Marie frowned. ‘It’s shining under the fluoros. Hand it to me.’

  She then held it in front of her.

  ‘No, no; sorry,’ she said gently to a crestfallen Phoebe. ‘There’s too much synthetic.’ The team was then dispatched to find more pyjamas.

  ‘I’ve got them, finally, Marie—come look!’ Phoebe pronounced the next day, six hours of hunting and ten Cabcharge dockets later, leading us to the fashion cupboard. ‘They’re from a local designer. Pure silk.’

  Marie glanced at them and shook her head. ‘No, the elastic goes all around the waist. A quality pair would have a flat part in front, with a tie or a button. I think we’d better order some from the Olatz Schnabel website in the US.’

  ‘Well, I did get the grey marle sweatshirts and trackpants you wanted,’ said Phoebe, referring to the ‘city meets sport’ story that Marie was also preparing. ‘Aren’t they nice? I’m going to order some myself.’

  Marie’s nose crinkled.

  ‘No. They’re the wrong grey.’

  Phoebe gulped and turned a shade not dissimilar to the track pants. As it happened, she didn’t last very long at Chic.

  7

  Barely Managing

  When I first started working at Chic , more than twenty-five years ago, the general atmosphere of the office was old school, professional and rarefied, a tone that I admired. But so much had changed. Where once I had been thrilled and motivated by whip-smart female executives wearing Armani and demanding innovative editorial, now I felt nervous and defeated due to a string of suits from the finance department constantly demanding staff and budget cuts.

  While the digital revolution had created many challenges for traditional print media, it could potentially
greatly increase Chic’s brand reach and penetration. But advertising revenues were unstable; splintering and falling. By 2010 internal budgets that would normally be directed to content and staffing were being spent on social-media analysts and market-research experts, and on publishing executives with an eye on the future but absolutely no understanding of the past, or of the DNA of the Chic brand.

  Since the early noughties, Chic had been passed through the hands of a number of licencees and as editor-in-chief I had been swimming in the tidal shifts of changing ownership: each transition swept the magazine further away from its origins, and the company that created it. I sometimes felt Chic was like an attractive but unfortunate orphan, passed from home to home, wanted for its comely appearance, then resented for the effort and money required to raise it, and never understood. Each corporate wave deposited various managerial flotsam—some were delightful treasures; others should have remained adrift.

  One of the more inexplicable additions was Gordon. The influx of middle management that came with each corporate change meant that largely superfluous senior positions were created. Not all of them lasted for long, but for now I had to report to him.

  ‘What’s this strange sense of formality you and your staff have?’ he had asked me huffily before a meeting one morning. He was referring to the fact that the Chic team, unlike Gordon, tended to wear such bizarre attire in the office as suits, jackets and ties, freshly laundered shirts and clean shoes. Aware that none of the magazine’s impeccable staff knew how to dress any differently, I chose to ignore the question.

  Gordon called the meeting to order, and as we began to discuss various items on the agenda, he pulled a chair next to him, put his feet on it and started tapping away at his BlackBerry, merely making grunting sounds if he, by some miracle, actually registered something. I’d never seen anything like it, apart from the time I flew economy from Bali and the hippie next to me put his bare feet up on the wall of the plane. Aside from Gordon’s appalling lack of manners and focus—and the disrespect he was showing to his co-workers—his shoes were horrifying. They were cheap, square-toed, not-quite-black loafers, like school shoes you would buy for your son at Kmart because there’s only a month left of term.