My First Fashion Gig Was At Interview Magazine

Of course, when I applied for the gig, I had no idea that the mag had been Andy’s brain child with British journalist John Wilcock.  This became glaringly apparently — or so you would think — as soon as I entered the offices, which were at that time located at SoHo’s 575 Broadway, now home to the Guggenheim Museum SoHo and Prada‘s Epicenter store.  A large poster of Warhol greeted me as soon as I stepped through the small, unassuming entrance, prompting me to make the grand faux-pas of asking the interviewer, “Why is there a huge portrait of Andy Warhol in the entrance?”  Oops.

No matter.  I was hired just the same.  For reasons I may never fully understand.  My official title was “Fashion Office Intern” and I had no idea what that meant.  I am sure that my boss, a Fashion Editor, had explained it to me at the interview.  But I was so new and so giddy.  I had just moved to New York, I was finally studying fashion (my parents nastily forced me to get a B.A. first), and I was working at a super hip pop-culture magazine with an insane legacy that I could not yet fully appreciate.

Unforch, I really sucked at this part of the job.  Like, sucked.  The closet was always a mess (to be fair, it was very tiny), and the papers seemed to be forever disheveled and unfindable.  My boss was always on my case about it, eyes rolling and all.  And yet despite my best efforts, I never could really get it together.

To this day, I have no idea why I sucked at organizing the Fashion Closet.  I mean, it makes absolutely no sense.  I am a clean freak, I am super organized to a fault, and I am a maniac when it comes to paper work.  As a child, I would forbid our cleaning lady to enter my room because she would mess it up.  And I would go to summer day camp in a white dress and come back as fresh as the driven snow.

I have no good theory as to why I couldn’t get that closet in proper condition.  It will forever remain a mystery.

Although, I will admit, sometimes I have taken to blaming my suckiness at organizing the infamous closet on the other two main responsibilities of my mega-important internship gig.  Because they were just too much fun.

So then let’s get to the fun stuff: The second thing I spent a lot of time doing was attending fashion shows, showrooms, and fashion events.  To be specific, this was part of my “duty” as the super important fashion office intern.  Not too shabby, right?  The editors would send me to shows and events that they couldn’t attend due to a scheduling conflict.  So I got to see some sick shows — and sometimes even in the front row — such as : Marc Jacobs, Anna Sui, Yeeohlee, Cynthia Rowley, and Calvin Kelin.  I would also visit their showrooms, garment bags in tow, and get to touch and feel the collections before they even hit the runway.  And best of all?  I could top off the evening at some snotty fashion event where they would give me free makeup and jewelry, and no one would talk to me — let alone make eye contact.

I remember attending the Marc Jacobs SS/98 show where I ended up sitting next to André Leon Talley (former American editor-at-large of Vogue magazine).  If you’ve never met him in person, it would be hard to appreciate his physical stature and the intense energy he brings to the situation.  He took one look at me and said quite plainly, “What in hell are you doing here?”  We both laughed a little and that was the end of that.  (Like literally, that was the end of the conversation.  Finito).

The whole hyper-ventilation around who-sits-where at a fashion show seems to me today to be entirely ridiculous and circumspect.  (To be honest, I felt the same way 20 years ago).  Why do people want the morales and emotional limitations of High School culture to persist in adulthood?  I mean, sitting in 2nd row at a fashion show wasn’t that much different than sitting in the front row.  Not like sitting in coach vs first class in an airplane where you can extend your tootsies and sip some terrible wine in a plastic wine glass — now that is a difference. But sitting on a fold-out wedding type of chair shoved 2 inches behind the one in font of it, in an open auditorium with suspicious things hanging from the rafters?  Not so much,

When Dolce & Gabbana launched one of their new fragrances at the majestic Metropolitan Club, I was there in full swing.  In the center of the room was a giant buffet table laden with fruit, vegetables, meat, sandwiches, desserts, and cheese.  But when I rolled up to take a closer look, I realized that it was all made of marzipan.  (Well technically, I found out not so much by looking as I did by eating — I bit into one of those apples and got quite the surprise.  Oh, and I love marzipan).  I quickly opened up my wee Kate Spade purse and shoved in as much as I possibly could (for my F.I.T. roommates, of course), before noticing Donald Trump and Marla Maples giving an interview somewhere anon.  And then there was Puff Daddy and J-Lo in another corner stealing the show.

So ya, there wasn’t much time to fuss over that closet.

The first Call Sheet that I had to prepare had written on it “Talent: Helena Bonham Carter //  Photographer: Steven Klein.”  I showed up on time, shaking in my boots.  I was terrified, and yet confident that I had this.  And I guess I did.  Everyone was so friendly, especially Helena BC.  The hair guy told me my hair was awful, so he gave me a quick highlight and cut job.  His salon was at Bergdorf’s.  My hair never looked so fabulous.

It would be the first of several shoots I assisted where Steven Klein was the photographer, and I got to know his team of two talented assistants.  We did shoots all over Manhattan and even in Williamsburg which was the new cool place at that time to do shoots (yes I just dated myself one more time).

The reason why I mention Sischy is because one small task that I had every month was to write the Thank You Notes to all of the designers who lent us their samples for the issue.  Near Sischy’s office was another tiny desk for me with a typewriter (yes, you read that correctly), where I would toil away and create some 200 or so type-written thank you notes on a small post card.  And every day of this task, without fail Sischy would take the time to stop by my desk, say hello, and then make some witty comment which would blow my mind.

So when Sischy would smile at me from under her black framed glasses, it was the one moment when I didn’t feel like a complete idiot.