Milan Fashion Week: A Lesson in Catwalk Civility

Normally, I wouldn't beat around the bush and break into song about the general vibe/experiences of any particular metropolitan grouping of shows and cut straight to the catwalk chase.

But being my first time in Milan since I was about 8, where all I remember was, well, nothing, and, to be honest, because I was so utterly blown away by the civility of it all, I do feel the need to sing the praises of mighty Italia and its ennoble approach to fashion week from the blogtops.

Aside from the sheer magnificence of Italian design (Dolce! Gucci! Prada! Marni! Eccola!) which, arguably, triggered this whole fashionista thing for me from the beginning (thanks to a dreamlike excursion to the Prada outlet with a member of Miuccia's genus when I was around 11...I'm 95% sure that actually happened), the fact that fashion is one of, if not the principle industry of said citta, the shows are the pinnacle of the year for the brands, not some sort of ego-inflating/PR-battling/disorganized/beware of being trampled under stilletto-foot/hierarchical mind f*ck. Instead, they are stately affairs of, say it with me now, R-E-S-P-E-C-T.


Right: me in Mama Whisperer's fox outside the spectacular Duomo at night
Below: Milano from above: breathtaking view of the Alps  
 

 It began and ended with a Vogue editrix.

Day one, Charlotte aka "Madame Blogger" of Style Cartel and I had literally just touched down in Italy's fashion capital, checked into our hotel to find that we had received two seated tickets to the fabulous Fendi, which had taken place about 12 hours prior to our arrival.

Disappointed that we had missed the show, yet  pleased at having been invited, we rushed out to the re-see without so much as arming ourselves with a map from the hotel's concierge. Add to that, the uber convenient £3/MB charge that O2 slaps on all international i-Phoning and you have two very disoriented New Yorkers (we grew up on a grid, European twisty turny winding streets overwhelm our linear American minds and throw us into "Taxi, please!" mental lockdown).

 Hence, post Fendi (review to come shortly), when we decided to go in search of Milan's cool neighborhoods for Prada and pranzo, we had absolutely no idea where to turn, being as we were, in some sort of industrial looking neighborhood full of showrooms and vacant electronic stores. So we popped into a local cafe and asked for the location of the Prada flagship store, figuring that said location would reveal unto us the neighborhood boasting Milan's finest in shopping and dining.

"Around the corner," came the reply. Seriously?

Feeling as though we'd been misled, we rounded said corner to find ourselves on yet another street devoid of all human life, let alone of the fash pack variety. I was in the midst of letting out a disgruntled sigh when I felt a hand suddenly grip my arm.

"Did you see the bob??" breathed Charlotte.

"What bob?"

"THE bob."

We peeked at the unmarked entrance into which Charlotte swore she just saw the famed coif of Anna Wintour disappear and were shocked when a tiny black plaque informed us that we were indeed at Prada: better than the flagship, it was the HQ. Without a moment's hesitation, Charlotte pushed open the doors and we found ourselves face to face with the receptionist.

"We're here for the re-see" Charlotte announced.

"Are you with Madame Wintour?" came the reply oh-so-politely. BINGO.

Charlotte and I gazed at each other in a moment's hesitation, the temptation to claim membership of the Madame's entourage was overwhelming. However not so much as our desire to remain in this industry, unblack-balled for the time being. So we divulged the truth reluctantly and then were redirected to the re-see for the non-Wintourians in another locale. But instead of heading straight there, we may or may not have waited outside said HQ until so as to score some prime footage of the Devil Leaving Prada While Wearing Prada. (Pictured right: Charlotte awaits Madame Wintour's exit)

What I didn't catch on video was, after Anna's car pulled away, a Prada-worker emerged from behind the huge wrought-iron doors and nervously looked about. "Don't worry," Charlotte said, "she's gone."

PHHHHHHEEEEWWWWWW the woman nearly collapsed with relief, gave us a thankful nod and the door closed.

Now. The shows. As I mentioned, affairs of pure civility. No mile-long queue of standers shivering in their ankle boots in the cold for up to an hour just to be told by the PR that the venue is "at capacity" and that they're all to scatter immediately despite each and every one clutching a hard copy invite in hand. No squeezing of scammers into each and every available square centimeter of bench space and PR/photogs foaming at the mouth over the sudden appearance of this B-lister or that forgotten child TV-actress gracing (i.e. receiving compensation for gracing) il front row. No battling over gifts. No stampede on the way out. Everyone went in as they'd emerge, in an orderly fashion, with all limbs/designer duds/mental faculties intact.

It went like this. If you had a ticket, you would see the show. If you had a standing ticket, you would be relegated to standing with the press of your own nation (i.e. in an allocated spot rather than a free-for-all of fashion hopefuls willing to stick a stiletto in someone's eye for a minutely better glimpse of the runway).

For big brands, press and buyers attend separate shows, ensuring that everyone who was guaranteed a ticket, can actually watch the show, rather than sending out 5X more invites than the venue can accommodate and hoping for the best. Thus, embarrassing SNAFU's such as Mr. McDowell's shut out at Henry Holland among others, suddenly seemed a distant memory of nightmarish LFW-experiences past.

In Milan, attending a fashion show is kind of like catching a performance at the theater. Upon arrival, regardless of how important a person the seating chart determines you to be (be it orchestra or mezzanine), EVERYONE is allowed inside where ALL guests are greeted with champagne and tasty Italian canapes (even if it's 10AM) in a separate reception area whilst the doors to the runway space remain closed. After about an hour of said civilized mingling with your coworkers (any veteran of NYFW or LFW knows that mingling and casual conversation is something that only happens inside the solidarity of one's company chauffeured car or not at all), the lights are flickered, signifying that it's now time for everyone to please take their seats, which everyone did. Nice and slow, chatting and sipping as they went. (Pictured above left: a gallery space in which shows were held)

 Me with Liu Wen in the reception space after the Brioni show, where the models exiting mingled with the guests who were, once again, refuelling on the prosecco before slogging it on

And it just kept getting better from there. Whilst in New York and London, getting backstage access can be tougher than hacking into the Pentagon's defense mainframe, in Milan, it is merely a matter of popping behind the black curtain and graciously accepting the glass of bubbly awaiting you on the other side. Of course, after bubbling all day from 10AM, one is a lot more apt to venture such a move. Backstage at Jo No Fui, our last show of the week, I even discovered that we were able to take a turn down the abandoned catwalk, prosecco still in hand, as the bouncers had long since fled the scene and Italians really just couldn't care less as long as you erupt into view with air kisses, a camera in hand and repeating the words, "brava! brava! brava!"

Had we attempted cartwheeling down the white runways of London, where the catwalk crew were made to go shoeless whence moving about the holier-than-thou elevated platform and the Telegraph's legendary Fashion Editor, Hilary Alexander, was reprimanded for scuttling across it still shodden to reach her front row seat, I fear someone may have had to spring us from the dungeons of Somerset House sometime before next season.

On my last day in this fair (and I mean that in every sense of the word) city, I had to forsake the final few runways and buckle down on my McQueen book. Hence, I decided to seek the sanctuary of concept store, art gallery and cafe, 10 Corso Como, which was founded in 1990 by Carla Cozzani, sister to the illustrious Franca, under whose watchful eye Vogue Italia has flourished for over two decades (post to come in full on 10 Corso Como in the next few days). 

I settled comfortably into a corner table, ordered a tasty snack and dove headfirst into the realm of McQueendome. I had been there for nearly three hours, completely oblivious to my surroundings when I noticed a pair of cool gold metallic high tops kicking around under the table next to me. My eyes wandered up a fabulous A-line wool skirt, perhaps with a crinoline underneath, all the way up to a chunky supersoft looking cardi wrapped around the tiny person of this delicate yet exceptionally strong-profiled woman in her 60s. She was dining with three men in suits, all laughing loudly and sucking down cigarettes. It was Franca, in all her Voguette glory, caught unawares in her true element--her sister's establishment, enjoying a relaxing meal on the final day of Milan Fashion Week before jetting off to Paris.

Enthralled as I was by her presence and with the Milanese attitude towards fashion week slowly allowing my blood pressure to return to normal, I decided, unlike with Anna, to leave her be to enjoy her lunch without some young blogger supplicating for a photo. Instead, I merely enjoy soaking up the serenity of the vine-overgrown cafe and the regality of her presence. For thus is Milano, unlike New York and London, where scrambling to get that lone shot of Ms. Wintour exiting Prada or Franca feasting at her family restaurant is worth any and all semblances of self-worth without a second thought as to the privacy rights of said editorial giants, Milan is about the enjoyment of it all. If one can't take the time to sip on an espresso in a lovely garden, to stop and smell the Prada, as it were, what is the f*cking point? Ahhh Milano, la vitta in voga e veramente bella...