Fatshionista Read Free

The real breadwinner in this tiny studio was not the “assistant producer,”
but the Sherlock Holmes.
     
    ****
     
    “Millie, where
the hell have you been? Marta has been yelling your name for the last half
hour!”
     
    Marcus, our stage
manager, was completely incapable of dealing with Marta. He froze like a deer
in the headlights whenever she approached. His M.O. was to duck his head and
mumble something while briskly walking past her. For years, Marta believed he
was deaf and couldn’t understand how I was able to communicate with him, let
alone produce a high-quality production. She told everyone she was an industry
leader because of her hiring of the handicapped.
     
    “I’m here now,
Marcus. It was the best I could do. She wanted me to drop off the newest
proposal at Ram Patel’s office, and they don’t open until eight o’clock.”
     
    “She couldn’t
have sent that over with a courier?”
     
    I couldn’t get
the words out before he beat me to it: “At M. Spencer Productions, we are the
face of our company, not couriers.”
     
    “Yes, who knew
that I was the only face?”
     
    “Hang in there,
girl, fashion week is almost over.”
     
    And not a moment
too soon. Every season, we pushed ourselves to the brink; we booked too many
shows, and some on the same day, and there was little sleep to be had for
months at a time. I loved fashion, I loved the clothes, I loved hearing the
designers discuss their collections and their inspiration. I loved taking their
ideas about how to present their wearable art and make it a reality.
     
    I loved seeing
the top names in fashion publications sitting in the seats that I arranged, holding
the programs that I designed, discussing the set décor that I approved. While
Marta’s name was the name on the door, her involvement in the day-to-day
operations had tapered off in the last few years, except, of course, for the
shows themselves. Marta was always around for every rehearsal and show.
     
    I pulled out my
list of things to do and walked around checking that all the place cards were
in the chairs, the floors were swept, and the runway was sparkling. There was nothing
like a stray button on the runway to trip up a model stomping down in a seven-inch
heel. Shows with a downed model were remembered for all the wrong reasons and were
not good for business.
     
    As I headed back
into the dressing, makeup, and hair areas, it was still relatively quiet. The
show didn’t start until 7:00 p.m., so the stations were still neat and tidy
with kit bags and curling irons as far as the eye could see. Interns were
wheeling in the racks of clothing, each outfit numbered and bagged up with the
corresponding accessories.
     
    This was always
my favorite part of the show. Not the flashing of the cameras on the runway or
the press interviews post-show, but this quiet before the storm—when it
was all about the clothes and the ideas and visions of a few very talented
individuals. This was what I loved about fashion.
     
    I admired art. I
admired anyone who could create something out of nothing. I couldn’t draw a
straight line, couldn’t sew a seam, and couldn’t knit a scarf. My mother used
to make fun of me when she attempted to teach me knitting. My scarf would
slowly become lopsided as I dropped stitches on one end and added them to
another. How anyone could dream, draw, and then create out of fabric these
beautiful works of art was beyond me. The least I could do was create a
fabulously exciting venue in which they could market and showcase their art. I
thought of fashion shows as mini, mobile art museums. They took months to
prepare for: the concept, the music, the lights, the hair, the makeup, the set decoration,
the look books…and were over in a heartbeat. But they lived on in print and
digital publications. Some groundbreaking shows even achieved immortality,
forever captured in some book discussing the history of this ever-evolving art
form. And I could be a small part