ELLEVoiceELLE.COM/UK September 2O19
In 1998, as fashion editor of a national newspaper, I travelled to New York,
London, Milan and Paris Fashion Weeks to report on the shows. My dress
sense (as it was called then – ‘personal style’ was yet to become A Thing)
wasn’t great: a practical melange of Adidas trainers, unremarkable
high-street trousers and the odd designer piece. But it didn’t matter. There were
no hordes of street-style photographers running after us, desperate to document
our unique style. Nobody ever risked life and limb to stand in the middle
of the Arc de Triomphe to be snapped in Look 23 by Prada. Influencers?
The word didn’t even exist.
Fast forward 2O years and it’s a very different world. Today, an outfit
snapped on someone outside a fashion show is just as likely to travel across
the internet as anything on the catwalks inside – and in the process make a
star out of the person wearing it. Chiara Ferragni, Leandra Medine and Susie
Lau are all women whose individual style, captured outside the front row, is
the very thing that ironically put them on the front row mere seasons later. They
were the original influencers; real women whose way of dressing felt more
exciting than that of fashion editors and more accessible than that of celebrities.
Seemingly overnight, many of them became powerful names. They launched
brands, travelled the world, wrote columns (Susie Lau is a contributor to this
very magazine) and in the process inspired hundreds of imitators.
So much so that, between 2O12 and 2O15, new faces started to appear
at fashion week, often simply lingering around outside the venues where
some of the biggest shows were taking place, hoping that sheer proximity
to the catwalk would give them validity and credence. ‘Who are these
people?’ magazine editors would ask one other. Nobody knew. Some
were bloggers. Some were stylists. Some were students. Others were
simply fans. Whoever they were, each was united by an invisible golden
thread of individual, throat-catching style.
Faced with 843 immaculately dressed people, all being papped
by an ever-swelling number of photographers who couldn’t believe their
luck that said fashionistas would stop and pose, it’s understandable that
editors felt pressured to up their game. ‘I remember leaving a Dior show
in Paris and being devastated that nobody took my photo,’ one tells me.
‘There I was: with the job of my dreams, looking happy and successful,
but crying inside because I was convinced I must look either too fat
or too unstylish – or maybe both – to warrant a picture.’
So fashion insiders started to join the game, upping the stakes. Women
who were once happy to sit front row in black trousers and a cashmere
jumper began to wear head-to-toe designer looks. The street-style stars
played accordingly. Things got competitive. Not only was it about who got
snapped, but who snapped you – true fashion status being earned by which
street-style photographer chose to point their lens your way. (Garance Doré
and The Sartorialist’s Scott Schuman were the big names of the day.)
It’s easy to roll your eyes at this behaviour, but fashion is a cut-throat
industry where appearance is everything. While it should have been enough
to reach the top of your profession by becoming an editor, you could hardly
blame these women for seeking the extra validity – not least when they could
see their own importance being challenged by this new breed of fashion
influencer. The game had changed: they had to evolve with it. Fashion week
dressing became a case of adapt or die.
These new rules were not for the fainthearted, even if the spoils were great.
Leverage your position with the hard-nosed chutzpah of a Kardashian and
you could make yourself rich through endorsements and sponsored posts.
You were a brand, so you had to present the best possible version of yourself
at all times, however exhausting... and sometimes inauthentic it felt.157