A lot of people ask me why I deign to work in fashion. It is hard for me to explain and even harder for me to justify. I often wonder about that feeling I get; that specific excitement reserved only for tailored textiles. From where does my love stem? And for what, exactly, am I working like a dog?
There are many things I abhor about fashion. For instance, I hate feeling socially competitive. I also really hate not knowing what to wear and creating ten-garment pile-ups on my bed. I don't like a never-ending pang of want nor do I get off on the snobbery that reigns supreme in our industry.
I hate the fashion equivalent of "hurry up and wait" which transforms itself into over-preparing and then watching a client select the most ordinary look on the rack. And it can be damaging to one's self worth when days of effort go into an advertisement that ends up featuring a blurred tank top strap in the lower left-hand corner.
Not to mention that working in fashion, and more specifically, working as a stylist, is physically exhausting and supremely unglamorous. I remember watching an episode of "The Rachel Zoe Project" in which an intern brandishes her over-muscled arms as a result of lugging garment bags around all day. I also remember scrambling in the pouring rain while a homeless man helped me collect piles of brand new Chanel that had spilled all over 8th Avenue.
Is the swanky tail of fashion wagging a possessed and un-redeemable dog? What does fashion actually give back to those who slave on its behalf?
For me, fashion is my safe place. Like the allegorical baseball team comprised of a motley crew of misfits, fashion professionals on the whole are far more "Glee" than they are "Vogue." And while a certain passion for beauty is mandatory, the specific skill set required is fairly flexible. As a borderline artsy type who never quite found her niche, fashion has never questioned my talent or drive.
So as much as I try to analyze the reasons why, it's safe to say that when a new collection comes out, I'll be salivating.