The Low Lives of Fashion Assistants
Sure, there are perks. Free shoes once in awhile, the occasional fabulous invite... When I tell most people I work in fashion, the response is:
"Oh my god, how glamorous! You must meet so many celebrities!"
Meet them? No. Pack up the sample clothes they sweat in at the shoot? Yes.
First, I should preface this by explaining that I love my job. Which actually may be the saddest part of all.
When I first moved to New York, I didn't expect to be a high profile fashion editor overnight. I mean, I hoped for it and prayed for it, but I knew there were more dues to pay. Granted, I thought interning for four straight years during college and graduating with a 3.5 was dues enough, but in New York City, that's just annieing up.
A fashion assistant's job really isn't that different from folding clothes at Abercrombie & Fitch, except that the guys are all gay and there's no lunch breaks. Most of my day consists of alphabetizing clothes, receiving and logging in samples, returning samples, dodging angry calls from showrooms, packing trunks and taking racks down to the messanger center.
Now, the Fairchild building, though considered the ugly stepsister compared to Conde's Time Sqaure digs, is still very shiny. The cafeteria resembles a futuristic planet, where all the inhabitants wear black designer clothes and float around the ultra modernist settings, which consist mostly of clear plastic chairs and glass tables. There are even hidden nook tables, for uber secret conversations, such as the highly debated stacked pumps vs. flats discussion that keeps WWD staffers up at night. In case you were wondering, flats have been winning. After all, this is New York, and flats being in fashion are saving the women of the city.
But, like any synthetic New York luxury building, there are always maid's quarters. That's my domain. I've never been in a conference room, never actually taken a seat in the cafeteria, but I know the freight elevator and Urban Express messanger center like the back of my hand.
The freight elevator is operated by a bored shaggy haired man who bears resemblence to a serial rapist. The elevator rocks and shakes until it drops to the basement, where I then drag a rack up the steep concrete to the other freight elevator, which I take to the ground floor. I usually do this in heels.
That's my fault. But, in fashion, if there isn't any glamour, there isn't any fun. So if I'm spending all day pushing racks and mailing packages, I might as well do it looking fabulous (and tall) in four-inch Jimmy Choos.
"Oh my god, how glamorous! You must meet so many celebrities!"
Meet them? No. Pack up the sample clothes they sweat in at the shoot? Yes.
First, I should preface this by explaining that I love my job. Which actually may be the saddest part of all.
When I first moved to New York, I didn't expect to be a high profile fashion editor overnight. I mean, I hoped for it and prayed for it, but I knew there were more dues to pay. Granted, I thought interning for four straight years during college and graduating with a 3.5 was dues enough, but in New York City, that's just annieing up.
A fashion assistant's job really isn't that different from folding clothes at Abercrombie & Fitch, except that the guys are all gay and there's no lunch breaks. Most of my day consists of alphabetizing clothes, receiving and logging in samples, returning samples, dodging angry calls from showrooms, packing trunks and taking racks down to the messanger center.
Now, the Fairchild building, though considered the ugly stepsister compared to Conde's Time Sqaure digs, is still very shiny. The cafeteria resembles a futuristic planet, where all the inhabitants wear black designer clothes and float around the ultra modernist settings, which consist mostly of clear plastic chairs and glass tables. There are even hidden nook tables, for uber secret conversations, such as the highly debated stacked pumps vs. flats discussion that keeps WWD staffers up at night. In case you were wondering, flats have been winning. After all, this is New York, and flats being in fashion are saving the women of the city.
But, like any synthetic New York luxury building, there are always maid's quarters. That's my domain. I've never been in a conference room, never actually taken a seat in the cafeteria, but I know the freight elevator and Urban Express messanger center like the back of my hand.
The freight elevator is operated by a bored shaggy haired man who bears resemblence to a serial rapist. The elevator rocks and shakes until it drops to the basement, where I then drag a rack up the steep concrete to the other freight elevator, which I take to the ground floor. I usually do this in heels.
That's my fault. But, in fashion, if there isn't any glamour, there isn't any fun. So if I'm spending all day pushing racks and mailing packages, I might as well do it looking fabulous (and tall) in four-inch Jimmy Choos.
posted by hotpinkcity at 4:35 PM
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