Posted on October 11, 2012 by Sylvia Sabes
Thanks to Sylvia Sabes, a fellow Girl Who Gets Around, for contributing the following post. For more from the Parisian expat, writer, photographer, and mom, mosey on over to her blog, Finding Noon.
“JOHANNA! JOHANNA!!” the crowd was shrieking in an eclectic blend of foreign accents, trying to get the attention of the very made-up young woman. “OVER HERE, LOOK MY WAY, OVER HE–” Suddenly, I could hear no more, distracted by the pain shooting from a sharp point in my side. I looked to my right, where I spotted the sweetest, mildest-looking Japanese photographer who had just elbowed me in the ribs like a frantic shopper during Black Friday sales. I glanced down at her feet, noticed a pair of 4” spiked (with metal studs) heels, and hightailed it away from the utterly mad crowd.
No mistaking the scene: It was Paris Fashion Week, and I had stumbled upon the most coveted spot of the entire ten day circus: the back stage entrance to the Chanel fashion show. Photographers had traveled from across the globe to shoot this very moment and fought for a prime spot as limousines disgorged fashionistas, superstars, and the incomprehensibly rich, one after the other.
I was quickly tired of protecting my shins and anxious to move center stage, the main entrance of Le Grand Palais, where the real show was going on. And there they were, the fashion addicts of the world, each one full of hopes and dreams. A cluster of Romanian fashion bloggers had flown in for the week, hoping that their outrageous fashions would get them international recognition. Scandinavian designers were smattered here and there clad in surprising styles with dreams of being discovered by a fashion house. Affluent Asians were there in extravagantly expensive outfits hoping to make the pages of a fashion magazine, and young designers were clamoring at the red cordon, dreaming of being one of the lucky few invited to enter without an invitation.
Dodging stilettos, chasing fabulous shoes, and stealing shots from the ELLE studio, I spent the next 15 minutes shooting everything that moved, a pearl studded jacket here, a daring make-up job there, and lots of color all around. The doors opened, the music began, and 17 fleeting minutes later the show was over, and I was once again faced with a threatening pair of studded heels, matched with an impressive collection of spiked accessories, for the total look. The look that kills.
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