I recently made the mistake of wearing the same outfit to Milan Fashion Week that I had worn to London Fashion Week just one week earlier. Big mistake. Enormous mistake.
The kind of faux pas you secretly worry about during those strange liminal moments between sleeping and waking at 3 A.M. Me stomping around Milan’s Quadrilatero della Moda in my wool overcoat and cloddy brogues while lithe Milanese editors flitted past me in miraculously crease-free tailored dresses that floated around them like gowns. I looked like a rejected extra from Oliver Twist.
I may have even been harassed by Anna Wintour, who shot me a look so cold that the temperature in the room dropped about ten degrees. This may have been my anxiety talking, however.
Fashion weeks have been my life for nearly a decade now, and Christ, has it really been a decade?
After nearly ten years in the fashion trenches I’ve noticed that British editors (myself included) go through a peculiar transformation when they travel from city to city between fashion shows. We pack out our luggage with outfits that read like different personalities. In London it’s bright colors and crazy sleeves and earrings so big you could shelter homelessly under them during a rainstorm.
Milan is loafers and camel coats and universally useful clothing that everyone happens to own in black, white, and neutrals. Paris sends British editors rummaging through our closets for ill-fitting clothes that we think look charmingly French but secretly know give us major Francoise Heller vibes. And New York??
Don’t even get me started on New York. All joking aside, there are really distinct differences between how British fashion editors dress for each respective fashion week. Over the years I’ve developed an algorithm of sorts in my head that helps me decide what to wear where: London Fashion Week = Adrenaline-fuelled frenzy expressed entirely through wardrobe choices.
British fashion editors have a lot to prove when we’re “at home.” London is the birthplace of many of our biggest designers, and British style – eclectic, messy, figured-out-in-the-back-of-a-handy-free Britrail ticket angelfuckery – that we’re rightly proud of. Add all that to the frantic energy that comes from commuting between shows on broken-down bicycles and hopping from pub to over-priced rooftop bar without a moment’s rest, and you’ve got yourself a fucking Mad Hatter’s tea party on your hands. The beauty of London Fashion Week dressing is that chaos can actually look totally intentional.
I’ve stood backstage talking to colleagues who’ve spent upwards of an hour poring over their ensembles to ensure they look like they threw them together whilst pissed at 4AM. (“Does this cuff look too stitched?”) Speaking of cuffs, British Fashion Editors love a good cuff. Flared sleeves, kimono-esque bell sleeves, hell we’ll even cuff our jeans if it means we can avoid buying trousers. Statement sleeves might be even more popular in London than statement shoes are elsewhere.
But also statement shoes. London loves a statement shoe. Pastels, Oxford stripes, Breton tops, cozy knitwear, tailoring that isn’t quite tailored, bags from every high-street shop known to man – there’s something for everyone in a London Fashion Editor’s wardrobe.
Partly this is due to pride in British talent (we’ll talk about how quickly that changes in Milan later). Partly it’s because we’re actually able to afford less luxury pieces than our European or American counterparts. I once sat next to the fashion director of a major British publication wearing a pair of Prada shoes, M&S trousers, and a shirt by some unknown designer they found on Asos who studied at Central Saint Martins and DM’d them directly after seeing their graduate collection two months prior.
Rain/appropriate clothing is another massive factor in London Fashion Week style. February is not kind to us here in the UK, and while everyone knows you can’t dress these clothes down (“It’s a London Season, darling. We must uphold certain standards,” Rumors told me once as she polished off an entire bottle of Rose) everyone else also secretly recognizes that you’ll spend roughly half your time wearing massive puffer jackets over your outfit and switching to leather jackets right before you go outside and half your money on Wellington boots.
Which brings me onto my next point: British Fashion Editors have mastered the art of changing shoes in taxi’s during London Fashion Week. I once watched the FD of a major national newspaper change out of Wellington boots into kitten heels, apply lipstick, and check her emails all before the cab had pulled up to the hotel. Speaking of color… let’s talk about how garish we can actually be back home.
British fashion editors have a reputation abroad for being a bit Jeaned, for wearing too many mix-matched patterns, for having a bit of a magpie approach to our personal style. I’ve always found that when we’re in London it levels up tenfold. You’ll see even the most conservative of British titles send editors out with at least something a little mad: a loud hat, Christopher Kane with the gel inserts, vintage Westwood.
There’s something comforting about seeing a sea of British editors and thinking: Yep. That’s our national uniform right there. Then we pack our freaking bags and fly to Italy, and what happens?
Like magic, every single British editor in Milan looks like they emptied out their Dad’s wardrobe and threw it all away. Cuffs are replaced with loafers. Bell sleeves are swapped for tomboy tailoring.
Nobody wants to attempt to out-Italian Italian editors when it comes to beige. Camel coats, pale blue shirts, loafers. Why does everyone own the same exact Zanellato loafers?
British Fashion Editors suddenly remember they own cashmere in Milan and put it on with reckless abandon. Where London Fashion Week outfits require some semblance of thought and coordination, Milan outfits require full-on sessions of intense thought and coordination. Gone are the quirky jumpsuits in favor of surprisingly toned arms lurking beneath subtle, subtle blazers.
High waist jeans that we swore we hated back in London become something of a uniform in Milan. If there’s one thing British Fashion Editors can’t resist when we hit theItalianFashionCapitol it’s steaming our outfits before shows.I never see that happen in London. Sure, we’ll maybe swipe a stray crumb off our blazers with the flat of our palm, but who has time to properly prepare their outfit for combat in London?
In Milan everyone’s steaming. Before shows, after shows, during shows if they have to. Send help.
As you can imagine, I spent Milan Fashion Week watching everyone like a hawk, analyzing their every fashion move and mentally preparing my own changes of outfit. I got talking with a group of British and Italian editors at a dinner during Milan Fashion Week a few years back, who were all wearing various tones of black. If London was vibrant color and three patterns had clashed delightfully, Milan was the exact opposite.
One of my Italian colleagues turned to me, shocked. “Why do you British always dress so boring in Milan?! In London you are so crazy!” She had a point. Before we could explain ourselves to her, Jane simply shrugged and muttered something along the lines of “we respect their fashion more,” before downing another Negroni.
Paris however? Paris is where we truly go to school. Dressing for Paris Fashion Week is a lesson in trying not to get kicked out of club that you’ll never be invited to anyways.
God. French Fashion Editors are impossible to dress for. We study them all year, dissecting their every fashion move and picking apart their outfits down to the studs on their loafers in hopes that maybe one day we’ll crack the code and fit in.
Sure, Italian Fashion Editors may roll their eyes when we turn up in head-to-toe noir, but at least we know French Fashion Editors will spend all day scrutinizing our outfits and making subtle (or not-so-subtle) comments about how “too English” everything we wear is. That beautifully busted black shirt you’ve been living in? Too English.
Those destroyed jeans? TOO ENGLISH. Why are your boots square-toed?!
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That’s so British. The British Fashion Editor in me dies just a little every.single.time we head to Paris. We analyze French women’s wardrobes for years, staring longingly at the flawlessly draped fabrics and effortlessly chic ensembles before finally working up the courage to hit the proverbial pavement.
Shoes become less flat, hair less tousled, makeup more minimalist. Where Milan sees British Fashion Editors suddenly become bastions of tailored perfection, Paris pushes that idea to its limit. Where do we draw the line between inspiring French chic and completely plagiarizing the French?
I’ll let you in on a little secret. We don’t. Welcome to London Fashion Week, New York.
New York sees British Fashion Editors reach into the depths of our closets and pull out things we haven’t worn since college because DAMMIT WE CAN WE LIVE IN NEW YORK. We all rock slightly-too-good-for-East-London blowouts. We wear trainers to shows.
Some of us wear them day and night. Speaking of which, I feel like footwear choices are drastically different between each city. London: Combat boots, biker boots, brogues, occasional Converse if you’re under 30.Traveling miles between shows by OVER-CROWDED public transport is about as dodgy as it gets.
Milan: Louiser bags, loafers, ankle boots, and cute-but-not-too-cute heels. We might all commute by car in Milan but we’ve still got some walking to do en route to shows. Paris: Beautiful but deeply uncomfortable shoes that definitely don’t look like they require miles of euroley bending around before sunrise each day.
New York:Pristine white trainers for day. Statement heels for night. We’ll see you at the blogger-pop-up afterparty?
You’d be forgiven for thinking there were British editors out there that don’t participate in what I like to call “international fashion-week shape shifting.” I can count them on two hands. There’s always going to be one or two senior figures that have been around long enough that everyone just lets them do their thing. Same for new editors, who likely haven’t learned the rules quite yet.
But for everyone in between? We change. We adapt.
We fake it till we make it. “How differently do you actually pack for each city?” I asked fashion editor extraordinaire, Mira, who’s been jetting all over the world for international fashion weeks for fifteen years. She burst out laughing. “Do I?” She paused. “Honestly Alex? It’s like fighting game.
You don dress Milanese editors a certain way to let them know you see what they’re about? You do the same in Paris, and you’re doing the same for New York.. It’s respect.
But it’s also so you don’t get mocked openly.” Mocked. By the French. There’s your answer right there.
Poor dressing invites scrutiny from foreign editors, and god do the French love to scrutinize your outfit choices. I remember once overhearing a French editor at a show glance over at her British counterpart, who was wearing an It-girl-approved bag and dress combo that was, at the time, trending all over Instagram. The French editor sniffed audibly and muttered one word to her colleague. “C’est trop.” Too much.
Game over, man. Game over. I was that British editor.
Still upset about it to this day. I should caveat this by saying American editors are just as guilty of transforming for each fashion week. They’re usually better at hiding it, though.
Sneaky Americans. British Fashion Editors don’t “go native” when we visit other countries’Fashion Weeks. We assimilate.
We adapt our style to something that we think those countries will accept and actually wear those outfits out in public. It’s like we’re in some horrid Renaissance fair where every country is a visitor at Shakespeare’s house, judging each other’s outfits whilst pretending not to. The French dress like the French no matter where you go.
So does Italy. Sure, they might tweak something here or there. But American fashion editors are the only ones who will travel miles from their own fashion week “uniform.” Which brings me to my theory as to why we British do it.
See, guys, here at The Backlist I have a lot of theories. About Brexit. About PR menykeys.
About things that take place deep in the Globe dry cleaning room that no one ever talks about. But this, this I think about more than anything. British fashion has always existed in this weird limbo between commercial and couture, high-end and highstreet.
We don’t have the financial backing of New York. We’ll never be able to touch French fashion when it comes to legacy and prestige.
We lost our fashion manufacturing ages ago.
So we observe. We learn. We dress the part.
We hit every runway show dressed as if we ourselves were on that very runway My editor-in-chief friend from above hummed a laugh when I told her this theory. “That’s adorable, Alex.” She said, waving a hand at her beignet. “But you know what’s really going on? Insecurity. We British just hate the idea of coming across as unstylish or under-prepared.
It’s deeply ingrained in our culture, that fear of needing to be better than everyone else.” “Oh?” I prompted, secretly delighted by how well she was articulating my thoughts. She nodded, taking a small sip of her now lukewarm coffee. “Everyone is scared of being the worst dressed at the party. We just happen to take it THAT much more seriously.” Okay, but what about your English-doesn’t-live-up-to-the-hype shirt? !” I joked.
She rolled her eyes. “Ah, that shirt. Don’t even get me started.” She grinned, slinging an arm around my shoulder. “Happy hunting, Milhouse.”
