Sophia Kokosalaki
9:00 pm I show up at Le Grand Hotel precisely when the Sophia Kokosalaki show is slated to begin, but they haven’t even opened the presentation room yet. I head to the lobby. On the couch next to me, there are three men taking a meeting. They are flipping through fashion magazines and pointing at flagged pages. One of them looks over at me a few times to see if I’m eavesdropping. I play with my cell phone and pretend not to be.
9:10 pm We, the “early” arrivers, are allowed in. Everyone looks very important and busy, scribbling notes and talking on cell phones. One editor is all alone in the front row. She is wearing a Chanel type jacket and her hair is sort of stiff and coiffed. I have no idea who she is. The photographer that is milling around keeps crouching and taking her picture. I periodically pretend to check messages on my cell phone.
I’m amped for the show. There has been a nice buzz around this young designer (she’s from London by way of Greece) for the past few years. She designed the costumes for the Olympics in Athens, which if I didn’t know better sounds like a job for someone whose clothing should appear in Broadway musicals, not the Harper’s Bazaar office on Broadway.
Yet, there is palpable buzz around Sophia. At my last job, the younger fashion editors were all quite keen to attend her show. Hype can be contagious, but my interest comes from more than that--she is on the brink. Will I later be saying, "I was there when..."?
9:15 pm The room is still empty. I get up to use the ladies', and run smack into Anna Wintour's wigged bobbed head and André Leon Talley's boobs. Okay, so his chest was covered by that massive scarf he’s always wearing, but my head only comes up to where his man boobies are, I am sure. The man is a giant.
9:25 pm I come back from the bathroom and the room is packed (It seems everyone’s drivers took the same route from the Rick Owens show). There are faces I recognize--this is more of an event than I thought.
They’ve cranked up the music. It’s the last show of the night and everyone’s very chatty and smiley. The lady in front of me says “You took my seat!” in a grating voice to the girl next to her, then a whole cluster of them start laughing. She was kidding. Fashion people kidding! It's a first!
9:30 pm Anna Nuclear Wintour has been waiting for a good 15 minutes now and why the hell hasn’t the show started?
The music is really thumping now. You know that tension just before a concert starts? This is what we’re feeling. A girl with a complicated black top that exposes her shoulders is shimming. I look around the room-- can you call it a room? It’s so grand. The curtains and chandeliers and mirrors. Let’s call it a salon. I’m row D out of four rows, and there is such a turnout that people are standing on speakers behind me.
9:35 pm Why hasn’t the show started yet?
9:40 pm Because Suzy Menkes, fashion reporter for the International Herald Tribune isn’t there yet, that’s why. She walks in a half crouch across the floor-level runway to get to her seat. She sits. FIVE. The house lights go down. FOUR. The runway lights swell. THREE. All heads swivel to the entryway. TWO. Out comes Carmen Kass. ONE.
The models are always given a “mood” for a show, and I’m personally thrilled whenever they aren’t walking like zombies. As I may have mentioned last night, Carmen shook it like a Polaroid picture. Which is always fun. After all, what good’s having a show pony if it doesn't pick up its heels a little?
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