Here’s the latest Diary of an Anonymous Fashion Assistant entry, where our contributor, who shall henceforth be known as Blair Mercer, dishes about the daily life of a fashion assistant at a major fashion mag at a major publishing house. She’s hauled sacks of Louboutins through the Sahara, been wrestled by Colonel Gaddafi’s guards at Read more →
Here’s the latest Diary of an Anonymous Fashion Assistant, where our contributor, who shall henceforth be known as Blair Mercer, dishes about the daily life of a fashion assistant at a major fashion mag at a major publishing house. She’s hauled sacks of Louboutins through the Sahara, been wrestled by Colonel Gaddafi’s guards at a Read more →
We’re in England this time, shooting a 14 page fashion story at an old country estate about three hours from London. I am to meet the driver and photographer’s assistants at 5 a.m. the morning of the shoot to load the 12 trunks, racks, steamer and all the lighting equipment into the back of the trailer. I’m safely asleep in my hotel room the night before when my phone rings. It’s the driver. He’s only just looked at the call sheet I sent him three days previously, and he’s refusing to drive us such a long way. I open a bleary eye. It’s 2 a.m. and I’m being blackmailed. Unless I give him $350 more he’s not going to turn up for the job in three hours time. After what feels like years of arguing I give in, if only to get some much needed rest.
Wait nervously the next morning for my blackmailer to turn up. He opens the back of the van to reveal 200 folding chairs in the space where our equipment is supposed to go. He refuses to take them out, saying I never told him we would need his van to be empty. Big screaming fight ensues as I try to point out the rational sense of hiring a van generally means that you have something to transport. I give in and call Fashion Director after he has dramatically declared that I have ruined his life. My sarcastic observation that this is quite a feat since we’ve known each other less than a day does not go over well. After more than a few choice words from FD he unpacks all the chairs one by one, we load the equipment, and, more than an hour late we set off on one of the more tense journeys of my life.
Introducing a new column, Diary of an Anonymous Fashion Assistant, where our contributor, who shall henceforth be known as Blair Mercer, dishes about the daily life of a fashion assistant at a major fashion mag at a major publishing house. She’s hauled sacks of Louboutins through the Sahara, been wrestled by Colonel Gaddafi’s guards at a five star hotel in Paris and was physically scarred by an A-list celeb. She’ll tell you all about it.
We’re off to Monaco, and as usual, running late for our flight. Fashion Director sent me at the last minute to buy drinks and lunch for the crew to take on board in a bid to avoid unhealthy plane food. I should also mention that every time we travel, no matter how long we’re away for, I pack all my own clothes in a carry-on to save our baggage allowance for the shoot samples. Photographer, his assistant, Fashion Director and I are now the last people to board the plane. With lunch for four people in my left hand and an overstuffed and extremely heavy carry-on in my right hand, I shuffle down the plane behind them, avoiding the angry gazes of the other passengers. I attempt to hoist my bag with one hand into the overhead locker but my arm buckles under the weight. Horrified, I see it in slow motion land with a massive thunk onto the back of Fashion Director’s neck, nearly knocking her out.
Introducing a new column, Diary of an Anonymous Fashion Assistant, where our contributor, who shall henceforth be known as Blair Mercer, dishes about the daily life of a fashion assistant at a major fashion mag at a major publishing house. She’s hauled sacks of Louboutins through the Sahara, been wrestled by Colonel Gaddafi’s guards at a five star hotel in Paris and was physically scarred by an A-list celeb. She’ll tell you all about it.
It’s a year later, and I’m off to Paris once more….This time with a freelance stylist I’ve never met before, to shoot a well-known European socialite (ES). Turns out said stylist is EXTREMELY chatty, to the point where I am monologued all the way across the Atlantic and several people on our flight complain to the attendants about how loudly she’s talking.
We arrive at our hotel at midnight, and all I can think about is collapsing into bed before our 6am start the next day. No such luck. Stylist strolls in and instructs me to unpack all the suitcases, steam the clothes and lay out all the jewelry while she takes a shower. Oh, and we’re sharing a room. With two twin beds pushed together. So it’s about to get real cozy. Little did I know it would be a lot more than that…. She exits the bathroom, drops her towel, and proceeds to try on all of the samples as a method of styling them into looks. I, more than half asleep, am forced to ‘oooh’ and ‘ahhh’ over each outfit and tell her how wonderful she looks until 2am–me in my pajamas (an unwise choice of sheep print boxers and a high school tshirt) and her in nothing but a thong and a Balmain jacket.
Introducing a new column, Diary of an Anonymous Fashion Assistant, where our contributor, who shall henceforth be known as Blair Mercer, dishes about the daily life of a fashion assistant at a major fashion mag at a major publishing house. She’s hauled sacks of Louboutins through the Sahara, been wrestled by Colonel Gaddafi’s guards at a five star hotel in Paris and was physically scarred by an A-list celeb. She’ll tell you all about it.
I’ve interned at Major Magazine for seven months, and Fashion Director has chosen to take me with her to Paris for a shoot, leaving understandably disgruntled Fashion Assistant in London. It’s all very awkward and Devil Wears Prada, especially as her contract is coming to an end and I have been offered the job. Oh, and did I mention we’re friends? Anyway, Fashion Director will already be in Paris for the Couture shows, and I’m to meet her out there for a huge story featuring Celebrity’s Model Daughter (CMD).
