Beautiful People, Wrong Dictionary

German fashion blogging in 2010 was genuinely something. People like Jessie, Vanessa, and Lene—bloggers who had carved out real presences in the industry—were building careers out of it, getting into shows, getting noticed by labels, writing with actual authority about cuts and colorways and why a particular season mattered. Watching from the outside, I found it both admirable and slightly baffling. The conviction required to have a strong opinion about a hemline.

The thing is, I kept getting invited anyway. Labels and agencies found their way to this journal, and invitations arrived regularly—events, showings, industry gatherings, things I had no business attending. I went to all of them. Not because I understood what I was looking at, but because the people were beautiful and the parties were free and there’s a particular pleasure in being slightly out of place somewhere glamorous.

The problem came whenever someone cornered me and wanted to talk about fashion properly. About a collection, about the story behind a specific shade of burnt orange, about why a designer had pivoted away from structured shoulders this season. I’d reach for something vague and non-committal, burning with a very specific embarrassment. I could describe the room. I could describe the people in it. The clothes themselves remained a language I never quite learned.

There’s something freeing about admitting that, eventually. I was never a fashion writer. I was a person who liked being around beautiful things and interesting people, and fashion events reliably delivered both. That’s an honest enough reason to show up. It just doesn’t look great on a press credential.