Fashion Week Berlin
If you’re somewhere normal right now instead of at Berlin Fashion Week, you actually won. I know this because I’ve spent the last five years being dragged to enough of these events to understand what’s really going on.
The truth nobody admits: nobody actually wants to be there. The designers are frustrated because the front rows are full of TV extras instead of real buyers. Those extras are frustrated because nobody’s photographing them. The models are frustrated because they can’t throw themselves naked onto the catering table. The agency staff are exhausted from overtime. The event managers are furious because every asshole with a press pass thinks he’s suddenly some legendary fashion authority.
The vendors are dead inside from standing and smiling. The journalists are annoyed because all they’re getting are interviews with fashion bloggers. The bloggers themselves are annoyed because it’s snowing. And I’m annoyed because I can’t be home in my underwear eating croquettes and broccoli in cream sauce while watching Adventure Time and Regular Show.
The pattern is straightforward: the less important you actually are, the more you perform importance, the better time you’ll have. Get one invitation to some forgettable runway show—doesn’t matter if you’re a tiny blogger—and something breaks. Suddenly you’re walking around in sunglasses and whatever you grabbed at H&M, completely convinced you’re Anna Wintour’s personal representative.
Then all those Facebook group tips come back to you. The ones about camping outside the white tent so maybe a street-style photographer notices you. The ones about stacking every goodie bag so you don’t miss a single deodorant sample. The ones about writing down every moment because your 52 followers are supposedly waiting on you for exclusive information.
From far enough away, Fashion Week is just an inflated machine spinning twice a year—a reason to justify the industry’s existence. If magazines and blogs didn’t write about these designers, nobody would care about them. Without readers, companies wouldn’t invest. Without investment, the publications would collapse. So everyone holds hands around the circle and keeps dancing.
Maybe you don’t get to choose whether you participate. But if nobody in Berlin’s fashion world cares about what you actually do, be grateful for it. The alternative is shuffling between freezing industrial courtyards in the snow, nursing cheap champagne at promotion parties, smiling at people you don’t want to smile at. You get to stay home in your underwear with your croquettes and broccoli, watching what you actually want. Everyone at Fashion Week right now would trade places with you. Guaranteed.