FASHION Magazine

Everywhere I’ve been seeing this intense, starkly angular, raven-haired woman, and wondering, how do I know that face? What magazine does she edit, again? And it’s only on the last day of London Fashion Week that I realize: duh. Erin O’Connor.

Best thing about LFW: all the different venues. More shows are held outside the great white tents than in them. From the Saatchi Gallery to the Science Museum, a repurposed industrial warehouse to a shabby-genteel flat, every day is a whipstitch through London’s patchwork heart. Yesterday morning was a favourite: Erdem (Montreal-born, London-adored) showcased his FW ‘09 collection in the Embankment Galleries at Somerset House. Down by the Thames and across a cobblestoned courtyard, it couldn’t have been better on a postcard.

On Day 3 of LFW, Sunday brunch is a wistful memory. It’s a grey and early breakfast instead, then a black cab to Betty Jackson‘s 9:15 a.m.(!) show in the tents. Thankfully, it’s all very nice: buttercup and baby blue knits (love the cropped sweaters!) and wildflower or woodgrain-printed silks. The prim schoolgirl effect is achieved with knee-high nylons and fuzzy knit backpacks (better than they sound).

In John Rocha’s Dover Street shop the other day, I inquired about a couple of large wire-frame rabbits. “Oh, those were going to be hats,” a charming salesboy replied, “but it turned out to be too much, so we left them as sculptures.”

“Too much?” I said, disbelieving. “For the British?”

Here for a breathless ten minutes, haven’t even made it to the registration desk, and already two mussily cool girls with wicked shoes and SLRs have asked me to pose for their street style blogs. Ah, yes. Welcome to Fashion Week, the London way.

By Siofan Davies

New Yorkers were firmly in the grips of election fever when I visited over the weekend (indeed reminders to vote punctuated many a conversation, even between strangers), so it was fitting that fashion got a bit more democratic with the arrival of Chanel’s Mobile Art exhibition. If the current economic climate makes purchasing the classic, and now 50-year-old, quilted 2.55 bag the exhibit celebrates a little difficult, not to worry, Chanel has made entrance free and accessible to all.

By Malena Harbers

I write this from the back of the number 70 bus, my trusted shuttle service this week for the daily back-and-forth from my West End flat to London Fashion Week’s HQ in South Kensington. It’s the last day of shows today, three to go and counting!

Well my fashionable friends, I should’ve known this was going to be a crazy one, especially since the torrential downpour on Friday almost ruined my birthday plans. But, always the fun loving gal, I, along with my besties and my handsome BF, stuck it out and managed to have an amazing time. I think maybe I’ll be fully recovered by my next birthday.

Last year, there was the grand opening of the new Vancouver Holt Renfrew flagship—where, along with plenty of other fawning fans, I caught a glimpse of Marcia Cross, Zooey Deschanel and 90210’s Kathleen Robertson (who, 12 months ago, was already rocking a crown of braids).

See more photos from this event

By Susie Sheffman

Shown: Just Cavalli Fall 2008. Photography by Peter Stigter.

Can someone please tell me how it’s possible that I’ve been in Italy for a mere 12 hours and have already eaten pasta twice? Say ciao bella to my low-carb plan for the week! But on to why I’m really here–the clothes!

By Leah Rumack

Shown: Luella Bartley Fall 2008. Photography by Peter Stigter.

Luella Bartley Something wicked this way came at Luella’s witchy-inspired show, though thankfully the stated paganism was kept to a dull roar with a bit of coloured stitching at the top of puff-sleeved peasant blouses and high-heeled clogs, a few pointy hats and bright orange tights.

By Leah Rumack

Shown: Gareth Pugh Fall 2008. Photography by Peter Stigter.

Bora AksuLyrics for the opening track intoned:  “London hates you,” but Bora, pet, I really don’t think that’s true. The fashion pack seemed quite pleased, thank you very much, and no wonder.