Backstage at Buenos Aires Fashion Week

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What in the world am I going to wear? is the first question that comes to mind when my photographer friend Sergio offers me a free press pass to a Buenos Aires Fashion Week (BAF) show. Buenos Aires, the style-conscious capital of Latin America, is home to hoards of women who boast very slim waistlines and impeccable taste. I showed up in Argentina with little more than a backpack and some hiking boots, and now I will be joining the city’s elegant elite for a night of glamour and cutting-edge chic. My best bet is to throw together a subdued black top and tight jeans and hope no one looks too close.

            I arrive at La Rural, the venue for the BAF catwalk, around dusk. Only a month before I had been to La Rural for a Livestock show. While staring down prized bulls and proud turquoise roosters is not all that different from watching models being groomed and then strutting obediently down a catwalk, the fashion show certainly smells better. A large exposition of clothing by different designers greets me as I enter the large building and towards the show. Groups of teens shuffle around excitedly from booth to booth, pointing at sequined tops or designer stilettos and clutching bags of free magazines. I find Sergio at the Elle booth and proudly don my press pass. We make our rounds at the exposition, stopping in the press lounge for coffee, and finally head backstage where models sit like bored statues while undergoing a variety of beauty treatments.

            I admit I have never been backstage at a fashion show, and it is much as I had imagined: photographers and reporters crowd around lanky models who look coolly past them, frantic backstage managers with clipboards herd people in the right direction, seamstresses make last-minute repairs, and cases of diet soda and low-fat yogurt sit mostly untouched in the corner. Sergio and I poke around various clothing racks and land in the Levi’s tent where Sergio strikes up a conversation with an acquaintance. Meanwhile, I am left to study the latest Levi’s line which consists of bold striped tops, cowboy inspired tailoring, hats splattered with paint ála Jackson Pollack, black cowboy boots with acid-yellow blocks of color, and overalls with chains attached. And somehow despite all of the honky-tonk, all of the clothes maintain a level of sexiness that only truly successful designers can achieve.

            The models, while beautiful in an otherworldly kind of way, seem absolutely miserable. When they’re not getting their hair wrenched and twisted into every angle, their bodies waxed and painted, and their photo taken every two minutes, they stand for hours on end atop insanely high heels just waiting. Being a model must be attune to perpetually being in line at the airport. Sometimes they seem to joke a little with each other, but mostly they gaze wistfully up at the ceiling or into the mirror until someone comes along to wrench their hair into place or attack them with more hairspray. I am not jealous of their situation backstage, as tempting as the chance to strut in a gorgeous Laurencio Adot cocktail dress may be.

            One of the shows is about to begin, and I slip through a red curtain to take a seat in the bleachers surrounding the catwalk. Of the three I saw, Laurencio Adot´s line is my favorite. His neon melon and violet-colored cocktail dresses boast clusters of roses and controlled ruffles for a flamenco-in-the-Caribbean effect, and the long backless black and white dresses fall in all the right places. The show is quick, lasting only around fifteen minutes, and I return to my backstage post as soon as it concludes.

            Sergio and I take a seat in the backstage lounge. “I am so glad I don’t have to work tomorrow,” sighs Sergio. “It’s been a rough week.” Another one of his friends, a backstage manager, joins us on the sterile white leather couch. The two discuss the state of this year’s fashion week: the largest scandal occurred on Thursday when Mariano Toledo, a very well-known designer, snubbed the show by pulling his line. “The show has become so much more commercial, common,” states Sergio´s friend Denise. “It is less about the artistry of independent designers and more about commercial lines.”

            Both Sergio and Denise seem a little under whelmed by this year’s fashion week, and indeed, as I prepare to leave, Sergio turns to me and says: “This work is making me feel empty.” “How so?” I ask, though I secretly hold similar notions of my own after watching only a couple of hours. “I think I need a different photo project, one where my photos communicate a real message.” Sergio pauses, lost in thought. It’s a Friday night and I’m helping a successful Argentine photographer through a midlife crisis. Who would have thought?

“Well, what else are you interested in?” I urge Sergio to think of everything that he feels passionate about, or that makes him angry or frustrated. My mind turns to poverty, classicism, environmental crises, warped foreign policies. But Sergio jumps up suddenly. It’s time to start shooting the models again, who are now dressed in the spunky and bold Levi´s line. My thoughts of world peace vanish, and my mind goes blank as white lights flash, music blares, and clothing takes center stage.