After a three year hiatus, last week, I returned to London Fashion Week. A time-period where I had other projects, priorities and demons with which to contend. Last month, I no longer could avoid the decision: I needed to return.
City wide, is how LFW was advertised on the billboards. Really, what this meant was limited access, with show times and details released drip form to break up the chaos and sabotage of the old order.
The hub at 180 Strand was a hive of activity. Packs of photographers would roam outside, from the cool guys packing serious equipment to the creepy old men wearing over-the-shoulder satchels sneaking towards posed models with their grins and point and shoots. There would be protests. PETA pelting everyone with incessant noise of tortured animals; models doused in blood; civilians stood gaping at the (ridiculous) spectacle of it all.
On Friday morning, Day One of the season, I had to start there, to see for myself the embers of this dismantled community. A morning's pilgrimage to a disappeared world where I found communion and purpose. I was mourning my past. Unsettled, I found a quiet spot and began trawling through Instagram stories to catch the crowds ahead. I soon discovering a show starting late afternoon at the old Selfridge's Hotel, Mayfair.
I took a casual bus ride, keen not to go frantic immediately. Besides, my intentions were to shoot as a street photographer, casually capturing the beautiful people in candid pose, with an occasional model portrait, so, I rocked up with my GRiii ready to enjoy my return.
At Mayfair, I arrived to scenes of outfit changes in quiet doorways and groups of models looking to enter the building. Yet an hour later, the initial joy had dried up, and with barely an interesting shot, the creeping thought of being left behind, being out of the loop started to surface.
I resolved to shoot street, walking towards Soho, yet that too felt off pace. I caught everything a second late, the moment vanished, my camera settings ill adjusted to the bright sun. I felt ready to leave, to accept this was no longer for me.
Yes, I felt like being sorry for myself and running away.
I held on, waiting to see my dear friend Ramario, the first model I ever shot at fashion week, and within minutes of meeting up, I found myself inside again.
I returned home to edit the days work, and the next morning, headed to Day Two with my full frame dSLR. Somehow, shooting with a tiny mirrorless wasn't cutting the job. Yes, I was fully sucked in and back after a three year - pandemic induced - hiatus.
‘Be patient, be kind, and the universe will listen’; a phrase that Ramario yells at me like a peaceful mantra.
He is of course right, within hours of accepting the need for patience, I found myself back inside, rubbing shoulders with an old friend who - in those three years - merely changed outfits.