When I did my undergrad in journalism I always thought I would write about fashion.
So I wrote so much about it, researched, and interviewed emerging designers. I chose fashion journalism as an elective and bought Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, I-D and Elle and many other fashion magazines I don’t remember the names of.
I even went to London Fashion Week and I was sad when Alexander McQueen took his life. I was sitting on my single bed in my room in the resident halls on Bastwick Street and cried. He was one of my favourite fashion designers and the clothes he created was so incredibly creative and well tailored.
Then after I graduated I got into travel writing I took a different path. Although my passion for fashion and appreciation for well made pieces never ceased. Until this day I still sniff down local/national designers and shops in all places I visit and I still get so excited when I find clothes that I know will last me a long time, that is an expression of a culture and country, and that is well tailored. I walk around shops and markets and feel the fabric, inspect the seems and look at the cut of the garment. Mexico was a dream in this sense. The colourful broidery and the natural fabrics.
And now I am sitting here trying to find my decade old articles on fashion, remembering a time in my life I almost forgot about.
Oh yeah, writing does take us down funny paths, and we don’t necessarily end up where we want to go, but things still work out in the end, doesn’t it? It’s weird like that. Thanks for this post!