An eclectic and completely unstylised scrapbook of Paris Fashion Week moments from March. A week spent walking miles in Jeffrey Campbell Litas, toasting Haussman with my camera at one corner and a rogue graffiti expressionist on the next, Magda Fracowiak-spotting and eating far too many carbs.
Paris: a city then so unfamiliar to me, and holding so many expectations built upon years of reading Hemingway and Simone de Beauvoir, and films and stories and photographs passed down by friends. One week been and gone, but I know I will be back there, flaneuring amongst the streets in the 6eme in no time at all. And this time, I will be back for good. Yes, after a successful rendezvous on Rue de Rivoli one hazy lunchtime over PFW, I walked out of an unassuming hotel front with a new spring in my step, having just learned that I'd be joining the ranks of a certain cutting-edge French fashion label for the next year, and consequently... MOVING TO PARIS. If there was ever a time to buy a custom-illustrated 2.55 bag from the Chanel x Collette store, it was then. Unfortunately, I didn't.