Danger money
I wonder how much the models at events such as the L'Oréal Melbourne Fashion Festival (LMFF) get paid, and whether, really, it's enough, given some of the things they have to put up with. I think it was Linda Evangelista who famously claimed she would not get out of bed for less than the sum of the Sultan of Brunei's trust fund, (she didn't actually say that, however thousands or millions were mentioned… you get the picture) but if you're a jobbing model, what price fame of the watered down LMFF variety? I ask because clearly modelling is not for the faint hearted.
Having sneaked into the LMFF Metalicus parade earlier this month, I was disturbed to see models hurling themselves to the ground with the frequency of ten-pin bowling skittles on a drunken Saturday night. A breed not noted for sturdy muscularity (and I'm not even going to start down that Body Mass Index road) I suppose it's natural that models have difficulty remaining upright in a stiff breeze. However wind speed was not the issue in this instance.
The problem seemed to be their footwear; those four inch platforms beloved by the fashion crowd for their vertically enhancing features. In this instance the black patent sado-masochistic-cum-orthopaedic clodhoppers were finished with heels possessing the weight-bearing properties of toothpicks, causing several collapses. The worst of these took place during the grand finale, which involved a string of models joined together by one fabulous garment made from signature stretchy Metalicus fabric in a hot red hue.
Having done their turn on the catwalk the decidedly sleek looking chain gang sauntered outside for a photo opp, then returned inside to witness one of its "links" take a tumble dangerously close to a passing tray of lattes. Scalding by coffee, a broken coccyx or fractured skull are surely not worth the sheer danger… although I have to say, those girls did look tall. Earlier on in proceedings, I had nearly run away screaming having flung open the door to the ladies toilets to be confronted by four or five brightly clad stick women about six foot seven inches in height.
Their "minder", who appeared to be a normal mortal like me, sensed my surprise and shooed them away. The whole thing was faintly surreal, as if I had accidentally stumbled up a secret tryst of the faerie folk; a transgression that would result in a thousand year curse being put on me; meaning I would have to sit at a spinning wheel weaving faerie garments until a prince came along to rescue me.
This happy ending is not unlike what happened to Metalicus itself, which was whisked up by its own knight in shining armour, the PAS Group in November last year. Judging by the gorgeous electric hues and cuts of Metalicus' current offering, the marriage is going well, which is more than can be said of the rapport between those poor models and their shoes.
By Kat Walker