It was August 2008 and had only been living in Milan for a month when Fashion Week hit town. I got a freelance journalist credentials and headed out to check out some shows with my brother and and his friend Cristian, they are both photographers. On Sunday, we tried to see Roberto Cavalli's show but we had no invitation and the security didn't let us in.
"How about the Giorgio Armani fashion show?", my brother's friend asked me.
By Lorenzo Bozzi, via Wikimedia Commons
This was one of the most important shows of the season and was happening in the brand building. I wasn't in the mood to beg for security let me in, but he insisted.
"I come with you and we see what happens."
We arrived at the door an hour and a half in advance. The street where the Armani building was located was banned by the police.
"I can say to the security guy that I've just arrived from Brazil and lost the invitation”, I suggested.
"No chance,” Cristian told me. "Let's just nonchalantly walk around the building and see what happens.”
As we approached the backstage we saw a group of 30 chatty girls. Three security guards were guarding the door and the Armani staff were organising the queue. Cristian pushed me and said:
"Go! Get in queue."
Without thinking, I walked behind the guards, manoeuvred myself around them and approached the girls, pretending to talk to them. The door opened and I followed the gaggle of women inside. Each step was an inch closer to the Giorgio Armani empire. The girls were holding a piece of paper with the name and photo of a model. I had nothing apart my poker face.
Inside the building, three employees distributed badges. I didn't know what to do so I started wandering, escaping them. I noticed that it was a fairly standard badge and they were not asking questions. I chose what seemed to be the most friendly staff member, but as I approached she fumbled and dropped all the badges on the floor.
I stood in front of her, thinking: fuc*. I tried not to look directly at anyone. Once she managed to collect up the scattered badges, she gave it to me and apologised for the delay. On the badge was written “Vestiarista” (Stylist, in Italian). My job was assisting the models in getting dresses.
The backstage area was overflowing with racks of clothes with photos of models adorning the walls. Every 5 minutes, the security walked among us, making sure that everything was running smoothly. I was afraid of being discovered as the main show was now only an hour away. I thought of hiding in the toilet, but suddenly I saw one of the stylists confused, trying to understand the vest-bikini she was due to wear. She did not understand the logic of creation. In seconds, I had a plan in mind. I looked at her, put my bag on the floor, marking my territory and started talking to her in my Italian-Spanish-Portuguese dialect.
"The top is inside out. This part is for the shoulder, this is the front side. Did you understand?" I said. She thanked me for helping her and asked me for the toilet.. I pointed into the distance randomly and she left.
Meanwhile, a staff member walked in my direction to explain the correct way to put shoes on the model. I kept my mouth shut and nodded dumbly. The other stylist came back from the toilet, and I could tell her suspicions we're now raised. She asked me what I was doing there and I lied.
"I'm here to assist the security staff. I need to make sure no one will picks up the clothes, shoes and accessories at the end of the show, but shhhhh... this is a secret."
She was petrified with my revelation and didn't ask any other questions. At that moment Giorgio Armani showed up. He walked quietly down the hall, wearing black trousers, black shirt and white shoes. The white hair and blue eyes where so bright. I was looking at him and thinking, I need to interview him.
After a while the models arrived. I pretended I was doing something, but in fact there was nothing for me to do. I looked at everybody but they were so into their jobs that I became invisible in the buzz. The first show was for the worldwide Giorgio Armani stores owners. Everything was good and the staff asked everyone to chill out. In half an hour preparations would begin for the main show. I saw a Brazilian model I knew and went to talk to her.
"Hi Flavia."
"What are you doing here?" She asked shocked to see me.
I explained everything: how I got there, how long I was 'hiding' and I wanted to take a picture of the Brazilian models with Giorgio Armani and sell it to a magazine in Brazil. The problem was that I didn’t have a camera. She called the other three models, one of them had a camera and they all decided to help me.
It was a very funny scene, me with 1.60m and four skinny, tall models hunting Giorgio Armani in the backstage.
Sammya, Fabiana Capra, Martha Streck, Flávia Lucini and myself
When I saw him, I walked towards him and asked in my dialect:
"Giorgio, posso take a photo of you with the models?"
He smiled and said:
"Certo che sì." (Of course you can)
Fabiana Capra, Giorgio Armani and Flávia Lucini
I couldn’t believe what I had just done. I had spoken to the Fashion Emperor and called him Giorgio, as if I was talking to my uncle. He sat by the table and the models were positioned beside him. One of them was far away and ran screaming towards us:
"Wait for meeee!"
Sammya, Fabiana Capra, Giorgio Armani, Flávia Lucini and Martha Streck
The photo was great and with nothing to lose, I asked him for another favour:
"Giorgio, poss take a photo with you?"
He smiled and hugged me.
I thanked in Italian. "Siete fantastici!" (You are fantastic!)
He smiled and left. Once the fashion show was over, I came back home with this story to tell, a picture to be sold and another moment in time immortalized.
