Rosy Smith: rosygoestofashionschool

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The shrill ringing of the alarm clock at an unholy hour wasn't exactly the most charming start of the day, but I got up eventually and tried to ignore the fact that it was still dark outside (isn't that the worst about early mornings?) and I definitely shouldn't be up already.

Those were the first lines I wrote about my first day at fashion school many, many moons ago (okay so three years and three months, if you gotta know the cold numbers). Those are also very versatile phrases describing pretty much every other morning of my time as a student there. Yesterday night, I met up with my classmates and my journalism professor to eat Christmass-y food and drink wine (not me though, living the car commute life) and to celebrate the fact that we made it - seven semesters of early mornings, close-cut deadlines, hidden online shopping, creative differences and most importantly, so much progress. I am the definition of mixed feelings at the moment. I mean, I've anticipated this for so long - I struggled with doubts for about a year and a half that included lots of crying and craving soup, then stopped crying so much and ate a stupid amount of avocado - went to Hamburg, which was lovely in most ways, and after that it was what felt like two weeks of school, late night texting and boom I can delete InDesign. And oh my goodness, that's awesome. But there's also something mellow (and believe me, no one is more surprised than me), and I think that has mostly to do with a) having been in a comfort zone of moodily stomping the lofty hallways and talking back at the professors for so long and b) being very used to seeing that crazy chaotic bunch of people every single morning. See, we might not always get each others' vision, but at the end of the day, everyone appreciated the others' work and despite all the crisis talks and group therapy (you know), I get teary eyed hugging everyone goodbye. And now.

Enough with the emotionalness and onto my favorite topic to moan about - yes, of course, the ride back home! Hello darkness, my old friend, ain't it so. After a series of unfortunate delays that left some of us stranded at various stations, some en route to their beds after three hours and me kicking my heels on a lonely platform at one am, estimating the cost of a cab all the way out of the city and staring at the other side of the tracks, where two mice hid behind trash bags. Suddenly, they started running at each other until they met at their tiny mice noses and one of them flew straight up into the air, came back down and started chasing the other around the trash. I think my jaw hung open. I was close to throwing dollar bills and making a bet with the guy waiting next to me (we were having a bit of small talk since we were both hella annoyed with the delay of the last train, but small talk with guys I don't find attractive always makes me uncomfortable because I am astonishingly shallow). Right before my phone died, I saw the reassuring headlights coming at me in slow motion, which explained the delay but also seemed like pure cruel mockery at this point, and at around quarter past two (and after coughing my lungs out in the car because I ran to the car park like a haunted animal 'cause every bad crime series I've ever seen jumped into my head at once) I finally fell into bed. Only to set a painfully early alarm for a dentist visit at eight.

You know what, I'll think I'll take a nap.

Love,

Rosy Smith

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....or not, we don't know yet. See, at that party there was a sweet girl in attendance whom I've met before among that same crowd and she sat next to me during the poker game; on my other side was someone I once named as "cute guy" even though since then, he has turned out to be more of a "cowardly guy with astonishing self-confidence" but that would be too long to use now. Anyways, my bestest friend sat across from me and sometimes we broke into insider conversations about things like our lit class teacher from high school and the other two couldn't quite catch up with that so they would start to talk to each other instead, asking the polite, interested questions people ask when they first meet strangers, and he somehow managed to mention the time "when I lived in Paris" and that seems to really get the girls. Or maybe the astonishing self-confidence is intruiging at first. But I shouldn't be so judging, since he's one of the best friends of my certain someone and I should be "noble". So I'll grant the fact that to someone who doesn't know him, he could seem witty and smart, I guess. Because even though those conversations across the poker chips were the only close contact I witnessed between them that night, and even though he was making out with other people's girlfriends later on (after the sweet girl already left, bless her), they are on for a date today. What a turn of events.

I'm on the home stretch for this semester! The day after the day after tomorrow, I'll hold my presentation. I absolutely dispise the kind of presentations we have to hold at my school. It's never "look at this power point slide. That's how I did it" but always "spot on me, look at my contemporary dance moves, do you get what I'm trying to tell you? You better, 'cause I'm not gonna just say it even though it would be sparing both of us a lot of precious lifetime". It's ridiculous how the word "creativity" is being misused to justify the unnecessary trouble they send us through all of the time.

To celebrate, I'm hitting the city with the abovementioned friend on saturday and I'll buy everything that brings me joy. I forbade myself to do so the last time I was wandering by all the beautiful sale signs, because I didn't want to reward myself before having finished that stupid presentation. Aren't I disciplined? It's a new feeling, and it's not a fun one.

Can't wait 'til friday.

Love,

Rosy Smith

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I'm getting the feeling that my classmates have a tendency to attract full-on stalkers. First the "complete romance package" - guy, now some Insta-messenger from Miami who really has a screw loose (that's a new saying I found. Look it up). People are leaving marketing class to call the police and I'm just trying to mind my rep exam over here.

Now another prof is comparing the self-evaluation forms we had to do a while ago to Stasi methods. That's a bit harsh. "But I don't want to talk about it anymore", he trompetes and goes on about it for another twenty minutes. "On my island, there's fun" (referring to some team building concept he's in love with). Well on my island, no one is talking about team building.

I'm a bit confused about my plans for New Year's Eve. See, my certain someone had implied that his plans involve me being there, too, and then suddenly leaned toward spending the day in Paris with his family, making me get irritated (as you might remember from Day 13) because what I took from it was that I didn't have any plans anymore. And as you know, having absolutely no plans on New Year's Eve is the party equivalent to having a life crisis. Now you're asking yourself, how dare he bring me into this disastrous situation, but I think the male mind just doesn't always draw all the wide-spread conclusions there are to draw from his decisions. So I decided to matter-of-factly bring to his attention that I was displeased by that circumstance and phrasing that message took me half a day and a night and I ended up cutting it down to three sentences that didn't transport any information at all apart from "I was *sniff* really looking forward *sniff* to spending the day with you". It's terrible - don't ever send anything after eight hours of loathing. It's all good now, he asked me to either go to Paris with him or stick to our originals plans (my loveliest friend says I should force him to make us go to France because it would be a pretty darn chic place to be), and I said that both would be fine with me (with the slightly stalkerish undertone of Every Step You Take).

Problem is, he hasn't exactly told me what country it officially is now. Either the undertone wasn't so slight after all or he hasn't decided yet or something happened to his phone during the 16 minutes it took me to reply. I'll keep you updated. As long as I know when to pack, I'm fine.

God, I hate the whole texting business. I would misread my own messages if I got them.

Oh by the way, I ordered this luscious dress in deep red velvet and I can't wait till it arrives - there's a chance I'll be chanting "Santy Baby" in the dining room on Christmas Eve in it, it just asks for a stage.

Love,

Rosy Smith

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When a soldier deliberately tries to harm another soldier who's on his side, that's called fragging. At first I thought that it's friendly fire, but that happens by accident. In fashion, it's not an accident.

Small things, like a girl not wanting to share her oh so precious talent of photoshopping to the point where she refuses to give us our own group work because we could profit from it. Seriously. Like I had an exhibition at the Met planned to showcase the excellent airbrushing of our model's skin. I'm sure that I would also get an internship at Vogue, just by handing in those pictures and stressing out the modified light intensity. So sorry to disappoint her, but I really just want to have them because they're mine and I especially want them now that she's making such a row of it. Heavens.

Big things, like the abuse of models in the industry that James Scully pointed out in his VOICES speech on Business Of Fashion (go watch it, he's so great and sincere and you'll cry).

But onto more positive issues! I think I just stole someone a seat on the train, sorta ducking underneath him and throwing myself onto it. I heard him sniff in a annoyed way, that's how I realized he wanted to sit there, but I'm not about to give it up just because he may have seen it first. As every commuter knows, it's a case of do or die. If you show weakness, you grab onto the nearest seat and get strong calves because honey, you're standing up another ten miles. Learn to live with it, like I did.

Do you know the law of attraction? A friend of mine recommends it. I'm too impatient to follow anything to do with waiting for things but she seems really happy with it. It's the thing with the cosmic ordering. I like the restaurant allusion. Oh, I'm tired and thinking about food even though I already ate. Anyways, it also reminded me a bit of the whole waiting for love phenomenom: That's the one thing you really can't force and something that drives me absolutely crazy, so if you're like me in that respect, try to place an order to the universe. Can't do no harm, can it?

Love,

Rosy Smith

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Let's go back in time to November 30th, when I planned on writing this but forgot I had to be somewhere at eight and was way too tired afterwards (I need to go to bed at eleven the latest. I'm that old)....

Today's motto is "move b*tch" by Ludacris. It comes very handy while shuffling out of the train behind the slowest people ever (MOVE) when I'm already half an hour late to a fashion shoot (A group work, so the fear of being strangled with nude underwear is there). Or at the bus stop, where I'm contemplating to buy hand sanitizer for the visagist, who forgot hers. However, if I leave my frozen place now, it would be just my luck today to catch the next bus in an hour, so I stay. Praying for the bus to be early for once in its lifetime. I can't believe I'm this late when I didn't try to be for a change. I'm not sure what I'm even gonna be doing at the shoot, but being there would be a good start, I figure.

I was perfectly on time yesterday, when we launched our student magazine (Hell, it's called. Goes well for describing the process of making it, too). But the technic guy messed up, shining a red spot when no one was supposed to go onstage all the time and not getting our slashing neck motions. He especially didn't get it when my audio was playing, stopping it halfway through and shining the darn spot for so long that I finally went onstage, did my thing and left to stand in the curtains, loathingly glaring at him for the rest of the performance. My dad mumbled something about high school lit class presentation. Poor thing seems to realize just now that this whole school is one big high school lit class. We all wore artistic black, me in a sheer blouse and ballet flats, shivering all the way through but from the cold, not fear. Still, authenticly enough.

We did it. We shot the shoot. I hope I didn't mess up the poor model's earlobes when I fumbled with her earrings. She didn't scream in pain, but then again, she might have been too polite to do so. She was only fifteen and way more gorgeous than most fifteen year olds are. When I was fifteen, I had my first mixed party and decided that I would never invite some particular guests ever again because I realized I didn't even like them. This girl, she's shooting in underwear with a twenty-something guy with a great body all professionally. Oh well. It was good fun, sprinting into the lights in between shots, looking important while fumbling on the clothes, or the hair that fell out of place every five seconds, or screaming "clips! We need more clips", or standing behind the camera staring at the model the way I wanted her to stare at the camera, "Imagine you're in the arctis! You're so excited! But, like, only with the eyes!". I wouldn't want to have to do it as a job, because I'm too prissy to steam clothes and stuff, but assisting and confidently yelling "That's it! That's what I want!", that I can do.

Love,

Rosy Smith

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....I got so soaking wet, I could easily pretend to have fallen into the Hudson. My hair is at its absolute worst - there're like seven streaks of rain-curled frizz on my head right now. See, we were forced to walk practically a hundred blocks in a constant drizzle to examine current fashion (meaning we touched stuff and mumbled "Oh, velvet" in the tone of a tv cook critically tasting someone's apple pie) and I had not considered that when I chose my teddy coat (that's not supposed to get wet), my boots (that are not supposed to be worn for hours of walking) and my bag (that's giving me a reason to go to the orthopedic) this morning. After reluctantly shuffling through Barney's with our over-excited teacher, a lady in running shoes bearing a linnen bag who has no fear of sales people asking if we need help (eg "buy something or I'll throw your lot out"), total doom followed.

"Let's go to Chanel", she chirped, and we all stood there on Madison Avenue like abandonded dogs, muffled into our coats, faces frozen in a frightened mask. She was serious. We trot in behind her, and I become urgently aware of my chapped boots, my non-existing makeup and the subsequent resemblance of a traumatized twelve-year old I am and my hunchbag walk due to my bag that's feeling more and more like a sack with cobbles every minute. Still, I try to remain dignified and haughtily let my gaze wander over the sparkling items, as if I was actually contemplating what I think is desirable. Same game at Gucci. Even though the carpet there is an actual dream - I wanted to lie down and sink into it so badly but that kind of behaviour, may be acceptable in an overcrowded Forever 21, not here, obviously. However, my teacher hasn't gotten the memo (I always thought that it was sent to everyone as soon as they touched an issue of Vogue. My bad) and tucks on everything and stretches the fine Italian fabric to the core - does she mistrust the legacy of good ol' Guccio? How dare she? We blinked hectically, morsing "We don't know her" to the security people hovering behind us (Gosh, they never trust anyone, but this time I kind of understood).

For the grande finale, we all tumbled into the sterile white glass castle of Dior. This time, our baggage didn't even make it to the stairs, because a young woman clutching a walkie-talkie threw herself in front of us, called something French to another employee (probably "I got them! womenswear is secure, repeat, womenswear is secure") and very kindly informed us that we weren't supposed to disturb the customers 'cause shopping is such an intimate experience and would we like to see the men's collection (where no one would be offended by the pitiable sight we are) instead?

You know, it is a bit demeaning that no one considered us customers. That's mostly our teacher's fault, who always darted into the store yelling "Hello, we're students from fashion school and just want to look around". If that hadn't been the situation and if I had only washed my hair and put on shiny shoes, I would've gladly wandered through all the shops I plan on raiding as soon as I have an adult job/marry rich (Joking. Mostly.).

The only great thing about my rank look has been that come that day, no one there will recognize me.

Love.

Rosy Smith

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....This is the life: My train is actually on time and I won't die of hypothermia (there is always a draft on the platform, even at 90 degrees. I'd like to request a scientific investigation for that phenomenon) today for a change. And I have some take-out in my bag which will make for my dinner if it doesn't spill all over my stuff, that is. All I have to manage now is getting through the door without being crushed by other aggressive commuters. Goodness, back off - great, now my bag is stuck between the door and who-knows-whom and they're not gonna stop for me. I fear for my life and shrimps, so I tuck and pull and when I finally get free, I brush over a dog that's trying to enter and he stumbles over the gap but makes it into the wagon safely. Thank God I didn't kill a dog. I turn to find a seat, when the dog owning lady screams at me "Hey you! Cant'cha pay attention?" and I shiver with fear and apologize faintly, to which she just blows some steam from her nostrils and takes off. The humiliation. Who doesn't love to be accused of being cruel to poor little furballs in front of a diverse crowd of traingoers? Not me.

Previously on fashion school floors: We're all mad here, lovelies. I don't want to exclude my snotty self, but some more than others. I'm not dropping names, of course, but you can imagine, the usual stereotypes. The hysteric prof who reacts to desperate we-need-help-messages with "I'm out!" (note the exclamation mark, because subtle clearly isn't our style) and just ghosts you like you've been on two bad dates together. Which is out of the realm of possibilities on so many levels. The student who stresses everyone out in a passive-aggressive manner and then just kinda....leaves when everybody else has a different opinion. Like, poof, deal with it. Oh, I'll be just fine.

In other news: Everything's better in person, The Accountant wasn't half-bad even though Christmas with the Coopers is still winning this time of the year (It was as awesome as last December (remember this?) when me and my loveliest friend rewatched it this weekend), and I love being brought home in a car (I'm a living, walking 50s movie cliché) and it's my birthday in 9 days - only a photoshoot and a magazine launch away.

Get excited.

Love,

Rosy Smith

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So, guess who's been sitting at the train station at 6 am, frantically buying chewing gum and applying her lipstick because her train was 15 minutes late? Yeah, that would've been me.

It wasn't until I stood in the rain for about ten minutes, the cold creeping up my thighs and the wetness ruining my hair, that I really felt uncomfortable, though. Yesterday, I was getting way too hot in a pair of wool thighs, so I opted for some sheer nylons today, only to freeze myself even more tired than I already was. And don't you tell me that's not possible.

Another pet peeve of mine that I noticed today is teachers touching my laptop. One of them had been eating some sort of croissant right before grabbing my mouse and clicking around in my personal files and I just sat there in that sort of disgusted freeze, thinking "Go away, go away, go AWAY" like a crazy person. Is that just me? I wanted to whip out the sanitizer but I deemed that to be impolite, which I was on the verge of being, but I've got some decency.

We went to a fashion exhibition and I do love fashion (which is always useful when studying fashion journalism, let me tell ya) so I liked it - sadly we couldn't take pictures but there was a classic Givenchy number that had bows on the back, a velvet (my favorite fabric this month) top and a long gowny skirt which I adored, as well as a recent Gucci one with a lovely fluttery skirt, but my teacher had to point out the poor fabrication, to which I can only say, I guess a good ironing would do for me to get that dress.
After that fun episode, the decision to wear nylons again took its tribute and now I'm safely home indulging in Downton Abbey to mentally prepare for the weekend.

Note to self: Must not forget to go to my own birthday party tomorrow. I'm a little confused these days.

Oh, do you know that feeling when you develop a brand new imaginary scenario and it's just so satisfying to really shape that one in your mind, to choose the characters clothes (mainly my own) and hairdos (solely my own) and the weather and the restaurant they visit and the witty yet meaningful dialogues they have? It's a fabulous pasttime. You should try it.

Love,

Rosy Smith

PS: Guess what happened today; An article of mine called "5 unreasonable reasons to not date somebody" got published here: http://www.onlydates.co.uk/5-unreasonable-reasons-date-somebody/
and I like to click on it just to see what it looks like to others. You can do that, too, if you like. x

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....so as you know I call myself a writer, hence, it's probably no surprise to you that I am very happy if I get the chance to write in peace. This summer, the pages of my diary have been full, simply because I had more time to actually sit down and describe in detail what happened to me or how I felt or to jot down these random thoughts that hit me in the weirdest places where I don't have a notebook (working on that). It's not that nothing happens at all other times, it's just that I can't get my behind up to stay up late in order to capture my adventures for the rest of the world to enjoy. And I'm not only talking diaries, I'm talking poetry, lyrics, columns....Sadly, I can't put them on screen through telepathy, 'cause that would really help me.

Anyhow, today I had journalism class and I think I've asked some annoying questions. You've never seen me in class- I can get pretty active. Today, I felt the old spirit of raising my hand and being determined to get called because I wanted to tell everyone about my opinion, if they liked it or not. Which was, in short, that I thought research protocols are stupid (you might have seen me being nasty about that on twitter) and I don't see why they're neccessary. If I want to write a report, I know exactly how I want it to be and which opinions I'm gonna state, and I need my sources according to that, not some useless protocol with a pool of information I don't care to use. I'm not sure my teacher fully understood what my problem was, because if he did gather that said problem consisted in that I don't want to do my semester paper, at least not according to his task, he'd probably would've resignated from teaching me. To be just a tad more exhausting, I questioned the fact that there are always two sides to a story, no matter how illegal the topic of said story might be, which seems to be some sort of golden rule of journalism - you know, never be biased and all that. My teacher said that even if there was a murder, a valid explanation for his behaviour has to be featured in order to consider all aspects. I could barely hold myself back from saying that I don't freaking want to consider all aspects 'cause I really don't care how a murderer justifys stabbing someone, but I managed to just sorta mumble it. Because I have a feeling a journalist is supposed to care for those kind of things. Too bad.

Now I'm at home and I've written a little something in my diary and for this blog and even for one of my school projects, and I've felt perfectly content doing so. If this college thing only consisted of me writing lovely things, I would be so up for it (though I'm not sure just how much the train situation is affecting my opinion on this). Research protocols, I'll note here, are not lovely things. But I'd take one of those over burning textiles and guessing their consistency by their smell anytime.

Where are all these creative writing courses they take in the movies?

Love,

Rosy Smith

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....so I guess since I'm a fashion student (even though we journalists aren't expected to dress in crazy striped socks and platform everything, having to appear serious over the whole scene) I might as well mention the whole Balmain x H&M thing and pretend I've got something insider-y to say about it. Ready, lovelies?

I actually didn't know about Balmain (Shame? Or not? You tell me) until not-so-long-ago, so I wasn't immediately excited about this collab - I've never really been about any of the H&M collabs, though, because honestly, it doesn't feel as awesome to own a designer piece with an H&M tag in it as the real deal does. I mean, it is pretty cool that they do that, so that one can benefit from the unique design quality of the respective labels without having to break the bank (or maybe just a small one)....however, I don't know, I simply cannot fully get into these affairs.

But some of my classmates (here ya go, fashion college spirit and all) sure did - they were so commited, in fact, that they spent the night camping in front of the flagship on 5th, not minding the cold and the drizzle. Some of us were in awe of their determination to be early in line, some a little weirded out (I was. I mean, come on, rain. And the clothes are a bit too flashy/military/green for me to be desirable), but it was definitely the topic we were dissecting while in first period this morning, much to the astonishment (and I think despair) of our oblivious teacher. Instagram updates followed fast - #allBalmaineverything - and the whole room was silent when one girl actually got through on the hopelessly overstrained hotline to order her wishlist. "I'd like No.....that's still available? Great!" *collective breath* "And No...."*holding it in again* "Oh, your system's crashed?" *looking at each other like, can you believe that?*

I can. It's weirdly fascinating, isn't it, how people go all out and trip over their barely tied shoe laces to get their hands on a few pieces by a big name in a store they'd usually joke about, go in to buy a tank top and come out with six new outfits which happened to block the way to the changing rooms.

At least that's how I do it.

Anyhow, I may feel like buying high fashion should be a slightly different experience than a rock concert / The Hunger Games, but whoever's a fan of Balmain might have gotten really lucky today,, and that's always lovely, don't you think?

Love,

Rosy Smith

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Right now, I'm a little confused, since I know I had second thoughts today but I can't quite place them....See, on the way back home I had a nice talk with one of my classmates and she got me all excited about tomorrow (I can't wait to show you why!), so in this particular moment I'm feeling optimistic- but is it just this one thing I'm looking forward to?

I'm the worst at decisions sometimes, as you've probably figured out by now, since I'm complaining the whole time even though I've already gotten signed up for classes and everything. But I think it's understandable: I would simply hate for this to be wrong for me, especially since I've been telling people that this is what I want for ages....which is something you shouldn't do if you're anything like me; it'll only make it so much harder to admit you're having doubts, or you don't want this at all, because you'll feel bad about yourself for being so flighty. Also, I'm not sure the fact that everybody keeps telling me that this "suits me so well" and "will be so great" doesn't partly lead to me wondering so much if that's really the case.

Anyways, I didn't really see any handsome guys (who aren't gay) around yet either! Of course that's not playing into all of this, but I'm just saying. Whatever, I'll see somebody else very soon, so shush my beating heart....

Oh, let me tell you about our last class today, in which we went into the city and then to a small, fancy gallery with contemporary popart. It was a bit too contemporary and poparty for my taste (I just can't find the joy in a canvas full of color streaks and little newspaper sniplets) and there was some kind of weird sexual vibe to the whole exhibition which supposedly wasn't supposed to be there (would you appreciate the repetition here. Rhetorical devices for the win), but all in all, it's a cool idea, very different and cultural and all that.

I won't be able to post the last installment tomorrow, but it'll definitely appear later- it's got something to do with the thing I got all excited about, so you should be too!

Love,

Rosy Smith

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