Extract taken from The Most Beautiful Job in the World (Bloomsbury Visual Arts, 2020), chapter 8 ‘At Work with an Up-and-coming Fashion Designer’, pp. 193-204

Follow Giulia as she interns for independent Belgian designer, Franck, and his Sales Director, Pilar, and assists their other interns with a fashion show for the brand in a ‘prestigious’ location in Paris.

The day of the show

The arrival of the day of the fashion show signalled the end of my internship with Franck, as per our agreement. My day began at 9.00 am, while the interns had started at 6.30 am. They had gone to the location of the show at dawn for a first inspection before going to the showroom. Three young women I didn’t recognize were already there by the time I arrived; they were former interns Pilar had called on to help. They had come by coach from Belgium and if they didn’t have anywhere else to stay they would sleep in the studio where Sarah was staying. The collection, accessories and everything else that was needed were loaded into the van parked outside the showroom. Pilar carried out one small box then lit a cigarette and stood giving orders. Franck was already at the location where the show was taking place, keeping an eye on the decor that was being put up. Zoé wasn’t there. Her back was so bad that she had gone to the doctor. Sarah looked exhausted and smelled of alcohol and cigarettes. She had bags under her eyes and her makeup was smudged. She whispered to me that she’d been out the previous evening at a bar in the 18th arrondissement, that she’d been drinking and taking drugs until dawn. She hadn’t been home to change. Once the van was loaded up, Sarah and I walked over to where the show was being held. Sarah was in a good mood because Franck had asked her if she’d like to go back and work for him in September to build another website. ‘I love that guy, I’m so happy he asked me back, I’d do anything for him. I adore what he does, and I’ll come back in September even if he doesn’t pay me, I so want him to succeed, and what if I did too, how amazing would that be.’ We arrived at where the show was taking place and I was struck by how well organized everything was, and by the number of technicians, set designers, photographers and all the other people who were there. The events company that was sponsoring Franck’s show5 was one of the best-known in Europe. It also organized fashion shows for major labels. It dealt with every stage of the event, from the conception to the video production and photography. The contrast between the extravagance of the show and Franck’s ‘domestic’ scale of production was striking. Outside, the catering team that had been brought over from Belgium was setting up, ready to serve prawn fritters and white wine to the guests as they waited for the show to begin. The show was taking place in the evening in a magnificent rococo-style ballroom. A backstage area had been set up in the orchestra pit of a vast auditorium. Tables for the thirty-odd hairdressers and makeup artists had already been set out, along with a long table for all the workers and the area that would be used to put together the models’ outfits. The organization was so efficient that we, the small army of interns and assistants, had nothing to do, at least until it was time to start dressing the models. We sat in a corner around a large table. Because each of the fifteen models needed her own dresser, Pilar had asked each of us to find some volunteers. Sarah had asked a couple of her friends, one of whom was studying fashion journalism in Paris, and the other fashion design in Brussels. Louise, the aspiring intern who had come for an interview two days earlier, was also there, sitting at the table with the rest of us. There were nine of us in total, including the current crop of interns, and former and future interns. Pilar and Franck were nowhere to be seen, the space was huge, and there was delicious food for us to eat. All this made for a relaxed atmosphere, despite the impending show. Suddenly Louise announced to no one in particular that she would have loved to do the internship but that it wasn’t going to work out because they weren’t going to pay her expenses. A lively exchange between the interns took place about their various internships, describing scandalous behaviour as well as their rather less frequent positive experiences (three out of a total of ten) – tales of tyrannical and abusive bosses at women’s magazines, communications agencies and fashion houses. Everyone was sharing their worst experiences in tones of utter disgust, describing figures that seemed almost like caricatures. I tried to write down as much of these stories as I could. Occasionally I reacted to what I heard, but I felt uncomfortable and not altogether authorized to comment. What was clear from this discussion was that the strategies adopted to deal with these abuses of authority varied. Louise declared she would never accept such ‘abuse’, not being paid, and would insist on mutual respect. Although she claimed to be ‘super-motivated, super-passionate’, she also insisted she wasn’t ‘an idiot’: she didn’t have ‘sucker written on [her] forehead’. Anne, one of Franck’s former interns, had found a way to mitigate the power dynamic imposed by Pilar and became, as Pilar herself told me one day, her ‘favourite intern’. She explained that at the beginning of her internship she cried every day and was ready to leave because of Pilar’s abuse, but that, on the advice of her mother, she began to defer to her:

I became a bit of a hypocrite, to tell the truth. I’d fake it, saying [in a compliant tone of voice]: ‘Sure, thank you so much for your advice’, you know? Then when she said something mean I’d just be like, ‘Thank you’, you know? Totally fake. And I swear to you she cried when I left. Even though she absolutely hated me at the start, or at least she was like, this is never going to work out.

Though it was true that she had managed to turn the situation around so that Pilar spoke normally to her, she still had to feed the meter for Pilar’s car, hoover the floor and wash the dishes. There’d been a change in the way they interacted, but not in the tasks she had to do. When I asked her what she thought of Pilar, she said:

I’ve not changed my opinion, she’s the kind of person I can’t stand [said with great emphasis], but she adores me. I managed to make her adore me and frankly it was worth it; I had to do an internship and I stuck it out for three months even though at the beginning I was literally counting the days, and I really thought I was going to quit.

Louise disapproved – ‘it’s not right that you had to act like that’ – and then told us her worst experience as an intern, where her boss was jealous of her, and humiliated her in front of ‘the entire open space’, talked to her ‘like a dog’, invented ‘absurd things’ for her to do, and forced her to work ‘impossible’ hours. She cried for a month, and then quit. Everyone – former and current interns – said in unison: ‘Then you’d better not come and work for Franck!’ Anne told them that Franck and Pilar were ‘the worst. Not only do they refuse to pay, but they expect the interns to do the cleaning, to stay at the studio even when there’s nothing for them to do, and to work all weekend.’ Sarah picked up on the last point:

I work all weekend, every weekend. Since I got to Paris, I haven’t stopped. Tomorrow the website is going live, and Wednesday, I don’t care what they say, I’m taking it off. I can’t stand it any longer, I’m going nuts . . . Even if you work all through the weekend, however hard you work, it’s never enough, and that’s the problem.

Louise turned to Zoé and asked what her job was, but it was Michelle, another former intern, who answered: ‘She’s so into it, she’s really committed, she never stops, she says yes to everything, she’ll stay till 11 o’clock at night on a Friday if she has to.’ According to Louise, her attitude could be explained by the fact that she’d been promised a job: ‘When there’s a promise behind it it’s completely normal to give it everything you’ve got.’ She told us how astonished she was by Pilar’s offer. Pilar had told her to get in touch with her college to ‘sort out’ an internship agreement so that she could get away without paying her, and to find a job in a bar to make up for the fact that her expenses wouldn’t be covered by the studio:6

I’m passionate about fashion too, but I’ve got a life, I have to eat. I don’t want to work twenty-four hours a day. Can you imagine spending six months working twenty-four hours a day? Sure, I’ll do my internship then I’ll work in a bar! . . . At the end of it you’re a wreck, you’ve lost forty kilos.

As the other women talked about how they were being exploited at Franck’s studio, Michelle said she was so glad not to be working there any more, it was ‘a real weight off her mind’. She said:

I got the impression that people are passionate and completely driven, they have to really devote themselves body and soul, and that’s not me at all. Our teachers, it’s the same thing, three weeks before they tell you: ‘Okay, you have to hand in twenty designs.’ I have no desire to kill myself working to deliver their stupid project! Frankly, I just don’t want to. I want to have time to enjoy what I do, otherwise it’s just not worth it, it’s complete exploitation. It’s a lousy system. I’ve said to myself so many times that I don’t want to stay in fashion. Whenever I think about my degree, I wonder why I ever thought of going into it.

In response, Louise said: ‘They’re looking for people who are psychologically strong, the kind of people who won’t let themselves be broken. That’s the point, that’s the game, to break you to see if you can get up again or not.’ The conversation was interrupted at around 4.00 pm by Heike, Franck’s assistant designer, who marched in to divide up the volunteer dressers who would be helping each model to get changed. We all walked over to another part of the space. Photos taken during the fittings were stuck to the wall, showing the models wearing the outfits they had been designated. Post-its with notes about which accessories were to be used were stuck to each image. Each of us had been given a rail on which all the ‘looks’ for the model we were dressing were assembled. An identical photograph to the one that was stuck on the wall was also fixed to each hanger, so that we could put together all the accessories correctly. Each ‘girl’ had at least two changes, and it was vital to be both fast and accurate, as Heike told us all in English. The models were beginning to arrive; they turned up in waves, because they were coming straight from other shows. They were Brazilian, Dutch, French, Kenyan, American and Russian. I had been assigned to Jo, who, according to a note stuck to the rail, was a sixteen-year old Canadian. Many of the young women were exhausted; Paris Fashion Week is the last fashion week, after New York, London and Milan, and they had done all or some of them already. The army of hairdressers and makeup artists were also beginning to arrive, and in the space of an hour the auditorium was transformed into a gigantic beauty salon, with mirrors everywhere, boxes filled with hair mousse and other products, and the sound of dozens of hairspray canisters and hairdryers blending with music. Each model had two or three people clustered around her. As the show approached, journalists, celebrities and photographers began to arrive backstage. There were people armed with cameras and video cameras, everyone smiling at everyone else. Franck was giving interviews to different television stations. On the screens we could see hundreds of awkward-looking people waiting at the entrance, sipping drinks they had been offered. The activity backstage suddenly intensified, the atmosphere became electric: the show was about to begin. Technicians were communicating with each other by radio while Heike gave us instructions through a megaphone. She was assisted by a young, androgynous-looking English girl, even bossier than she was. Heike introduced me to Jo who, like the other models, was already made up and with her hair done. We took our places alongside ‘our’ clothes rail. Jo dropped her backpack to the floor. I spotted a Hello Kitty doll inside it. She looked exhausted. She took off her clothes, visibly reluctant to reveal her body in front of so many people. Although she tried not to show her naked body, I noticed that she was wearing flesh-coloured patches over her nipples, as if she was trying to preserve a few inches of privacy. The models were lined up in the order they would be going out behind the black curtain that separated the backstage area from the corridor that led to the catwalk. A member of staff from the events agency was waiting for a signal to start. The tension was palpable. On a screen we could see the packed front of house, and we could hear the music. There were film stars sitting in the front row, behind a crowd of dozens of photographers. The models started to move, the show had started. We took our places, ready for the first changes. Very soon it was over, although I had the impression that it had barely begun. Franck came backstage, triumphant, with a trolley of buckets filled with bottles of champagne. He opened one, to general euphoria and a round of excited applause and shouts of delight. Dozens of cameras were there to immortalize the moment when Franck and the models were toasted. This really was the dream. Film stars rushed up to congratulate him and be photographed with him, as though to confirm that they were part of the same world. Pilar, who had been drinking since early in the afternoon, was visibly tipsy. The interns hung back, standing together with their glasses of champagne. I stood and chatted with a photographer and a journalist who were asking me about my research and giving me their cards so that we could stay in touch. Gradually the frenzy died down, the lights were switched on, the room emptied, the music was turned off. All that remained were a few bottles of champagne, some photographers and journalists, and a handful of people. The show had only been over for twenty minutes when Pilar shouted and clapped her hands at the interns: ‘That’s it girls! Time to put everything away and load up the van, it’s parked outside, hurry up!’ Everyone seemed a bit startled by her command and the way she formulated it, but after a brief moment of astonishment, everyone turned back to their conversations. I tried to catch the eyes of the interns, and saw expressions of disappointment and irritation. For them, the dream was over. Half an hour later, I left. Pilar, Franck and his partner were sitting on the terrace of a bar by the theatre drinking wine with some Belgian pop stars, while the interns were loading up the van a few metres away. I went over to them and saw Zoé in tears. ‘It’s because of Pilar’, Sarah said. By now it was 11.00 pm. The interns were exhausted and furious with Pilar, who had told them to go to the showroom, unload the van and get everything ready for the next day. I was as shocked as they were, and told them I thought it was an outrageous thing to be expected to do. Increasingly ill at ease, I excused myself for not helping them, explaining that it was not because of a lack of solidarity but in order to make it clear that there are limits. I’d hardly uttered these words than I realized how stupid I sounded, and, confused and embarrassed, I didn’t know what else to say. Manon made her resentment clear: ‘It’s easy for you, but we’ve got our internship to finish, we’re going to be evaluated.’ She asked me if I thought that loading the truck was a ‘humiliating’ thing to be asked to do. I responded that no activity is humiliating per se, it wasn’t really about that, but once more I felt an embarrassment that was both moral and political,7 because Manon was absolutely right: I was able to make this decision because I wasn’t being evaluated, unlike them, who were being evaluated all the time. The young women drove off in the van. A few minutes later, Thomas, Franck’s partner, came over to tell me that the taxi that was taking us to the restaurant where a celebratory dinner was being held had arrived, and that it was out of the question for me not to be there. I hesitated: going to a restaurant while the interns were working seemed wrong. Thomas saw my hesitation, insisted, and assured me that the interns would be coming along later as soon as they’d unloaded the van. I found myself in a taxi with Franck, Thomas and Patty, the pattern-cutter. Franck was talking about the evening, singing the praises of the work of a friend of his, a well-known choreographer who had come from abroad especially to choreograph the show. He then began to go on and on about how sick he was of not having any money; ‘it makes me so uncomfortable to ask people to work for free’. I couldn’t help thinking that he never seemed uncomfortable regarding all the interns who worked for nothing, dealing with the day-to-day aspects of running the studio. Then he began talking about his next collection, excitedly describing the shapes and forms he was working on. The collection that had just been presented was already in the past, and he was already projecting into the future. Patty was offended, because Pilar had said in front of her to two young designers: ‘If you want to become rich, take Patty on for what she’s really worth and then pay her what she thinks she’s worth.’ Patty found this very insulting. Franck turned to Pilar and said, mischievously: ‘Anyway, you’re paid the same as she is.’ After a beat of silence, he added, in a kind of detached tone, as if it was nothing to do with him: ‘Pilar is horrible, she been making the interns cry again, it’s her fault if the girls don’t come along to the restaurant, she really should have gone to the showroom with them instead of having a drink with us.’ I said that I found it absurd that the girls hadn’t come with us to celebrate the success of the show, after all the work they’d put in. Thomas agreed and called Manon on his mobile. She told him that even if they wanted to come they couldn’t because it was too late to get the métro. And anyway, Zoé didn’t want to see Pilar. Thomas insisted that they come and said he’d pay for a taxi both ways. They took a long time to agree. Manon pointed out that this didn’t solve the problem for Zoé, whose aunt lived in the suburbs, and it was impossible for her to take a taxi the whole way there, but she didn’t have anywhere to sleep in Paris because there was no room at Sarah’s friend’s studio. I asked to speak to her and suggested that she sleep over at the place where I was staying, though I pointed out that we would have to share a bed. I wondered if the suggestion was appropriate, but the thought that after all the work she’d put in she wouldn’t be able to celebrate seemed outrageously unjust. We arrived at the restaurant near Bastille. It was just past midnight. Franck had reserved a private dining room on the ground floor. There were about twenty guests, most of whom had already arrived and were sitting around the large table. I went straight over to the smaller table, where no one was sitting, but Thomas took me by the arm and told me to come and sit with them, next to Patty. Franck explained to the guests that he wouldn’t be able to pay for dinner, but that he’d cover part of the drinks bill. Thomas ordered two bottles of champagne, which he said that he was paying for to celebrate his partner’s success. The guests were a mix of singers, DJs, photographers, choreographers and journalists, who all enthusiastically raised their glasses for a toast. Patty asked me why the interns weren’t there. Because our conversation was covered by the background noise, she confided in me that she’d stopped working full-time for Franck because she couldn’t bear to see how he mistreated the interns, couldn’t bear to seem them crying all the time and working so hard for no payment. For her, this was pure exploitation. She told me that during the previous fashion week Zoé had slept on the floor of the showroom, ‘on the tiles’. At last the interns arrived. I was sitting at the large table, while they all went and sat at the smaller table away from the main party. It was clear that my position as an academic was valued by Thomas and placed me higher up in the hierarchy, and thus in the dining room. Uncomfortable, the interns sat down; they did not exchange a word with the other guests the entire evening. Pilar, who was sitting at the other end of the main table, stood up to make a toast. She was clearly drunk, to the point that she was having trouble standing, and she declared in a loud voice, in English: ‘I wanna do a speech: Franck, we all love you, you’re the best!’ Everyone clapped and smiled. A few minutes later, she stood up again; this time people were a little embarrassed, and so I took the opportunity to stand up myself and propose, slightly provocatively, a toast to the interns. Patty and Thomas stood, and everyone clapped; the interns looked very embarrassed but were nonetheless clearly pleased. At 2.00 am we were ready to leave. The bill was 30 euros a head, and the interns had to pay for themselves. Franck called a taxi to take him and a few select friends to an exclusive nightclub that was only open to those who came with an introduction, and where the cost of a drink was astronomical. I waved to Franck, reminding him that I wouldn’t be at the showroom the next day. ‘It’s over?’ he asked, looking a bit sad. I told him that our regular collaboration was over, but that I wasn’t going to disappear. In the general bustle, Thomas forgot to give the interns money to pay for their taxi. Manon, Zoé and took one together and I told them I’d pay for it. When we arrived at the small studio I’d been lent Zoé was as embarrassed as I was by the forced intimacy and thanked me multiple times for my hospitality. I did my best to put her at ease and we went up to bed on the mezzanine floor. A few hours later Zoé’s alarm went off and she got up to get ready to go to the showroom. I let a few days go by before writing to Sarah for news. She wrote back to me:

I’ll tell you about it properly, but Pilar’s gone too far this time. I’m going to get a terrible report on my internship, she called me a liar and said I was disrespectful, because I didn’t go into work on Wednesday, I had a urinary tract infection, on Thursday and Friday too. I got a doctor’s note for three days, so I wasn’t worried, but she went absolutely insane, insulted me, and then finally she fired me. Fortunately I’d done all my hours by then, but still. I’m really pissed off. I feel completely abused.