http://stylefrizz.com/img/the-sartorialist-scott-schuman.jpgOn Tuesday, the Sartorialist (http://www.thesartorialist.blogspot.com/) was in town to promote his new book and we wanted to be one of those well dressed, nonchalant but secretly excited people who was lucky enough to get his autograph without even trying. My sister bought the last copy at Kinokuniya and we both left work early to get to Sass & Bide on Oxford Street quicksticks.
We roared around Oxford Street, found a sweet park, sweet parked and trotted excitedly up the hill. The book signing began at 6 pm and we were pretty punctual- it was only 6:30 pm after we'd wormed our way through the side streets and began the pavement pound en route to Sass & Bide.
But as we drew closer and closer our hearts sank to our knees. The line ran halfway down the block, past Scanlan & Theodore and all the way around the corner. We were like O M G . But like I said before, it was still really early- the book signing would go until 9 pm, and we were still optimistic at this stage. We took our place at the end of the queue and eyed the other people in the queue. An eclectic mix. There was one guy in a tailored cream suit and a trilby. He looked like he'd walked straight out of the Sartorialist's blog and I presumed that his intention was to be photographed by this revered fashion commentator. Then there was the girl in the black strapless jumpsuit. She looked cool, and I heard her telling her friend that it was the only thing she had which would be appropriate for this occassion. Directly in front of us were two girls carrying Valentino handbags. They were pretty annoying because they both worked in law firms and they kept gushing about how intense work is, but on the other hand how absolutely fascinating it is to be working in such a commerically successful law firm. Y a w n.
At the beginning my sister and I could ignore the painful throb as we stood in our heels. We thumbed through the Sartorialist's book and pointed out outfits we liked and others that were interesting more for the people wearing them. But as hard as we tried to amuse ourselves, the queue could not have progressed any slower than it did. Every ten minutes the line would creep forward by a couple of people. Everyone would shuffle forward patiently. It would be worth it in the end- our book would be autographed, we would go home and in 20 years' time our book would be a collector's item.
But as the minutes ticked by and we used up the hour allocated to our sweet park, the wind began to howl, rain threatened to bucket down and we were still hours away from the front of the line. Our mouths turned downwards and we muttered about the possibility that the following exchange was taking place between the autographer and each and every autographee:
But as we drew closer and closer our hearts sank to our knees. The line ran halfway down the block, past Scanlan & Theodore and all the way around the corner. We were like O M G . But like I said before, it was still really early- the book signing would go until 9 pm, and we were still optimistic at this stage. We took our place at the end of the queue and eyed the other people in the queue. An eclectic mix. There was one guy in a tailored cream suit and a trilby. He looked like he'd walked straight out of the Sartorialist's blog and I presumed that his intention was to be photographed by this revered fashion commentator. Then there was the girl in the black strapless jumpsuit. She looked cool, and I heard her telling her friend that it was the only thing she had which would be appropriate for this occassion. Directly in front of us were two girls carrying Valentino handbags. They were pretty annoying because they both worked in law firms and they kept gushing about how intense work is, but on the other hand how absolutely fascinating it is to be working in such a commerically successful law firm. Y a w n.
At the beginning my sister and I could ignore the painful throb as we stood in our heels. We thumbed through the Sartorialist's book and pointed out outfits we liked and others that were interesting more for the people wearing them. But as hard as we tried to amuse ourselves, the queue could not have progressed any slower than it did. Every ten minutes the line would creep forward by a couple of people. Everyone would shuffle forward patiently. It would be worth it in the end- our book would be autographed, we would go home and in 20 years' time our book would be a collector's item.
But as the minutes ticked by and we used up the hour allocated to our sweet park, the wind began to howl, rain threatened to bucket down and we were still hours away from the front of the line. Our mouths turned downwards and we muttered about the possibility that the following exchange was taking place between the autographer and each and every autographee:
Autographer: Hi, I love what you're wearing
Autographee: (Squeals) I love your work. Your photos are incredible. You are my idol. I am overwhelmed. (Swoon)
Autographer: Thank you so much! Your support means so much to me
Autographee: Anything for you Mr Sartorialist, care to take a photo of my outfit?
And so it would probably go on.
The whole situation was a disaster and by the time 8 pm had rolled around, my sister and I had had enough. It wasn't the Sartorialist's fault. It was the way the whole thing was coordinated. Lines spewing out from both directions of the store entrance. Confusion. Disorganisation. Plus, we were famished, and when you're hungry, there's no going forward. We were going home.
Autographee: (Squeals) I love your work. Your photos are incredible. You are my idol. I am overwhelmed. (Swoon)
Autographer: Thank you so much! Your support means so much to me
Autographee: Anything for you Mr Sartorialist, care to take a photo of my outfit?
And so it would probably go on.
The whole situation was a disaster and by the time 8 pm had rolled around, my sister and I had had enough. It wasn't the Sartorialist's fault. It was the way the whole thing was coordinated. Lines spewing out from both directions of the store entrance. Confusion. Disorganisation. Plus, we were famished, and when you're hungry, there's no going forward. We were going home.
That's not to say that we were defeated. As we walked down Oxford Street passing all those other people braving the gale force winds and still waiting in line, we linked arms and pretended that we had indeed obtained the coveted autograph of the Sartorialist. We flipped open the book and I feigned pointing at the non-existent signature, all the while proclaiming "Wow that is sooo coool!" Juvenile and immature, I know- but it was the least we could do to redeem this failed night which had begun with so much anticipation and promise.
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