Bruised Hips & Taped Feet: 14 Hours In The Life Of A Fashion Week Model

At 6am, Auckland is a silhouette. A pretty city with model angles. Dark blue night, blazing orange morning.

In the suburbs, Hope Phillips boards a bus. It’s too early to eat. The 24-year-old carries a cream cheese bagel and a ball of yarn. Perhaps today there’ll be downtime to work on a birthday present project.

Wynyard Quarter smells like bacon and coffee. At the Viaduct Events Centre, security has opened the doors to black-clad artists towing trolley cases packed with hair dryers, tissues and a lipstick shade for every foreseeable future.

Someone in charge of something walks the corridor putting everyone in their place: “Are you all makeup? Dressers? Oh, models — great.”

Models are the blank canvas that fashion designers hang their livelihoods on; the faces and bodies that make clothes look good enough to buy.

On the runway and in front of the camera, modelling is the most glamorous job in the world. But take a walk in a model’s shoes — and hope the designer has provided a pair in the right size.

New Zealand Fashion Week: Kahuria opens in just a few hours. Over the next five days, more than 200 models will walk in more than 50 shows. On Tuesday — the first day of an event that has been Covid-cancelled for the past three consecutive years — Viva shadowed Hope Phillips and documented 14 hours in the life of a working model.

The day starts and finishes in the dark. By the end of it, Phillips will have lost a handful of hair and acquired a bunch of bruises. Three showers. Sellotaped feet. Nails on, nails off. The bathrooms at the Viaducts Events Centre boast full-length mirrors and good light. Backstage, the models use Portaloos.

“Lovelies,” says a woman trying to get this show on the road or at least a runway, “You need to go out looking for models. Take that list and find names.” The hair and makeup artists round up their targets. They are not terribly hard to spot. How do you choose the model life?

“When I was a kid, I was obsessed with America’s Next Top Model,” says Phillips. “Even though it’s extremely problematic. But back then, I didn’t really think about that.”

An introverted Hawke’s Bay teenager with a propensity for jumping in at the deep end and then just figuring it out. Random modelling jobs. A couple of photoshoots. Letters to multiple agencies and, ultimately, an offer to sign with Unique Models.

“I just kind of thought I’d be good at it,” says Phillips. “Because I was tall and awkward . . . "

Phillips’ first New Zealand Fashion Week coincided with a final year of high school. In 2017, after a move to Auckland, “I started to get more modelling jobs. And then I shaved all my hair off and I started to get way more jobs after that”.

7.32am: Models might “walk” the runway but a huge part of their day is spent sitting (hair, makeup, nails) or standing still while others zip, tuck and practise dressing a body at speed with no creases. This morning, in the makeshift booths that flank the entire backstage length of the main runway, it will take an hour to backcomb and sculpt Phillips’ long and wildly curly hair into a romantic, fly away French roll. It’s a stop-start affair, as models are called away for runway walk-throughs and a last check of their shoes.

“They fit!”

Phillips’ feet are size 10s, accustomed to squeezing into eights and nines on jobs where those are often the only shoes available.

“That’s like three sizes smaller.” A grimace and a shrug. “I’ve got skinny feet. I make it work.”

7.54am: The off-duty model wears loose jeans, a black top and long hair. There’s a definite “look” but you can pick out the individuals via a distinctively frayed cuff here, or a coloured sneaker there. Until, suddenly, you can’t. When everyone has the same hair and makeup, it’s like adjusting your eyes at dusk. All the silhouettes are the same. It takes a minute to notice the nuance.

“I think I was 13 or 14,” says Phillips. “‘Hmm. I’m not feeling quite right in my body. This is very strange.’ And then, for a while, because back then being non-binary wasn’t as known as it is now, I was like ‘Oh, am I transgender? Maybe I identify as a male?’ But that didn’t sit right with me either. For quite a few years, I was very ‘what the f*** am I? Why do I feel like such a freak?’”

Phillips moved to London on a whim. Nighttimes serving tables at a karaoke bar, daytimes hustling for modelling work (including two shows for London Fashion Week). At the airport, following the Covid-call to come home, would-be passengers learned the United States had closed its borders. Non-citizens could no longer take a connecting flight. It was a long six more months in London until Phillips could return to New Zealand via mandatory managed isolation quarantine.

“I arrived for the Government isolation and there was a form you had to fill out. And when it got to choosing your gender, it said ‘non-binary’ or ‘gender diverse’. That was the first time I’d seen that. The first time I’d seen ‘non-binary’ on a form. And I was like ‘Oh my God. That’s me’.”

Phillips’ pronouns changed to “they” and “them”. Being non-binary, they say, probably means something slightly different to every different person, but for them: “I know I’m biologically female. I don’t want to change that. But I just don’t feel like any gender. I don’t feel like a man, I don’t feel like a woman. I just feel like me.”

8.42am: Phillips has moved from hair to makeup, where a large coffee order has just been delivered. “There are no flavour shots, so they’ve got one sweetener each . . .” declares Geegee Pikinga, and the banter begins. “Soy what? Soy why am I waiting?” The models sit, silently transformed. In the space immediately behind the runway, dancers are stretching and performers from Kahurangi ki Maungawhau: Auckland Girls’ Grammar practice waiata and poi. Soon, you won’t be able to move for clothes and people and intent.

Kiri Nathan casts a critical eye. The makeup on some of the models is a little heavy. Who’s got the fabric scissors? Okay, can we have model #1? It’s 9.23am and they’re practicing the finale. And go. And go. Go now! The models move on command. Backstage is a crush. “Sorry, sorry, aroha mai . . . "

Nathan calls for more wax cord. Phillips is wearing a multi-layered garment that is being cinched and tied in place. Tighter. Tighter. The outer skirt is heavy. How are they feeling? “All good. A little nervous, but in a good way.” They take their place in the line-up. The dancers go on. The high school students are high energy. “They’re so carefree,” says their kaiako. “They don’t realise they’re making history.”

Backstage is dark. Cellphone torches shine on eleventh-hour garment checks; a worker picks stray kawakawa leaves from the floor. “Kia ora. If you are not needed here for the show, please leave . . . " The main doors are open. Two backstage monitors relay a live stream showing the audience and the runway. Four hours after Phillips got off the bus and it’s showtime. One down. Two more to go.

The thing that’s hard to comprehend about a runway show is just how much work it takes. Across this 14-hour day, Phillips will be in public view for less than 10 minutes. The months it takes to conceive and deliver a collection will be reduced to 20 minutes on the runway. It’s high stakes and, sometimes, high drama.

11.28am: “Can we get another dryer over here?” No, because the multi-box keeps cutting out. Phillips is in the chair with wet hair after a hurried, on-site shower, getting ready to walk for the Jacqueline Anne show.

“Oh man,” says the designer, through an armload of ostrich feathers. “This is when a glue gun would be f***ing AMAZING.” She turns to two helpers: “I baste — you stitch.”

Phillips worked in Jacqueline Roper’s former store and spent last weekend sewing for the label. Ninety minutes before showtime and some of embellishments are still a work in progress. A frenetic energy is building. Phillips’ curls are being stretched and flattened poker straight and twisted into an offset roll with a sleek, high-sheen ponytail. Tape is applied to the model’s cheekbones, guiding the application of wild eye colour. The hair and makeup looks for this show are bold — but time-consuming.

11.45am: “Are we missing a model?”

11.59am: “Okay models, could you please come with me for a run-through.”

12.06pm: “Do we have any dressers to help the models put on their shoes?”

The models can’t buckle their own sandals, because they are wearing daggers for nails. The heels are insanely high. Cartoon shoes that, surely, no one can walk in? Phillips applies double-sided tape to the inside soles. There will be no trips or falls today.

“I learned to walk in heels in Year 12 for my school ball,” they say. “Because I didn’t want to look like a dickhead who couldn’t walk in heels!”

A sponsor has delivered ice-cold cans of coffee. The models’ false lashes are so long there’s a delay between the start and end of a blink. Phillips climbs into a pair of boots. They are so transformed that their boyfriend who is backstage taking photographs, fails to recognise them. “Five minutes. Five minutes everyone . . .”

But it is never just five minutes. Time has no meaning and the pressure dial has ratcheted up a notch. Models run to the dressing area with makeup artists in their wake. Lipstick is applied at the same time garments are zipped. In the middle of the room, a model raises her arms and steps into a dress. Three people pull and tighten while a fourth pushes on diamond rings and earrings. Later, the designer will tell Phillips she thinks a bodice went on upside down. No worries. Phillips made it work.

1.21pm: “That was intense!” The model is tired,“ because I haven’t had time to eat. I’ve had a couple of lollies and a waffle and I haven’t refilled my water bottle.”

How do you combat fatigue?

“More caffeine. And I kind of go into a power-save mode, until the next adrenalin rush.”

Phillips will walk in three shows today with call times that range between 2.5 to four hours before runway. Can we talk about the politics of this business? It is kind of . . . shallow?

“Oh, 1000 per cent. Because it’s literally about body image and how you look . . . but it’s also really fun. I love seeing photographs of myself and I just really love fashion. I use it as a creative outlet. And it’s much better than working in a karaoke bar.”

And the money?

“It depends on the designer. The standard rate would be $200-$300 before tax and agency fees, which are around 20 per cent. Shoots pay more and sometimes, if you have to travel, you might get a petrol allowance.”

Right now, they’re splurging on an Uber. A quick dash home, a second shower and, hopefully, Chinese takeaway leftover from last night.

“You can feel a little bit trapped back here,” says Phillips, but this is a person who looks for the upside — “at least we have the fancy Portaloos!”

A not-comprehensive list of the things Hope Phillips likes about modelling in New Zealand includes the fact that it feels less bitchy than overseas. You can make a new friend in a single day. It’s “more chill”. Nobody says you are too fat for the runway. Somebody feeds the models (bread rolls, cold meat and fruit before Kiri Nathan; sushi and bacon and egg pie before Juliette Hogan). In the United Kingdom, says Phillips, they met models who didn’t eat for days and, yes, they’ve had a “you’re too fat for this show” moment.

“I’m fairly thick-skinned. I’m more likely to get upset if I see someone being mean to someone else.”

It took an hour to wash off the morning’s looks. In the shower, Phillips noticed bruises on their hips — caused, they think, by the pulling and tightening of the heavy over-garment for the Kiri Nathan show. And they lost a handful of hair. Collateral damage from a morning of backcombing and straightening.

4.28pm: There are still three hours before the Juliette Hogan show. Phillips sits on the floor, back against the wall, refuelled with a bowl of pasta but “fully prepared to curl up and go to sleep”. They’ve changed into bike shorts and long over-the-knee socks. A hairdresser will spend the next 45 minutes making Phillips’ hair look like, well, Phillips’ hair.

The socks don’t last long, because everyone walking in this show gets their toenails painted. The shoes are flat, the hair and makeup fresh and natural. During the runway walkthrough, Hogan tells the models to “look like you’re on holiday in Europe”. Sullen is not part of the Hogan aesthetic.

“It’s a celebration,” says the designer. “It’s been so long since we’re been with our community and in this environment.”

What role do the models play?

“They really bring our clothes to life. We want them to emulate how we want our customers to feel when they wear our clothes.”

5.25pm: This, agrees Phillips, is the most human look of the day. “I love getting dressed up and having the extreme hair and makeup. But I also like this, because it’s easier when you go home and have another show!”

Tonight’s looks will be released for online sale immediately post-show which, backstage, also incorporates a shoot for the label’s 2023: Four collection. It’s a smart use of time — and resource — from a seasoned operator in an industry where the labels that show one Fashion Week may not even be around for the next.

Technicians have cued the music and set the lights. The doors are open and the venue is packed. The runway glows pink. Radiohead is the show opener: “Everything. Everything. In its right place . . . "

7.38pm: The models enter, walk and turn. Enter, walk and turn.

7.49pm: The audience may not know it, but there are models in their midst. They have moved down the runway en masse and in the dark. When the lights suddenly come up, they illuminate a human garden of joyful colour. It is a MOMENT, the magic that can only happen at a live fashion show. Hogan watches on the monitor. Her face is elation and, momentarily, tears.

“I am now energised!” says Phillips. They join the group photo and say their final goodbyes. Their boyfriend is en route to pick them up. We shoot our final frame in the dark. Tomorrow, Phillips will do this again.