There are 15 minutes to go before the threeASFOUR Fall 2008 show in as smallish Chelsea New York Fashion Week venue. There's a blonde fashion editor to Anna Wintour's left, chatting amiably. There's a brunette to her right, in a striped scarf. Anna sits between them, topped in her blonde-streaked helmet bob, red shirt, brooch, and mink stole. She chats with the scarf. She glances about the room.
Until the show starts, she is the show, and she knows it. People studiously do not look at her. Except for the newbie fashionista next to me who runs over, tells Anna something, then runs back to her friends giggling, clutching her hands to her heart like a 15-year-old girl in the 1950s who just met Elvis Presley. Still, despite her reputation as a hard-hearted fashion automaton, you sense humanity from Vogue's editor. She does not look imperious, or impressive. She is tiny, a bit frail-looking even. And even though Stylehive's New York office is on the same block as her townhouse, and I often pass her on the street, approaching her is out of the question. The lights dim. The music starts. When the first model appears, Anna's wrap-around Chanel sunglasses are down, like a visor has lowered from her hair helmet. So nobody can see her expression, because Wintour's approving glimmer or disapproving squint carry the same weight in the fashion world as Federal Reserve Chairman Alan Greenspan's comments used to mean to U.S. stock traders. She tilts her head, she watches the models back and forth, back and forth. Once I catch her gaze drifting off back to the crowd, but only for a moment. The show ends. The audience erupts. The designers bow. The lights go up. Everyone rises from their seats. Except Anna. She's already gone.
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