Alright, so you wanna be a fashion designer in Paris? Buckle up, ’cause I tried that too. Spoiler: it ain’t just about sketching pretty dresses and sipping espresso near the Seine.
Step 1: Reality Smacked Me Hard
First thing I did? Flew to Paris thinking vibes alone would get me hired. Got laughed outta three studios in Le Marais when I showed my amateur sketches. Turns out French brands don’t care about “passion” without proof. Packed my suitcase and cried into a croissant that night.
Step 2: Dirt Cheap Skill Building
Next morning, I hit thrift shops near Barbès. Bought five ugly curtains for €15 total. Rented a busted sewing machine from this cranky grandma’s basement workshop. Spent two weeks cutting up curtains and making:
- One lopsided blazer with sleeve holes too small for hamsters
- Three “deconstructed” skirts that just looked destroyed
- A hat that made me look like a melting mushroom
Posted the disaster pics online anyway. Got roasted hard but two local fashion students actually slid into my DMs with free workshop tips.
Step 3: Stalking Humans Not Runways
Stopped following Vogue. Started camping outside metro stations sketching real Parisians:
Old men with perfectly folded pocket squares, teenagers wearing couture jackets with ripped jeans, grocery ladies tying aprons like runway sashes. Filled three notebooks with messy drawings and fabric swatches glued with baguette crumbs.
Step 4: The Portfolio That Almost Killed Me
Made my first “real” collection using €2 tablecloths from Saint-Ouen flea market. Only had money for three pieces:
- A trench coat dyed with beet juice (smelled like borscht)
- Pants made from shower curtains (rustled like ghosts)
- Crop top with buttons stolen from dead coats at dry cleaners
Photographed them on my Airbnb balcony using self-timer and coat hangers as props.
Step 5: Knocking Doors Till Knuckles Bled
Printed 20 copies of my portfolio at a sketchy print shop. Walked 14km in cheap heels dropping them at:
Backstreet ateliers reeking of tobacco and bleach, designer showrooms where receptionists snorted at my beet-stained fingertips, even left one at a fabric store counter. Ghosted 19 times. But that one assistant from a tiny eco-brand emailed back: “Your materials scream broke student… but the cut on that trench? Come Tuesday.”
Now I’m washing fabric scraps in my sink-sized Paris apartment. Pay’s trash, but next week they’re letting me adjust hemlines on actual clothes that’ll touch actual humans. Still eating baguette scraps for lunch, but damn – that beet juice trench got me through the door.
