Reality Matters_ 19 Writers Come Clean About the Shows We Can't Stop Watching - Anna David [16]
And, inevitably, there is a tough contestant who isn’t afraid to verbally tussle with the others—my favorite being season three’s flame-haired paragon of cool confidence, Laura Bennett, the sole grownup on the show, fortyish and pregnant with her sixth child and not in the mood for any crap. Being timid myself, and reluctant to start even the mildest confrontation in New York City lest I get stabbed, I cackled every time she snapped at someone to shut up.
But the apex of Project Runway is the moment that the contestants get down to work. The cameras are forgotten (well, almost forgotten) as they become utterly absorbed in a frenzy of stitching and snipping and fitting. This is the part of the show that many viewers cite to justify their habit, because it lulls you into thinking that this is a more highbrow endeavor than your average reality show. No implants! No hot tubs! See? Everyone is creating something. It won a Peabody!
As a writer who works alone, I burn with envy as I witness the designers in action, because they have the best of both worlds: the camaraderie and feedback of a group and the glory of showing off their individual creations. I will never have both. At this point in my career, my ego won’t allow me to work in an office and surrender the spotlight. On the other hand, my “office mates” are my two cats, and I have found myself more than once dementedly saying to them, Well! Let’s see what the postman brought us or Hmm, what should I have for lunch today? I’ll bet you guys vote for tuna salad, right? On some days, I’m one step away from hosting a Cat Tea Party, so I’d happily move into the workroom and brave the backbiting.
Aside from watching the contestants at work, another key element of the show’s appeal is the kaleidoscope parade of outfits sported by most of the designers, particularly the ones who are in their early twenties. They dress the way I wish more New Yorkers did. Every person in New York looks like a demure fashion editor now, so I celebrate the contestants’ every pillbox hat, every canary-yellow strip of eye shadow, each pair of stunningly impractical chartreuse shoes with a five-inch mirrored heel. New Yorkers, of all people, have become entirely too beige—and unfortunately, I include myself in that category.
When I first came to New York, aflame with the same energy the contestants have, I wore the most preposterous outfits in the world, and I’m glad I did. After I joined the staff of Rolling Stone in 1989, my first order of business was to run out and purchase three pairs of leather pants: black, brown, and white. White leather pants! Did I think I was a member of Earth, Wind & Fire? Naturally, I wore them with a sleeveless purple shirt trimmed in feathers. As a twenty-two-year-old New Yorker, you have a God-given right to look ridiculous as you clomp down the street in a white vintage slip and combat boots.
I fell on the city like a starving rat on a moldy ham sandwich, rushing to discover new bars every night, spending weekends combing through various neighborhoods, ducking into thrift stores and museums and cafés. The show deftly captures the giddy excitement of being a recent arriviste in the city, hoping to be somebody else, and fast.
Which leads me to my very favorite part of the series. As the finale nears and competitors are whittled to a handful, we are treated to a more rounded portrait of them. Earlier in the season, designers may rattle off a quick biography for the camera in between running to the Hershey’s store in Times Square to fashion a dress out of candy, but beyond that, not much information is given on their backgrounds. This is remedied in the last few episodes, when the remaining three or four contestants are handed eight thousand dollars and given a dozen weeks to complete a twelve-piece look to be shown at New York