Goodbye London College of Fashion

London College of Fashion Graduation

One happy graduate

It started with pink and ended with pink. On Tuesday I graduated with a First Class Honours in Fashion Journalism from the London College of Fashion. I spent the day in a bright pink dress to match the pink hood and trim on my gown. A mortarboard and smile were my accessories. 

My best friend helps me with a wobbly mortarboard

Juliette came all the way from Paris for the occasion

My mum and I

Practising my smile for when I collect my degree

During the ceremony designer Oswald Boateng was presented with an honourary degree. He took to the stage and gave a speech that I will always remember: “Lots of people ask me how you get to my position. Well the dedication that you have all put into completing your degrees is the answer. Carry that with you and it will be you on this stage.”

Boateng’s words inspired me, but so did seeing my friends and peers take to the platform to collect their degrees. As I collected mine I thought back over my three years at university.

My final day at the London College of Fashion

Libby's London College of Fashion Highlights

LONDON

Studying at the London College of Fashion gave me the opportunity to move to one of the best cities in the world. Being a student in the capital was an incredible experience. The city that once daunted me is now the place that I call home.

My first room in London, Hackney 2010

Lights, camera, action

I have always wanted to be a writer, but when it came to the second year of my degree I decided to specialise in broadcast journalism. Before university I had never picked up a video camera, but I was (and still am) intrigued by the changes taking place in journalism.  With even traditional print publications developing their online content and working with moving image, I wanted to broaden my skills. I have now filmed, edited and presented a broad range of subjects (including a film about a city farm, a documentary about clothing issues faced post-mastectomy, and my final project film about unpaid internships in the fashion industry). 

 New York New York

During my second year at university I went to New York to interview David Jay, photographer behind The Scar Project. Travelling by myself and meeting such interesting people gave me a huge amount of confidence and taught me that distance isn't an insurmountable barrier.

Project P&G

One of my favourite units on my degree was an industry project, in which we did research for corporate client Procter and Gamble. Working on a ‘live’ project was a great experience. I particularly enjoyed presenting our findings to P&G at Burlington House. 

3 is the magic number

My third year at university was by far my favourite. It was also the most challenging, but working on an individual project with which I had such a strong connection (my final year was spent investigating unpaid internships in the fashion industry) drove me to produce work that I am proud of. The flexible timetable of the final year allowed me to work part time at Intern Aware, a great learning process that had me giving talks at universites and Parliament.

Third year also meant a huge amount of one on one support from staff. 

“Things do not change, we change” (said Henry Thoreau)

After three years of studying I have changed in more ways than I could have imagined before starting my degree. Although I am still interested in fashion (why people wear what they wear fascinates me), I have opened my eyes to other interests and options. I have discovered broadcast journalism, which I love. I have spoken out about the immoral use of unpaid labour and become a stronger person for it. But despite all these changes and my career shift away from fashion, I am still glad I studied at the London College of Fashion.

When I was a school student living in my hometown of Gillingham and tearing pages from Vogue, I dreamt of studying at the London College of Fashion. I am proud for following through the dream I had when I was 16, but also for shaping my experience at university in such a way to fit new dreams too.

And in the end it was probably fate that I study at the London College of Fashion. The college colour is pink. 

Libby

Thought of the Day: Lonely London

 London can be a lonely place to live. When I first moved here from a snoozy town in Dorset where the biggest attractions were the four supermarkets and the direct train line to the capital I felt like a young lion cub might after being released from captivity into the savannah. It was huge and beautiful and felt like the home I had been dreaming of, but at the same time it terrified me.

I said goodbye to Gillingham (fields, a street of estate agents and one nightclub on an industrial estate and with spirit-sticky floors) and hello to Hackney. I might as well have moved to the moon.

My first flat was a half hour walk to the nearest tube station, but during my first week instead of getting the five minute bus I chose to walk. I had no idea how to use my new Oyster card on buses (did I tap in or tap out or tap in and out?) and was much too embarrassed to ask my fellow passengers. I eventually managed to master my Oyster card, but it took me much longer to master the city.


I had moved to a place that was home to millions, yet for some (unknown) reason these millions of people didn't seem to want to be my friends. People didn't return my smiles on the tube and I soon learnt that the general rule was to avoid eye contact like yellow snow.

It didn't help that (unlike my friends who were spread out at universities across the country) the London College of Fashion didn't have a campus, I wasn't living in cosy halls, I had no fresher's week and the commute to my college building made me so exhausted that when I came home after classes all I wanted to do was put on my pyjamas, eat a bowl of cereal and go to bed. It probably goes without saying that I wasn't going to find my London friends under my bed.

I have now lived in London for two years. If I'm being honest, it can still be a lonely place to live. I am never going to be able to walk down every street and know everyone I pass (like I might back home in Dorset).

But there is hope.

I have made friends through uni, through my accomodation, Gumtree (which is how I found my house and housemates for my second year) and through other friends.

And every now and then a random interaction or a random burst of kindness will catch me by surprise and it will be like London is opening its arms and giving me a very brief but nonetheless warm hug. 

Sometimes a kind gentleman will help me with a suitcase up a flight of stairs. Some days the seats on the tube could be on fire for how quickly people jump up to offer a mother or elderly couple their seats. On a packed bus last week a woman with a pram boarded through the rear doors. All the passengers in the bus formed a chain and passed her Oyster card to the driver and back again to save her struggling to the front to tap in. When I was short by 50p for my coffee in a favourite café the owner told me I could pay the difference next time I came by. Today a man said "great outfit miss" as I walked past him. Last week a woman came over to where I was waiting for a friend to tell me she loved the colours I was wearing. On the same day I went to the National Portrait Gallery and had a conversation with an elderly gentleman who was admiring the same painting as me. I bought flowers yesterday and spoke with the florist about her dad who had owned the shop for 10 years, and my mum who owned a flower shop when I was born. One day last year a stranger sat next to me on the bus and we ended up having one of the most meaningful conversations I have ever had.

Recently one thing in particular has stood out and brightened my days: the 'Thought of the Day's written on signs inside underground stations across the city. This week I have seen several such quotes. I have seen a few before, but never so many. Maybe more stations are adopting this heartwarming quirk. Or maybe I have only just started noticing them.

The 'Thought of the Day's got me thinking about the nature of cities. Perhaps I don't talk to everyone I pass on the tube. But we are still all on the tube, going down the same escalator and passing the same quote written by workers who are wishing us well even if they have never met us.

A lonely place becomes a lot less lonely when you learn how to look at it in a different way.

That's my thought of the day.

Libby

A Year in the Life...

I am sat in my flat in London trying to pack a year into boxes and bags. The window is open and I can hear the sounds of the street I have come to think of as home. Upending bags and rifling my way through drawers, I am trying to catch my memories from this year before they run away. The smell of Columbia Road flower market, that Vietnamese restaurant in Shoreditch, the sound of pigeons jostling each other on the bridge on the way to London Fields, the American diner where I drank milkshake cocktails and found a friend, the flavours of those cupcakes in a bakery near Covent Garden, the play I watched at the Barbican, the Saturday market in a school playground.

Looking around me at piles of bags, shelves of books and a pinboard heavy with pictures and postcards, I can see traces of what has been a huge year.

I'm going to need more boxes.
My pinboard is like a map of the journeys I have been on this year. Here are some of the most memorable destinations:

The Day I had Lunch at Vogue

Before I describe my day at Vogue, I will say what you have probably already guessed: I didn't win. You would have heard by now if I had. A few weeks ago I received a letter from Alexandra Shulman that said: 'Thank you for coming to lunch at Vogue House, we all enjoyed meeting you. Although you haven't won this year's competition, as I said at lunch we had a record number of entries this year so to be a finalist is a huge achievement. Congratulations.' signed, Alexandra, Editor, Vogue.

It was as I had expected, and although I was initially disappointed I have now come to feel extremely proud to have got to the final eight, and I look back on the experience with nothing but happy memories of an incredible day.


On Friday the 8th of July at around 1:30pm, I was sat in Vogue House with a glass of champagne to my right, and the editor of Vogue to my left. We were chatting about the royal wedding and the future of the magazine industry, whilst eating pea and mint mash and smoked salmon in a room decorated with decades of Vogue covers.

It had been a long morning. I woke up at 8, excited but tired after a restless night (the thought of lunch at Vogue the next day is enough to turn you into an insomniac). Then for getting dressed.

What do you wear to Vogue House? In my case: a brand new outfit. I had been shopping with my mum the week before (a lovely if somewhat embarrassing experience. As I tried things on I could hear her the other side of the changing room door telling bemused sales assistants what my outfit was for), and found something that I loved. Above anything, I wanted to look like me. So I went for lunch at Vogue wearing a smart, nude coloured A-line dress and a bright orange jacket, worn with a bright orange and pink bag and matching shoes. I was hardly going to turn up in black, was I?

After several hours of waiting and then a busy tube journey, I arrived outside the doors of Vogue House at 12:30. An hour later I was upstairs with the judges and seven other finalists, sitting and chatting with Alexandra Shulman.

"How do you feel about the future of printed magazines?" she asked me.

I then found myself talking with Alexandra Shulman about many things I have long since felt: that printed magazines can no longer compete with the internet on providing up-to-date news or interactive material, but that shouldn't render them obselete. With the beautiful faces of generations of Vogue cover stars smiling down at me I felt even more strongly my belief that a magazine like Vogue is much more than a monthly style guide. It is a statement. When you pick Vogue off the shelf or let the glossy cover peak out from your handbag, you are saying something to the world about who you are, or, perhaps, who you want to be. For me the magic of Vogue is down to its stellar content that is on the pulse and provided by world-class contributors, but it is also the most glamorous of accessories. How do you wear your Vogue? Do you tuck it under your arm as you walk down the street, cover facing out so everyone knows which magazine you just bought? Do you roll it casually to say that you are someone who is effortless and cool when it comes to style? And when you have finished 'wearing' your copy, do you leave it on a coffee table for the benefit of your guests or use the covers to decorate your room?

Digital is brilliant. Moving image in particular gives an exciting new platform to magazines that looks set to become much more mainstream. But other than the obvious flaws of digital (do you really want to read a 1,000 word article on your iPhone? And what about having something you can hold and touch and stroke?) there is one big problem. You can't wear an app.

As we spoke, and I tried to manage talking and eating (the strategy, in the end, was to do very little of the latter), I kept wanting to pinch myself. I couldn't believe I was talking about all of this with the person who makes it happen.

Between courses the judges moved around to give them the chance to speak to as many people as possible. As well as Alexandra Shulman the judges also included many Vogue staffers, a previous finalist and Lisa Armstrong. It was surprising how relaxed the atmosphere was throughout the whole dinner. Of course I was nervous, but I found myself really enjoying myself. The food was exquisite and I was surrounded by people I admire and felt incredibly fortunate to meet.

When it was time to go I didn't want to leave Vogue behind. Luckily, for another hour at least, I didn't have to, as we were all given a guided tour of the building. I contemplated hiding in a fashion cupboard, or downstairs in the archive room where we were shown a library of fashion books and shelves and shelves of old Vogues, but in the end (and after one of the best afternoons of my life) a revolving door pushed me back out onto the street.

I stood in Hanover Square with the seven other contestants, shell-shocked. We all needed a drink, I decided, so I marched the eight of us to a nearby pub.

The other finalists were lovely, and in place of competitiveness was a real sense of comradery. When I eventually headed home I realised that although I probably hadn't won, I would be incredibly happy for whoever did. They would have thoroughly deserved it.

And besides, there's always next year... :)





Cake Day, 2011
When things are stressful and getting you down, what do you do? I make cake. And not just that, I organise my friends around the country to get baking too. Because sometimes there is just nothing quite like the smell of icing sugar and baking cupcakes.
Two Weeks in Colour

Two weeks, two colours. My two weeks spent in head to toe red and pink gave me a whole new confidence. When you no longer fear walking down Oxford Street dressed like a walking raspberry, not much seems that scary. And that is so much fun. The two weeks also taught me a lot about colour and inspired me to inject more of it into my wardrobe. Whether you like it or not, our clothes talk about us behind our backs. I just want my clothes to say nice things.
Cosmo Girl
Hard Work Pays Off
'Work Hard and Be Nice to People'. This is what I read every morning when I wake up, and the motto I try to live my life by. I am a strong believer that you get out of life what you put in, and most of the time I find that this is true. This year has been hard work, but it has been well worth it.

I recently finished my first year with a First and then spent a brilliant three weeks doing work experience on the features department at Woman and Home. As well as assisting at photo shoots and employing my masterful skills of 'coffee management' I also spent much of the time writing. And it made me so happy. Yes I do love fashion, but I have finally realised that I love writing more. So that is what I should be doing.

An interesting year, now packed up into boxes. Now onto the next...



Libby

LCF Colour Project - Work in Progress

Libby

Red Week, Wednesday

I am beginning to wonder how I will go back to normality next week. After two weeks of all-out colour, even the dull grey or black of my most trusted pair of tights seems an unattractive prospect.

"So what are you wearing today then?" has become a regular greeting, and amusing comments like today's, "you look like a cherry" are standard.

Of course I won't miss everything about looking like a walking stop sign. This morning a drunken man followed me down Sheperd's Bush road shouting "RED! RED!" after me, as though I was a rare species to be spotted or a dastardly villain to be persued. The image of an exotic animal appeals, and I have always like the sound of Miss Scarlet in the billiards room with the candlestick, but being neither I proceeded to speed-walk to college.

At lunch I pounced on the opportunity of talking to one of the few straight males on my course to get his view on the colour red. I asked him what the colour red on a woman said to a man. His answer was simple. Sex.

It's interesting to think about our clothes from different perspectives. Putting on my red lipstick this week I have seen someone strong and confident facing me off in the mirror. In my mind's eye the red me uses lipstick like warpaint and would casually slay batallions with a smile. Yet she certainly wouldn't give two hoots what any man thought about those painted lips; because Little Miss Red is no wallflower. But perhaps that is where the attraction lies.

I am finding out that different colours are heavy with different connotations, yet colour in itself can also be hugely powerful. In today's broadcast lecture we were experimenting setting up shots that used lighting and surroundings to reflect a certain mood or character. We followed our lecturer to a fragmented shard of afternoon light lingering in the courtyard, whereupon he pulled me out in front of the class to stand in the light. "Just look how this works," he said, my face turning as red as my outfit as a class full of intent eyes turned on me, "the light shines on her but just look at the grey surroundings (the 'courtyard' is a generous description for an industrial looking carpark)... dressed all in red she is a light too. This image says vibrancy, and a ray of sunshine in a dark world."

It makes me wonder how we have become so addicted to our wardrobes of grey and black anyway. For lots of people wearing black is a statement; much in the same way that wearing colour can say so much, the absence of it can be hugely important too. But for a lot of people I think the gloominess of their wardrobes is purely accidental. It goes something like this: you start with a black dress (because it's a classic). Right, it's cold so now we need tights (reach for those black opaques). Shoes next, and a pair of black pumps (because they are comfy and black goes with black after all). Finally it's time to put your coat on, and that is black too (because it was an 'investment' buy, so black seemed the fail-safe option). Before you know it you have left the house dressed like the Grim Reaper.

I have done it too. It's a vicious cycle that is difficult and, as these two weeks have proven, often socially unacceptable to break out of. But I don't care. I choose sunshine.

Libby

Pink Week, Wednesday

I'm rather getting used to looking like a raspberry.

You would think that dressing head to toe in shocking pink and having bemused glances following you like a shadow would test your confidence. But by day 3 of my Pink Challenge I feel more relaxed and confident than ever. One colour dressing takes the pressure out of fashion. I'm not doing this because I'm trying to look cool - I'm doing it because it's fun. Studying fashion journalism it would be easy to surrender to Mulberry bag and stiletto heel induced insecurities. Even for the most grounded and self-assured being surrounded by fashionistas on a daily basis can give rise to an unhealthy habit of comparisons and sartorial self-doubt.

Wearing pink this week has made me stand out like a sore thumb, but it has also transported me away from all my previous wardrobe worries. Perhaps ironically, being stared at and making people laugh with my clothes has actually lifted a burden. That burden relieved, worries are also lifted and I am free to just be me. Once you stop fearing walking down the street in head to toe pink, not a lot seems that scary - and that's when you can really have fun.

My pinkness has become a talking point for my coursemates. Today someone suggested having a 'Libby Day' where everyone wears something pink to uni. Others suggested everyone comes in dressed head to toe in different colours. When I said that perhaps next week I will have to resort to red AND black due to lack of clothing, everyone was so adamant that I should continue my experiment properly that they are bringing in things from their own wardrobes for me to borrow. My madness seems to be rubbing off. And I love it.

Libby

Pink Week, Tuesday

"Your favourite colour isn't blue by any chance?", says the bus driver with a wink as I swipe my oyster card with one hand, the other clutching my pink union jack basket. Sitting down by the window a smile and the sun spread across my face.

Day 2 of my Pink Challenge and it felt as if spring had arrived. This was helped, of course, by the fact that I was wearing a jumper emblazoned with bunny rabbits. On the bus a little girl in a pink coat looked up at me, wide-eyed and grinning; it seems I wasn't the only one who thought that bunnies plus jumper equaled wonderful.

Today I took pink to Sheperd's Bush - my uni base from Tuesday till Thursday.

Maybe it was the mild weather and sudden burst of sunshine giving winter a beating, but people in Sheperd's Bush were loving pink today.

Walking down Sheperd's Bush Road I was met by smiles peppered with the occasional, "hellooo." Admittedly, all from men. One Italian stopped me in my tracks, "You are a flower: beautiful." Creepiness swept aside, it did make me think about the gloomy prospect of returning to normality. I want to look like a flower every day.

In Tesco the man serving me was unTescoishly cheerful: "You look lovely today. What a lovely pink colour. Have a great day darling." When people are that nice to you how could you fail to have a good day?

Maybe pink puts people at ease. In the case of my Tesco experience: dressed like that I didn't exactly look like a shifty shoplifter. With associations of fairy princesses and mums in aprons, pink can create an aura of 'nice'ness (whether this niceness matches the wearer or not is another matter) that incites kindness. And, the potent colour of feminity, it also seems to stir the best manners amongst the male population.

I love how supportive my coursemates are of my pinkness. "Stand up then Libby, we want to see what you're wearing," "Your jumper is so cute," and "Hey Pinkie," headed my way as I arrived to my lecture.

When one of my friends walked in, however he looked horrified. For one terrifying moment I thought he was going to cry, or scream, or worse - both. When I asked him what was wrong he pointed to my shorts in horror, "THEY'RE BLUE!"

It looks like I will just have to dye the entire contents of my wardrobe. This pink thing seems to be sticking.

Libby

Pink Week, Monday

Getting dressed in the morning can often prove a nightmare. Sleepy indecision and an expanse of clothes can mean a one-way ticket to late-for-lecture-ville.

This morning's decision making process was short and sweet, as most of my wardrobe was off-limits. If it wasn't pink, it wouldn't do. And so, a pair of pink knickers, a pink bra, some pink tights, a pink stripey top, a pink spotty dress, a pink jumper, some pink shoes, a pink watch, two pink bags and a pink umbrella later, I was heading off to LCF.

Day 1 of my Pink Week Challenge:

I must admit that it was with a little trepidation that I ventured out of my flat. Was Hackney ready for my pink presence? And perhaps more importantly, was I? Had this experiment been a bad idea? Stepping out of my door I felt a sudden yearning for the comfort of a crowd. But there would be no melting into the crowd for me today.

The nerves soon disappeared, however - and all it took was looking down. A pink polka dot skirt was swishing around my knees, beneath which strode a pair of raspberry legs. Surrounded by my favourite colour, how could I fail to smile?

At the bus stop a gaggle of school girls spotted me and snickered. They looked me up and down in a way only teenage girls can do, sending me back a few years and threatening to bring back an all too familiar nausea. I decided not to let it bother me or dampen my spirits. They were, after all, wearing purple school uniform.

Smile still in tact, I arrived at the London College of Fashion, dressed head to toe in eye-popping pink.

Sitting down in my lecture I was met by smiles. "You look angelic," was one comment. "You make me think of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory," was another. Two people asked to take my photograph. At lunch people started chatting about different colours, and suggested different things I should do after the next two weeks.

Of course, not everyone was so accepting of the walking, talking, candifloss me. "What the hell?" drifted towards me down a library aisle. Leaving my lecture I heard a loud, "Wow," and not a good kind. Not that I minded. I had caught my reflection in windows enough times to be fully aware of how crazy I looked.

Maybe I looked crazy, but I loved it.

Day 1 of being pink has felt liberating. I love LCF, but as one of the world's most famous fashion colleges it would be naive to think that sartorial choices aren't taken seriously here. Like a shadow you can't shake off there is always that niggling thought that you might be being judged. Dressing head to toe in pink I have fully accepted that I will be judged. But knowing where I stand is actually a massive relief. That worry off my shoulders I was free to just enjoy looking like a dolly mixture, and smile.

Walking down Oxford Street some people looked me up and down. But I could tell that most people were stopping themselves from staring, nonchalantly pretending that they saw someone this pink every day. One old man on the bus home wasn't so painfully, Britishly subtle. He stared. Then he looked away. Then he stared again. Out of the corner of my eye this flitting dance continued for 15 minutes until I got off the bus. I arrived home laughing. Surely that is a good way to end the first day of a very pink week?

Libby