Square. And what I felt in my bones was that I’d absolutely 100 percent worn the wrong thing. Over the next eight weeks of this sometimes-glamorous internship, there would be many days where I felt this way. It was too late. Like all new interns, I gave my name to the security guard in the lobby and he sent me on my way. The thought going through my head was simple: How did I get here?
In the twelfth-floor lobby I was greeted by the manager of the accessories closet—located across the hall from the fashion closet—and after the briefest of office tours I was deposited in our cramped, windowless space. There were four desks around the perimeter of the accessories closet, plus a wall of the latest handbags and Manolos kept under lock and key. But most of the action took place around a center island, a mess of drawers with tissue paper on top. This was where we stored all of the jewelry for the upcoming Vogue photo shoots. Millions of dollars in gold and baubles passed through that room every day. In the accessories closet, we, the overwashed masses of interns, huddled around the island and cataloged the pieces that came in, taking Polaroids of the jewels on fresh tissue paper and then immediately packing them back up so they would be ready to go out on a shoot.
No one at Vogue told me any of this, by the way. We were taught not to ask questions. What little I knew about my job responsibilities came from the other interns. It was a high-pressure office; that much I understood. Do you know that scene in The Devil Wears Prada where Meryl Streep arrives early to the office and the editors scramble around trying to put themselves together before she shows up? That really happens. I know this because one day early that summer a girl wearing denim and unimpressive heels was unexpectedly called into Anna Wintour’s office. I’ve never seen someone give themselves a makeover so quickly. In five minutes, this girl had gone into the fashion closet and changed into a dress, grabbed a pair of Manolos, and put on a full face. I thought, Vogue really is a magical place.
As an intern at Vogue . I worked in the accessories closet and never needed a reason to try on a Dior fur hat. There’s now a no-try-on rule for interns, and if you’re caught messing around you can be fired. Thankfully, that rule wasn’t in place in 2004.
----
“Vogue really is a magical place.”
----
From the outside, the environment was pretty—all fresh-cut flowers and scrubbed-clean faces. But underneath it could be a minefield. We had thirty minutes to eat, and we barely took that. You certainly didn’t bring food back up to your desk. You weren’t checking in jewelry while eating a Cobb salad. I learned very quickly that we interns had to compete among one another like the kids in The Hunger Games . We were all angling for the same prize: the chance to go on a real Vogue photo shoot. That was the golden ticket. That was our raison d’être. But how to get there? I didn’t know how to act. And so I acted like someone from the movies. I acted like I imagined someone who has an apartment in the West Village and an internship at Condé Nast should act. I was impossibly serious at all times. I was asleep by eleven. I went to Broadway shows. I went to bookstores and art galleries. I acted like my idea of a Manhattan grown-up.
----
“I was asleep by eleven. I went to Broadway shows. I went to bookstores and art galleries. I acted like my idea of a Manhattan grown-up.”
----
If every day there felt like a test—and it did—I was desperate to find a study partner. And suddenly there she was. I noticed her shorts first. They were Libertine— the downtown label of the moment—and I was endlessly impressed. Even though Libertine shorts were basically chinos purchased at the Goodwill, washed a million times, and then silk-screened with, like, a picture of an eyeball and sold for $900, they were very hip. The girl wearing them interned in the fashion
In the twelfth-floor lobby I was greeted by the manager of the accessories closet—located across the hall from the fashion closet—and after the briefest of office tours I was deposited in our cramped, windowless space. There were four desks around the perimeter of the accessories closet, plus a wall of the latest handbags and Manolos kept under lock and key. But most of the action took place around a center island, a mess of drawers with tissue paper on top. This was where we stored all of the jewelry for the upcoming Vogue photo shoots. Millions of dollars in gold and baubles passed through that room every day. In the accessories closet, we, the overwashed masses of interns, huddled around the island and cataloged the pieces that came in, taking Polaroids of the jewels on fresh tissue paper and then immediately packing them back up so they would be ready to go out on a shoot.
No one at Vogue told me any of this, by the way. We were taught not to ask questions. What little I knew about my job responsibilities came from the other interns. It was a high-pressure office; that much I understood. Do you know that scene in The Devil Wears Prada where Meryl Streep arrives early to the office and the editors scramble around trying to put themselves together before she shows up? That really happens. I know this because one day early that summer a girl wearing denim and unimpressive heels was unexpectedly called into Anna Wintour’s office. I’ve never seen someone give themselves a makeover so quickly. In five minutes, this girl had gone into the fashion closet and changed into a dress, grabbed a pair of Manolos, and put on a full face. I thought, Vogue really is a magical place.
As an intern at Vogue . I worked in the accessories closet and never needed a reason to try on a Dior fur hat. There’s now a no-try-on rule for interns, and if you’re caught messing around you can be fired. Thankfully, that rule wasn’t in place in 2004.
----
“Vogue really is a magical place.”
----
From the outside, the environment was pretty—all fresh-cut flowers and scrubbed-clean faces. But underneath it could be a minefield. We had thirty minutes to eat, and we barely took that. You certainly didn’t bring food back up to your desk. You weren’t checking in jewelry while eating a Cobb salad. I learned very quickly that we interns had to compete among one another like the kids in The Hunger Games . We were all angling for the same prize: the chance to go on a real Vogue photo shoot. That was the golden ticket. That was our raison d’être. But how to get there? I didn’t know how to act. And so I acted like someone from the movies. I acted like I imagined someone who has an apartment in the West Village and an internship at Condé Nast should act. I was impossibly serious at all times. I was asleep by eleven. I went to Broadway shows. I went to bookstores and art galleries. I acted like my idea of a Manhattan grown-up.
----
“I was asleep by eleven. I went to Broadway shows. I went to bookstores and art galleries. I acted like my idea of a Manhattan grown-up.”
----
If every day there felt like a test—and it did—I was desperate to find a study partner. And suddenly there she was. I noticed her shorts first. They were Libertine— the downtown label of the moment—and I was endlessly impressed. Even though Libertine shorts were basically chinos purchased at the Goodwill, washed a million times, and then silk-screened with, like, a picture of an eyeball and sold for $900, they were very hip. The girl wearing them interned in the fashion
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