marchioness > about > fashion fairytale
Marchi-grrrls, indulge me a moment while I tell you the tale of how Marchioness came to be…
You see, I wasn't always an Editor-in-Chief — they never are, darlings! Once upon a time, I was a Surrey girl who fled to the big smoke with ostentatious dreams of fashion grandeur. In fact, the seed for Marchioness was planted by a fuckboy who will not be named. Said fuckboy dated, dumped and deleted moi in typical fuckboy-fashion. His parting words came in the form of an iMessage: "it was fun being in your world for a little while xo." I took to drinking my weight in Martinis, blacking out two whole fashion seasons (total travesty) and swearing off fuckboys for life. After a brief stint in an LA rehab — with veins flushed free of Champagne — I returned to those words, contemplating the world I inhabited: a fast-paced, chain-smoking, latte-drinking, power-suit-wearing lifestyle where the pursuit of the bourgeois was everything. I wondered whether, perhaps, my fierce, femme fashionista ways could one day inspire a personal project...thus the seeds of Marchioness were sown.
Fast forward to 2019: Marchioness was born out of my mounting frustration at post-graduate life. The IRL experience of The Devil Wears Prada didn't translate off-screen quite as I had dreamed. My life as an unpaid fashion slave was garbage. With sky-high rents, a salary of £0-per-month, and a penchant for boug living, my mounting debts spiralled out of control. After one too many towering Starbucks-runs, as well as witnessing a Marc Jacobs mule circa 98' flung at a fellow intern (ouch!!!), I stubbed out my Vogue ciggy once and for all. Ideas of a glamorous fashion utopia faded along with my fortune.
You see, Marchi-grrrls, a love for fashion had sustained me since birth. Rumour has it, I walked straight out the womb in 6-inch Louboutins! Stripped of couture and caffeine (the essential makeup of my identity), months passed by in a Fendi-free blur. I took to flogging my designer archive on eBay (Vivienne Westwood, Prada, Miu Miu oh my!) in a bid to pay off debts, vowing to leave my fashion slaving habits behind me.
Fast forward to 2020: Mourning in black sweatpants, caffeine highs and corset training a distant memory. I was still flogging my archive — one of a kind Miu Miu patent leather court shoes were the last to go. In a final farewell, I slipped them Cinderella-style, surprised to find my eyes fill with tears. Tears of admiration for the regal beauty of the Miu Miu's, along with admiration for Miuccia Prada, the designer of such blissful creations. Realising my love of fashion couldn't be buried, I vowed there and then to create my own fashion utopia. A world unconfined by the constraints of the fashion industry. A world where I would be free to write the untold stories of style slayers. A world where unethical tales of the interning experience could inspire comedic parodies, rather than exist as a shitty and depressing reality. That eve, I lit a cherry cola cigarette and watched as the pink smoke fizzed into the air. I mused for a moment at the strange turn of events, then set to work building the world of Marchioness.
My ambition is to one day have a little office known as Marchioness HQ with a plaque saying 'Editor-in-Chief' on my desk. A place overflowing with archives of magazines and clothes, where I can sit sipping triple-shot lattes, writing interviews and organising shoots. Freelancers and friends will come and go, whilst my dog (a whippet) to be named Sasha Velour, sits by my side, chewing backdated issues of Vogue.