Didn’t I Feed You Yesterday?

Iceland. Once we were in the City of Lights, it wasn’t like we could pop open the champagne and enjoy a sidewalk cafe, two of the best parts of any trip to France. In fact, we spent the entire time indoors, in an unair-conditioned space, during an intense heat wave. Poor Angela, who was by far the most excited to go to Paris, was eliminated practically as soon as she exited customs and had to turn back around.

Our challenge was to make a haute couture outfit, which was then featured on a canal boat on the Seine, the only time we were let out of our dank cave. My dress looked great on the boat, but the starched frill collar apparently soaked up the humid air off the river; by the time it got across the ocean and onto the elimination runway in New York, I was shocked to find myself at the bottom of the group. My dress had been well received in Paris, and it didn’t occur to me that the damage done during transport was that significant. Thank God Vincent made an awful upholstery fabric dress that sent him packing; it would have been embarrassing to be sent home with that still up there on the runway.

A couple of challenges later, I made it into the final four, and we were all let out of our prisons for two months to toil on our collections. Thrilled to be out of the company of my captors, I headed straight for Peter’s office. I wanted to see him the most. The entire time I was sequestered, people would ask, “Don’t you miss your kids?” “Sure, but I miss my husband more” was always my answer. I mean, I knew him first, and he is the person with whom I share the events of my day, the one who helps me solve the problems that overwhelm me. He is the only person who will tell me if my butt looks big. I need him. He had no idea we were being released, so he was considerably surprised to see me waddle into his office. He walked my bloated and exhausted body home and on the way revealed to me that though he didn’t know everything, he did know quite a bit of what I had been through. He had found a connection. Manhattan is an island after all. Your brother-in-law’s housekeeper’s sister may be a ticket agent at Delta, or the lady who owns your dry cleaner’s ex-husband is the security guard at Parsons. I’m not sure exactly how Peter got his information, but through the subway grapevine, Peter knew that my mother had visited, and that I had gone to Paris. He knew that I had won only one challenge, and—most important, he said—he knew that the baby and I were fine. He was angry about our sleep schedule, so he had made it a habit to call the production assistant who was in charge of the contestants every morning at five A.M. and hang up, for revenge. He even came to Parsons once, bluffing his way past the security guard and even making it all the way to the workroom, but we were out, possibly digging through garbage for the materials for our next challenge.

I’m constantly asked how, with five kids, I managed all the work required for the show. The truth is, my husband had a much harder time than I did. As contestants, we were completely sequestered until the finale break. There were no soothing phone calls to toddlers or trips to the drugstore. Every contact with the outside world was carefully monitored and recorded, which limited both spontaneity and sentimentality. I’m not really the type to get all blubbery with a camera in my grille. We didn’t have any free time to read magazines or watch TV, which was a good thing because we weren’t allowed to anyway. For six weeks, Peter completely pulled the weight of the four kids at home. He was father and mother at the same time. By comparison, competing was easy. For the first time in seventeen years, I didn’t have to feed or bathe someone else, I didn’t have to worry about anyone but myself, and I was the one being taken care of to a great extent. The producers drove us everywhere we needed to go, provided endless food and drink, and even told us when to sleep and when to sew. It was a lot like being a fashion-conscious toddler.

Once liberated, I took a day off to hear about everything that had happened while I was away—who lost how many teeth, what boy hit which kid, who learned to do what at which summer camp—and then set to work, knowing that whatever I was about to create, it would have a lot of handwork on it that only I could execute. By the time Tim came for his midway visit, I had more than half my garments completed. It was great to see him, though when he warned me that everything was looking “too Laura” I decided I didn’t care if I lost as long as everything I made was as beautiful as it could be. It was during this visit that he told me why he had initially quailed at my audition: he didn’t believe that I had made those three dresses myself. The work was too intricate, he said, I didn’t look like I had the patience to string beads and sew them onto a dress. I laughed, discreetly touching his arm.

“How do you feel now?” I asked him. “Should I sign up for classes at Parsons?”

“Laura”—he looked at me in his trademark semi-serious way—“you could teach classes at Parsons.”

“Thanks,” I said, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by all that had happened since that first phone call, and with all that was still to come—the finale and the upcoming birth of my sixth child. “I might just do that.”

During our shooting hiatus, the show began to air and people started recognizing me on the street. This was totally unexpected, and I was eager for Peter to witness a sighting. One day, instead of going to work, he came with me to Mood Fabrics, a store featured prominently on the show and a place I knew I would score. We spent a good half hour feeling up fabric, and not one person came up to me with the now familiar “Are you Laura from Project Runway?” I finally gave up; then, just as we were exiting the store, a woman approached. I nudged Peter to pay attention and put an open look on my face.

“Excuse me,” she said, looking at my husband. “Aren’t you Peter Shelton, the architect?” So much for budding celebrity.

WHEN WE RECONVENED FOR FASHION WEEK, I WAS SUSPICIOUS OF the intricate finishing work done on Jeffrey’s collection. For the most part I got along well with the other contestants, even Jeffrey, who would say nasty things about me in the safety of the interview room but never to my face. He only picked on the weaker contestants in person—or, in the case of the Every Woman challenge, their mothers. Still, we all shared our tools and critiques and generally were pleasant to one another.

Craftsmanship is like a signature, it doesn’t change and I felt Jeffrey’s garments were not consistent with the work I had seen him do. The other two finalists agreed, and I decided I needed to say something to the producers. If I didn’t, I would regret it forever. I am known for my candor and operating without filters, but in this case I carefully considered the ramifications of speaking up and took the burden completely on myself, leaving Michael and Uli out of the equation. Ironically, “Don’t cause any trouble” had been the last bit of advice Peter gave me before I left for the finale. But this was not about causing trouble; if I was going to lose, it had to be because I simply wasn’t the best. I couldn’t accept going down against illicit work.

In the end I was satisfied with the course of action the producers decided was most prudent. Ultimately Jeffrey went on to win the show, and I was pleasantly surprised by how relieved I was by garnering runner-up status; now I wouldn’t forever be tied to having been a reality show winner and there would be no pressure to create a full fashion line for the following fall shows. I did feel that Uli was robbed, though; she should rightly have won. If Jeffrey sewed all of his garments himself, then I wish him luck. Otherwise, karma’s a bitch.

Someone said to me that not winning could be a real advantage. He was right. I have heard that contestants on Survivor get paid $10,000 to participate whether they win or lose. Contestants on Project Runway aren’t paid a dime. As Heidi would say, you’re either in or you’re out—of the money, that is. Either you win $100,000 or you go home with an empty bag. And after all, my dream was to watch the show with my friends and family, which for one brief shining season we did, from beginning to bittersweet end.

To satisfy my reality television cravings, I have had to start watching Top Chef. I’m not a foodie—I don’t cook and I don’t even necessarily enjoy eating—but I do love hearing the judges speak about the food and listening to the chefs explain their decisions. As it turns out, cooking is just another design solution, using sunchokes and geoduck instead of satin and chiffon. I’m right back where I started, as my family won’t watch with me, but this time I won’t be packing my knives and standing in any audition lines.

SIX AND THE CITY

^{“There’s nothing like a root canal to secure some guilt-free me time.”}

EVERY NOW AND THEN, I’LL HAVE ONE OF THOSE days where I walk my feet off all over New York City, chasing down some fabric, picking up one kid, handing off another, meeting with a producer, going on an interview, having lunch with a friend, and dropping a pair of run-down Manolos at shoe rehab. At the end of that kind of day, I