By Zachary D. Roberts
By Anna Merlan
By Jon Campbell and Laura Shunk
By Albert Samaha
By Amanda Dingyuan
By Anna Merlan
By Anna Merlan
By Albert Samaha
7:57 p.m. Fashion Week doesnt officially start until tomorrow, but I already have a gift bag! I get it at FITs Madam Gres exhibit, a retrospective honoring the French designer who was famous for her sculptural evening dresses and her pluck standing up to the Nazis, as well as a borderline-nutty reclusivenesswhen she passed away penniless at 90, her daughter kept her death a secret for over a year. Equally weird is the contents of the gift bag: not the usual lavender eye shadow or rock-hard granola bar, but three starkly unglamorous boxes of something called Cura-heat, Air activated Therapeutic Hat packs, that nevertheless may prove useful in the week ahead.
4:25 p.m. The Milanese magazine editor next to me, who is sporting a Cartier Baignoire watch, muses before the Yeohlee show (black tights; quilted ponchos) about her recent visit to Prada on Fifth Avenue: Organza pajamas! You look like you work in a mental institution and became one of your patientsjust try it on! And $4,000!
6:51 p.m. Rushing in the rain from Rachel Comey (little white socks; librarian dresses) to Erin Fetherston in the Bryan Park tents (chiffon minis), I see something I really like, but its not on a runway: Its a squashed gray cardigan in the window of super-cheap Forever 21. Its either artfully wrinkled in the manner of Martin Margiela or has simply been hung on the mannequin unpressed.
12:11 p.m. Amid the wood paneling and chandeliers at the Prince George ballroom, Costello Tagliapietra (leopard prints; pencil skirts) offers frocks seemingly inspired by Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dresses, which is as close as Ill get to DVF this season because Diane dumped me from her guest list. Is it because I wrote how silly I think her attempts to copyright her designs are? (In fashion, like co-op boards, country clubs, and sororities, you never know why youre blackballed.) Oh, well. When Costello and Tagliapietra emerge at the end of the show, two big bears clad in plaid and suspenders and holding handstheyve been partners in business and life for yearsI realize Id rather wear a lumberjack shirt and a pair of braces than a jersey dress any day.
6:37 p.m. Anna Wintour and Bergdorf Goodmans Linda Fargo are in the audience at Threeasfour (satin draping; puffy capes)a long way from the days when this design collective, then known as AsFour (the fourth member departed after a hideous quarrel and now has his own line), used to let its pit bull do a manic spin down the runway at the end of the show, which terrified me. When I reminisce about this with Threeasfours Adi Gil, she shakes her head. Thats a long time ago, Lynn, she says, resplendent in a piebald gray vintage fur that has been tricked out with sequined patches. Weve grown up.
6:16 p.m. Lingering before the Jonathan Saunders show (chiffon 1930s dresses; crystal pleating), I fall into conversation with a guy who is recording somethinga podcast, maybe?and is sporting a grosgrain ribbon fashioned around his neck like a bow tie. The Goodwill is the only place to shop, he tells me softly, shortly before a parade of Saunders frocks, which retail in the $3,000 range, saunter down the catwalk.
2:19 p.m. At Betsey Johnson (denim cat suits; wallpaper prints), the theme is Beat Girl, and Betseyever the meticulous curatorhas decked out round tables at the edge of the runway with Chianti bottles, candles, and packs of candy cigarettes. Miles Davis blares over the sound system, but my suspicion that this Kerouac-ian fantasy of MacDougal Street circa 1955 is lost on many of the viewers is confirmed when I ask the fresh-faced Web editor sporting a Chanel purse (real? fake?) next to me what she thinks its all about, and she replies uncertainly: Um, were in a café where we can smoke? The show begins with three bongo players in berets and striped shirts. In a development that would have delighted Neil Cassady, one errant boob pops out of a too-small shirt halfway down the runway.
9:48 p.m. Even before the Blonds show begins (crystal-encrusted bustiers; leather pants with spiked knee pads), I see something Im interested in: a skinny guy in the front row wearing an abbreviated denim jacket with an elaborately beaded CUNT across the back. My boyfriend made it for me, he explains, because I can be one sometimes. (Two seconds later, the cunt is booted from the front row to the peanut gallery.)
1:10 p.m. En route from Rodarte (Degas ballet frocks; itchy cobweb knits) to J Mendel (mismatched earmuffs; furry cummerbund belts), I ask a colleague about the Gucci party tomorrow night, the party of the year! The century! He tells me its to celebrate a new store opening, and something about Malawibut no, he clarifies, the store isnt in Malawi, and its a benefit and they sold tickets, but all the celebrities and fashion people who are invited (not me) didnt pay a cent.
10:05 p.m. I take a break from watching Keith Olbermann announce election returns and walk down to the packed Prada party, where a film called Trembled Blossoms, featuring a cartoon gamine in an art nouveau dress, is being projected over the stores zebrawood staircase. The hors doeuvreshardly bigger than hanging chadsinclude, according to a waitperson as handsome as any model, truffle foie gras on a raisin crisp.
1:55 p.m. On a crosstown bus after the VPL show (brassieres sewn into shirts), a photographer tells me he was appalled at the vast sums expended on some of the showsSass & Bide; Rock & Republicearlier in the week. What are they doing? he says. Dont they know about the recession?
5:25 p.m. In the sepulchral light of the Calvin Klein show (double-faced wools; grown-up coats), I leaf through todays Womens Wear Daily: On page three, an article entitled Armory Scandal: Marc Jacobs Intl. in Bribery Probe (exciting! fun!) shares space with Macys to Cut 2,5550 Jobs in Restructuring.
6:22 p.m. Here is what Harvey Weinstein, Helena Christianson, Spike Lee in an Obama T-shirt, and other denizens of the front row at the Sean Jean show (toreador silhouettes; spangled scarves) get to witness: a model in a fitted fur-collared jacket and a pair of sharp trousers trailing a piece of toilet paper stuck to a gleaming shoe all the way down the runway.
7:17 p.m. Why is Vogues Grace Coddington flying like a flame-haired bat out of hell down Lexington Avenue? Because crazy Marc Jacobs, who was roundly castigated for keeping his audience waiting over two hours during last falls Fashion Week, has, in a childish fuck-you gesture, begun his show (blue-white ghosts; maybe hats?) ridiculously earlyearlier than any show has ever started since Coco Chanel sent mannequins down her staircase in 1922. When I arrive in the K-Jelly-sponsored Town Car (you dont want to know), I can no longer reach my ignominious sixth-row seat and linger with the other latecomers (some of them famous!) near the photo pit. I cant see a thing, leaving me to stare off into the darkness and wonder if anyone in the great buying public will use her $600 government stimulus rebate to purchase a single MJ boot or a half pair of his pants?