One final look at the innerworkings of a Marchesa show.
At last, the show.
At an entrance that lead through Vanderbilt Hall on Wednesday afternoon, a sign for pedestrian onlookers read, “The Vanderbilt Hall entrance to Main Concourse will be closed on Wednesday from Noon to 6PM.”
Power, I thought. After all, only a select few players could successfully shut down an establishment so vital for the transportation process for a full six hours on a weekday.
The chosen ones walked through the entrance, into the elegantly lit high ceiling room where rows and rows of gilded chairs were aisled and configured to produce a very long u-shaped runway. Among the front row loiterers: Kim Kardashian, Kanye West, Olivia Palermo, Anna dello Russo and Anna Wintour. Quite promptly, the large photo pits snapping at the high volume of celebrity guests dissipated while everyone else found their seats–lights dimming, the familiar tunes from Monday’s session at Georgina Chapman’s studio started to play. Inexplicably, it was comforting.
The view through Kelly Framel’s camera lens.
“I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave.”
In lime green shorts, blouse and Louboutin kitten heels, Isabelli Fontana opened the show. A combination of lovely movement procurers (see: above,) walked way and some innovative silhouettes including a cropped multi-layered peplum top and sheer skirts paired with humble underwear had me quite genuinely second guess my impatient motivation to get married before this show previewed. A cropped white blouse with a sheer white maxi skirt–why couldn’t I think of that?
“Breathtaking,” I heard several women remark on our way out. It was with no mistake: the embroidery came alive, music at perfect pitch and these are the silhouettes that constantly reinterpret the way we view formal wear. Six hours later, at the Darby hosted after party, generous compliments showed no sign of halt.
A three course meal waited for its guests in a room composed of twelve tables, all marked with Marchesa menues. Half an hour post start time, Chapman walked into the room dressed in white feathers, Karen in one of the ubiquitous black dresses equipped with flowy, pleated long sleeves. The two looked relieved, happy to be among their guests and perhaps most important, with an air of accomplishment about it.
“It was your best yet,” I heard a guest tell Chapman. She humbly thanked him, seemingly quite surprised to hear such high regard toward the collection. Cocktail chatter continued for a mere fifteen minutes until guests were summoned to sit at their assigned tables. Once seated, Chapman thanked her guests for joining and a live musical performance ensued.
I forked at the branzino before me, admiring the beautiful people in the room. In just a day, real life would recommence and the lavish events of the previous fashion week would linger just as the frozen memories my camera lens had captured.