It’s 7:30AM on Monday morning and I am out of bed with bags under my eyes. At no point during the course of this day will they go away but I am about to make a matcha latte and though it won’t help, it will taste really, really good. I’m easing over to my computer and am about to finish writing Sunday evening’s review. I’m going to call it Fashion’s Knit Worth because it is sweater city out there and I will do anything to write a bad pun. My jokes are worse than your dad’s and that’s a fact I’m comfortable with.
At 9:15, I begin to get dressed. First I put on a white turtleneck and layer a blue sweater from Uniqlo over it. I’m wearing high waist black Acne jeans, a pair of white socks and Stella McCartney loafers. I will put a blue blazer over this — but wait! — Rosie’s presentation is today, RECALL. Turtleneck stays on, Uniqlo sweater color changes (to beige), jeans become blue denim, shoes become black patent leather and Alaia and then, the bravura: a floor dusting orange blazer coat from spring that really has no place subsisting in New York right now but for the love of silk, it is fashion week, it is Rosie day and I? I am a mascot.
I leave home at 10AM for The Row’s presentation on Greenwich Street. I get there at 10:20, sit down next to a group of German editors yelling at each other in German and then the show starts. The opening looks include thick, thick knit skirts and corresponding sweaters. They look a lot warmer than my orange duster. There is a pinstriped three piece suit that makes me want to yell THAT’S MY LEWK (this is a recurring theme of the day) and there are brogues to boot — and when I say boot, I mean boot out boots. (Cue that thing about my jokes being worse than your dad’s.)
At 11AM, I am left with an hour between the end of The Row, which was as comfortably endemic to Mary-Kate and Ashley’s neo-DNA as it should be, and Theory. I go to Adidas on Broadway because dammit, I want a pair of Stan Smiths. They are sold out as fuck though, which is different than just regular sold out in that the smallest size they have is a men’s 11, which I could conceivably buy one of, cut in half and wear on both feet but, nah. I leave to get tea which makes me as happy as a pair of stark white sneakers would and then head to Amelia’s to pick her up pre-show. She has just left the doctor for the 54th time this week and I am starting to believe she should relocate to Boca. That way, she can chat ailments with my great grandmother.
At 12PM, I get to Theory and as I’m walking into the venue (Spring Studios), a lot of street style photographers are taking my photo. This makes perfect sense as I look a lot like a traffic regulator but once I get inside, I forget all about that. I’m seated at Theory and the show starts. It is a wonderful deviation from Olivier Theyskens’ last collection. There is an opening sweater dress over trousers. Every look is coupled with white pumps. The selection of button up blouses that are slightly sheer and mega-lightweight trench coats appear as the most seamless wardrobe updates for next season.
Two embroidered coats set on thick green leather stand out to demonstrate Theyskens’ indelible design capability and one particular shirt dress plus peplum blazer and trouser look makes me yell, THAT’S MY LEWK.
After Theory, I head to Rosie’s presentation at Industria Studios where I see her parents and hug them and chat with her in-laws and her husband and drop my jaw approximately 16 times as I circle the presentation to admire the velvet stripe work (one dress I’ve dubbed the SOCHIc dress — it is white and features two red vertical velvet lines — an Instagram commenter calls it the bacon dress. I like that one more). I am prouder than Obama’s mother to find that Rosie has used the Man Repeller x Superga sneakers on half of her models. They look majestic with gowns. The game is over. Rosie just won fashion week.
At 2PM, there is Karen Walker and at 3PM, there is Phillip Lim. At that show, I am seated on a long bench that is choc full of bloggers. This, I think, is the physical manifestation of the internet. There are seafoam green tights which I deeply appreciate and teddy-bear fur jackets silhouetted like those of the denim variety.
Just after Phillip Lim, I stop at Jack’s Studios at the end of the world (12th Avenue) to participate in a quick shoot for The Outnet which is celebrating its 5th birthday. I dance around like an asshole and then bow out to make it to Thom Browne. The venue is modeled after a church. I only know this because I went to the Vatican in Rome one time.
The show starts at 5:40, the photo pit yells THANK GOD!, everyone laughs and then Thom’s women come. I don’t quite know the proper terms for all these disciple-like individuals traipsing very slowly but they are mostly men and wearing lace covers over their faces. The models begin to emerge and in a slow, paced walk remind us that fashion week isn’t only about clothes — it is about design and technique and a matter of taking layman fabrics and turning them into something spectacular. The color palette ranges from gray to black to breathtaking gold. The models have their hair dyed white and it is teased quite widely but still tucked into their blouses. The ultimate neck scarf hair, me thinks.
There is one front row squatter with Squidward hair impairing everyone’s sight behind her.
At 6PM, the show ends and I go home to change out of my traffic control jacket. I put on black boots, leather pants, an embroidered Dries Van Noten mens blouse and go back to Chelsea where the Honor show will be held. Not before I lose my phone! Which is actually just still in my purse. When I get to Honor, I spot Claire from Fivestory who makes me want to cry tears of joy and then I sit down across from Zosia Mamet of Girls fame, who I have to tell you, is an absolute delight and Solange Knowles who emanates that same Beyon-sense of You Make Me Want to Be a Better Woman.
Then, I go to a restaurant on the Lower East Side, eat some plantain chips with Amelia while I am forced to watch her struggle to swallow (her tonsils are inflamed), shimmy back and forth approximately six times and then go home where I am met by the log-like y-chromosome carrier I accidentally married two years ago, laying across my bed and enveloping all four corners. His phone at eye level, he scrolls and scrolls. When I ask what he is doing, he explains that he is tired of sitting because he has been doing it all day. I exchange some texts and then my eyes close.
I wake up on Tuesday to a message. It is from Amelia. She asks if I am wearing a turtleneck or a button down. I tell her I am wearing both.
Illustration by Charlotte Fassler — get it? LINCOLN Center? MILK Studios?