It is 11:43PM on Thursday, February 27th and I am eating a bag of mixed nuts from my hotel room’s mini bar which is actually a mini refrigerator (why don’t more people discern the difference between a bar and a fridge, I ask?) while sipping on what I imagine will manifest itself as a bottle of Pellegrino that costs seven euros upon checkout.
My computer is currently at an impressive 70% battery while it rests on my lap, knees up, and I type to it jovially, thinking about how many times I will have to brush my teeth between now and the time I actually fall asleep so to avoid coming upon a similar debacle I faced yesterday wherein my lower left wisdom tooth acted like a particular mother fucker and forced me to remain with my hands over my left cheek, asking humanity why — just, why? — for about three hours. But that is neither here nor there, so, let’s talk Thursday, yeah?
8:15AM: My iPhone sings the song of death or, in other words, the alarm goes off. I snooze until 8:45 at which point I am impressed with how well Advil works. I can barely remember that the night before I was one wrench away from yanking my own tooth out but, again, that is neither here nor there. My first show of the day — Carven — is at 11AM and if I’d like to file reviews for the previous day and eat breakfast prior to the show, I better hop to it.
I write the review.
I get dressed (black jeans, white turtleneck, grey sweater, navy coat, navy shoes).
I drink coffee.
I spill coffee everywhere save for the white turtleneck and giggle. Joke’s on the jeans, sucka.
11AM: I arrive at Carven on a street called Avenue des Gobelins. I take it to mean goblins live there and am very excited to see if Buffy the Vampire Slayer occupies the parallel space. Evidently she does not, but there is a hat on my head and said hat falls into a big puddle of water. I pick it up, walk ten more steps, and enter the show venue.
The show starts at 11:40AM and it is cool. There is red, there is mustard (the color, not the condiment) and in the final looks there are erratic arrows that to me, seem to have been pointing at both the past and the future — a nod to the derivation of this collection. In my show notes I wrote “remember the Romy and Michelle High School Reunion and Hand over Boob dress.” At 11:47PM the same day, of course I do not.
12:15PM: I come back to my hotel and change because my feet are very wet, though I am clearly not particularly practical because I put on pumps instead of boots, coupled with a floral Nina Ricci dress and black jeans + a black leather jacket because YOLO. I eat more food, talk more shit, see people I love (sister-in-law + Dannijos aka DanniHOs) and time flies.
3PM: I arrive at the Balmain show which takes 45 minutes to start because we are waiting for Rihanna to arrive, who does not. I am wearing near 75 layers and holding an umbrella even though the sun has shown itself and explained its commitment to stay around.
There are several military-style cloaks at this show. Lots of cargo pants. Rosie Huntington-Whiteley twice, and the second such reference to an untimely, perhaps embryonic resurgence of leopard print. Are we ready? I mean really really? Really?
4PM: I get on the Metro and head toward the Tuileries where I am to meet Peter Copping, the designer of Nina Ricci, backstage. I like nobody more than I do him and appreciate his understanding of a woman’s body. He tells me the collection was meant to harken back to Ricci’s own previous domestic circumstances with its fur and velvet and throws and so forth. He asks me what I have liked so far to which I respond Anthony Vaccarello and Rochas. He agrees, we double kiss and I head to my seat where after waiting 30 minutes, the show starts.
5PM: I go back-backstage to congratulate the man after having seen the throws that come with shoulder backs (they’re like backpacks for campers but they don’t hold anything so they’re actually for GLAMPERS!) and then head to Rick Owens. Well aware there will be no step dancers, I am still ready for something. And something do I get.
If this show could be likened to any experience, I would call it the least literal version of models on a conveyor belt. They are practically walking as though traipsing across a merry-go-round, giving their genetically blessed physiques a run for their caffeine intake in burgundy and grey and black variations of capes and cape dresses and boots so thigh high they are practically leather leggings.
Also of note: this is the fifth instance in the last year that I have recalled a collection utilizing “real women,” aka women a cause de marketing. (That’s French.) The show ends around 7PM and I head back to my hotel.
At 7:45, I leave in a Nina Ricci blouse, $3 vintage jeans and platform lace-up booties for dinner with the DanniHOs. They feel like home and other warm stuff. We drink lots of wine and eat lots of burrata. Then we stop by the opening of Dries van Notens’ exhibit at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs, at which point I take lots of photos and clap with the flapping annies that inherit my brain. This is cool. Really, really cool.
I walk outside, pop open my umbrella and walk back to my hotel — across town at Crazy Horse, Balmain is celebrating its collection while Balenciaga (the show was stellar! Truly stellar!) does the same in the Palais de Tokyo. I should go, really, but I’ve got stories to write and a nut craving to feed.