It is 7:20 a.m. on Sunday, February 12th, and I have just opened my eyes. To my left sits an open water bottle and to my right lies an unconscious body. I feel like it is 2010 and I am single (alive) again for 30 seconds before I remember that it’s my father-in-law’s birthday and I have to call him.
By 7:45, I’m in the bathroom scrubbing the shit out of my face. The photo above is what I looked like when I arrived at my sink. The photo below…
…is what I look like after I use all of this shit:
But never mind all of that — god’s work awaits me! I have to write a review of Alexander Wang’s Fall 2017 show. By 8:05 I’m at my computer. I hang out with my friends — a bucket of sunglasses and a mug full of lipsticks…
…while I write, or think about writing. On this particular morning, I am sending maniacal Slack messages to my team about where the F the Alexander Wang photos are. To my embarrassment, they’re already uploaded to a post I didn’t see.
8:38 a.m.: The review has been filed. I had to omit the best sentence, but whatever.
I linger at my computer, eating a combo platter of toast with avocado and toast with peanut butter and bananas until exactly 11:22, when I get dressed.
11:25 a.m.: I’m dressed.
11:27 a.m.: I leave home and write this down: “What the actual fuck is with this weather? It’s raining ice.” I also write, “I believe they call it sleet,” and then put my phone away because the multiple voices in my head are starting to pour into my notes and that is not a comfortable position to be in!
11:40 a.m.: I pick up Amelia, who has, rather impressively, turned our car into her bathroom and kitchen in a matter of 30 seconds.
12:26 p.m.: The Tome fashion show starts. It looks awesome; the color scheme is mainly black, yellow and pink. There is also some blue. There are a shit-ton of black looks to start, all the shoes (pointed-toe flat slides and round-toe wedges) are velvet and by Louboutin. I notice rhinestone earrings, and then rhinestone accents, like a banana stitched into a lapel. I remember the rhinestone story that I ran in October and feel stupidly validated.
1:34 p.m.: Amelia and I arrive at J.Crew, which Amelia has already seen because she got a preview a couple of days before. They did something similar to last season where many friends of the house moonlit as models and the clothes were fresh-as-fuq. Taylor Tomasi Hill wore a leopard print coat, tutu skirt and shoes I can’t believe I don’t own yet.
2:02 p.m.: I stop by fittings at Rosie Assoulin. This collection is so many things: antique, modern, apres-ski in Switzerland. It looks like my parents’ ornamental-ass apartment. There is this weird and cool silk fabric that Rosie and Claire keep referring to but that is flying way over my head. And the earrings look like furniture moldings. See?
Cut to 2:45 p.m. when I haul ass to the Hilton at 54th Street and 6th Avenue where Sies Marjan is showing. Of course I get there at 3:24, in spite of the fact that it’s Sunday and Waze misled to believe I could be there at 3:08, so I miss the show but!!! I do get to watch it from outside. I see models being cued to start walking and then, I see what they look like when they’re off the runway post-walk. It’s kind of eye-opening because there is so much conversation about how sad models look on the runway. When they’re backstage, though, they’re jumping and dancing and giggling and really making the clothes feel alive. And re: those clothes — think melon and mint green and light blue and all of those colors in metallic, too. The shoes are groovy and…
4:09 p.m.: …now I’m at DVF, where Jonathan Saunders is (or at least should be) celebrating his second collection for the house. What great energy he’s bringing to the establishment. All of the designers that Americans are recruiting from overseas (see: Raf Simons for Calvin Klein) are single-handedly responsible for the fresh air being injected into this market.
When I get back into my car, I ask myself this: Is there an element and attitude of FUCKKIT everywhere? I remember feeling damn miserable last year at this time. Is that personal affliction, or am I vibing on the zeitgeist? You don’t have to answer that; I don’t want to either.
4:53 p.m.: I’m now on Ludlow Street and walking into Sandy Liang’s presentation. The first thing I notice is a pink, velvet dress with rhinestone spaghetti straps. I ask Sandy about the awesome shoes — black slingbacks with green ostrich feathers at the front. She tells me she found those feathers in midtown and taped them into the black Manolos she’s been using for shows and lookbooks and campaigns since season one. Genius, no?
5:17 p.m.: Hey, I’m currently at a liquor shop buying a bottle of white Burgundy.
5:27 p.m.: I’m home, opening the bottle, hoping to get ~intellectual.~
5:43 p.m.: My delivery from Souen arrives (I did that while I was at the liquor shop); it’s salmon and rice and steamed vegetables.
6:09 p.m.: This is being written in real time. As in, as I’m writing this, it’s 6:09 p.m., I’m about finished with that first glass of wine and have a mouthful of squash and salmon in, you know, my mouth.
6:10 p.m.: Woah, so weird, I just recorded the happenings of the previous minute, also: feast your eyes on THIS! Boom boom pow.
6:23 p.m.: I just reread all the copy and now don’t remember what “THIS!” meant at 6:10, sorry.
7:25 p.m.: Prabal Gurung starts at 558 Washington Street. Sarah Jessica Parker is here, seated right across from Anna Wintour, and the clothes look fantastic. “You Don’t Own Me” is playing and I’m watching the pictures stream onto Vogue Runway as they’re walking in real time and thinking what a shame it is not to see these clothes in person — the way the color comes off the garment and the fabrics move. Before I could finish that thought, the finale begins and each model is now dressed in a different shirt boasting a feminist slogan. The crowd goes wild. Prabal comes out in a T-shirt that reads, “This is what a feminist looks like.” It is so honest and so true.
7:42 p.m.: On our way to Altuzarra, Amelia and I talk about the political statements being made at fashion week — the Planned Parenthood pins and the white bandanas and the various comments designers have used their clothing to make. We talk about turning it into a story (she calls it a “package” as if she is Leslie Price), but wander off to specifically mention the designers of Tome, Prabal Gurung himself and what’s expected tomorrow from Phillip Lim. Noting that we follow them on social media and thus know how involved and active they’ve been, Amelia wonders if this is the only reason their political intentions shine through so brilliantly.
8:34 p.m.: I’m sitting behind Christina Ricci (forever Wednesday Addams in my playbook), Alexa Chung and Emily Ratajkowski. I very much look forward to observing my photo bombs tomorrow morning. At one point, I stack my head on top of Alexa’s. It’s weird but we forget all of that once the show starts and boom boom pow! Velvet headbands (very Hillary Clinton ca. 1990s), big combat boots, suspender belts over delicate dresses with big huge pockets attached. I feel like I need to throw away all of the clothes I own and start over. This happens every season.
9:16 p.m.: Just got home; Abie is in bed with the city of New York complaining about a car alarm that has straight-up been going off for 48 hours, no exaggeration. I have to take a shower. He says it’s too late to watch Girls. I watch it anyway. See u tomo.