And other true tales of attending upscale fashion shows for the very first time.
Some looks from a New York City sidewalk during NYFW S/S 2014.
Tommy Ton / Style.com / Via style.com
"What is it, Halloween?"
A teenager and his friends are sneering at me as I pass them on 10th Avenue. I've just left my very first fashion show, the Costello Tagliapietra Spring/Summer 2014 collection displayed at New York City's Milk Studios, and am walking over to nearby Studio 59 for another presentation. The kid is trying to insult the black lipstick and false eyelashes I'm wearing, which are both just parts of how I do my makeup normally. But given the scenes I observe during the time I spend at Fashion Week, his question actually seems to take on a degree of legitimacy.
This is because New York Fashion Week is, of course, a sort of dress-up party for rich people from big cities, clad in their nicest and most interestingly-assembled outfits, and scads of journalists and bloggers trying, in turn, to imitate the costumes of those elites—some more successfully than others. In a shitty pair of Forever 21 heels, a skirt from that same cathedral of cheap clothing, and an old Gram Parsons t-shirt ripped to a degree of near vulgarity, I feel like I've effectively forfeited any chance at looking like I'd even heard of Costello Tagliapietra before I was assigned to cover the show. (And although I consider myself moderately interested in fashion, I actually hadn't.) If this is Halloween, I am the kid halfheartedly cutting some holes in a sheet, throwing it over her head, and trying to pass it off it a costume. And although I'm not actively trying one way or the other to blend with my fellow attendees, my presence at Fashion Week is ultimately similar to that of an unremarkable ghost's. Although I initially worried a little that I might look like an outlier, I move around the shows fairly invisibly.
This wasn't supposed to be a costume.
Well, for the most part, anyway. As I arrive at that first Costello Tagliapietra show, I can tell I'm getting close to Milk when people start taking my picture. At first, I'm convinced it's because I'm walking too close to the sleek, professional-looking couple in front of me: she with L'Oreal-commercial highlights, he in a vaguely paratrooper-esque coat the color of a C-note someone accidentally put through the wash. But then I realize that the cameras of these many, many people on the sidewalk, whoever they are, are directly pointed at my specific face and body. It makes me really nervous, so I immediately become hyperconscious of my wilting bangs and look down at the sidewalk all crosswise instead of acting like a normal human, let alone a cool and fashionable young style maven.
In the line for the show inside, which is long, I listen to two young women in front of me discuss whether Chloë Sevingny will continue her business relationship with Opening Ceremony, the high-end New York City-based boutique for which she occasionally designs clothing. The girls conclude that she won't, and that the consequences of this choice will be dire. It's loud in here, and one asks the other to repeat a sentence: "She ruined her what?" The other, raising her voice above the din, answers, "Life. She ruined her life." As the three of us consider the potential weight of Chloë's decision, the line moves forward and we move from the minimalistic lobby of Milk, which is as shiny and luxurious-looking as an empty Lamborghini dealership, to the show upstairs.
