In the spectacle called New York Fashion Week, there are moments of surreal glamour, high-octane excitement and unbridled artistic ability. With those come a lack of manners (more pushing and shoving than at an airport baggage claim), hours of waiting for shows to begin (they are never on time) and an up-close look at fashion’s elite.
Sitting front-row provides a glimpse into a dramatic world … the delicate dance between sleep-deprived designers, stoic editors, anxious buyers and press-hungry celebrities. This intense and sensitive relationship has been around since the early days of Coco Chanel and Yves Saint-Laurent.
Having worked in Manhattan at a major fashion house, I was one of them—an industry insider. I became intoxicated with the world of high fashion. A typical day in the life of a New York fashionista consisted of running down Fifth Avenue in stilettos, grabbing a bagel for breakfast, booking continual appointments to show the latest collection, skipping lunch (no time), scoring free appetizers and cocktails at the nightly gallery opening, and then hitting a late-night fashion party. It was beyond exciting, a powerful addiction.
Much like the exclusive Halston salon shows of the late 1960s, which were attended by a handful of socialites, Fashion Week maintains a complex class system with subtleties to let you know exactly where you rank. There are the obvious indicators such as row placement—with those upfront reserved for leading fashion editors, major buyers and celebrities who nab clothes and plush travel accommodations in return for attending. Those deemed important and fabulous are seated next to the exit for a quick getaway. The waiting town car outside the tents is the ultimate luxury—a place to escape the crowd between shows, BlackBerry in peace and sneak a nap. Even the accessories you carry define status—a small clutch or handbag means you’ve got an assistant in the back row schlepping the press kits, notes and touch-up bag.
For the not so fabulous, or fashion lower class, there is the dreaded standing room only. I imagine it would be like waiting in line at Studio 54 hoping and praying the giant man with the mullet and thick Jersey accent will pick you. In this case, the person of power is 5-foot-6 and 100 pounds. I actually witnessed a publicist—she didn’t look a day over 18—hand-pick people for the show; when one person mistakenly stepped forward with invitation in hand, the publicist shouted, “No, not you! The girl behind you can come in.”
The tents even have a “star room” where celebrities dress, mingle, have hair and makeup done, and relax until they feel it is time for the show to begin … usually about an hour late. It all makes me a bit concerned for where fashion, specifically the shows and all of their wonderful magic, is headed. Surely it’s not down the jagged cliff littered with Paris, Lindsay and Britney.
While waiting on a cab to leave this year’s shows, I listened as a New York police officer who has worked Fashion Week since it began reminisced about days past, when the energy was different. Sure, there were a couple celebrities here and there, but the focus was the art. When a friendly cop is telling me Fashion Week isn’t what it used to be, I know things have changed. It makes me realize that sometimes it takes an outsider to recognize what the insiders don’t.
No matter what, I will always hold out hope that the magic returns, and I’ll hang on to my memories of a life not so long ago when I was that New York fashion girl thrilled to be attending my first show.
