"Please, please, please can I borrow your ticket? My girlfriend is stuck in STANDING ROOM. Ohmygod, you're a life saver!"
I was "Gabrielle" last night at the Alice Temperley show. I've been keeping it light this Fashion Week so I can swizzle my sticks in other cocktails, but being back in the ol' circus tent made me miss the soul sucking pandemonium of it all. There's something thrilling about ascending those concrete steps, flashing an embellished invitation, getting the nod, then being bombarded by girls in shaky heels brandishing the latest issue of The Daily.
When you get to the doors of the Bryant Park tents, you can already feel the energy pulsating on the other side. There's a two second check you do before going in. A quick sweep of the bangs, a secret tug on the skirt, one delicate smack of the lips. Once the door is opened, that's it. You're sucked into a twittering vortex of flashing bulbs, cacophonous chatter, swirls of colorful advertising, and a multitude of eyes all staring at you.
The entire room has its eyes trained on those doors. Everyone stares at everyone. It's a rite of passage--unabashed, confident, and curious. For lifelong people watchers, this kinda joint is paradise. You can stare without anyone batting a mink eyelash. It's encouraged and enjoyed.
Once you've "done" Fashion Week, you return the next time around a sophomore, a junior, a senior and so on. You learn the shortcut to the restrooms (aka the hall of port-a-potties), the best spot in the locker room (ahem, bar), and which cafeteria lady is the nicest (the espresso guy who's there during the day). Everything is no big deal and dressing up is for freshmen. The jocks and cheerleaders on the front row (that is, the editors) are always in uniform. The student council (assistant editors/journalists/buyers) keep it professionally tasteful. It's the popular kids--the ones who don't really have any other reason to be there other than to look pretty and bask in the spotlight of envy (actresses/musicians/socialites/other famous types)--that get to do the real gussying up. They can show up on a Tuesday in a prom dress and stilettos and get away with it.
Once you're in, stuff your bag with the requisite free periodicals and notebooks, glide past the lines with a flash of the invitation, and make your way past the best dressed crew in the house--the Standing Room Only crowd. That's where all of the amazing fashion is going on, trust me, so don't act like a snot just because you've got a pass. Once you sail through the rest of the security and into the actual show tent, scan the room. If it's relatively empty (not including the photographers), go back out and grab a cocktail/espresso. You can gauge when the show will start by when the SRO line starts moving. Even then, you've probably got another 15 minutes. Don't have a buddy? Call one. Talk to them on the phone while chasing a beverage. You'll look like you're multitasking.
Once it's time (you'll know when you see The Editors trotting in very late), grab a free Evian on the way, and don't look around too much yet. Go straight to your seat, take out the aforementioned Daily, and read while casually taking "breaks" to scan and see who's who. You'll get your chance to gawk with gumption once the lights go down. I prefer to listen to the conversations around me. Occasionally, they're enlightening. Often, they're frightening. When Lady Joy and I were running around with each other at Fashion Week a few seasons ago, we guffawed at lines like, "Ruffles are, like, so stupid!" By the end of the week, we had a catalog of bon mots we referenced for laughter's sake. Our most used phrases in response to the rampant frivolity in the air ranged from "Who are these people?" and "I don't fit in here!" at the beginning of the week to "What are we doing here?" and "I can't take this anymore!" by the end of the week.
I woke up early every Saturday morning to watch Style with Elsa Klensch when I was a kid. I never thought I'd actually get to be a part of New York Fashion Week. My goal was just to get to New York. I grew up fantasizing about wearing Anna Sui empire dresses or anything from the one-time-only Perry Ellis grunge collection designed by some guy named Marc Jacobs. I tried to look up the history of Coco Chanel in my school's library (didn't find anything) and settled for memorizing the designers on the pages of Seventeen. I stole my mom's Mirabella to find out who Isabella Rossellini was wearing that month, and don't even get me started on when I discovered Yohji. For those of us who feed on this fodder, Fashion Week is our Super Bowl. You get to know all the players and then talk about them in the stands. Attending the actual game is a lucky privilege. It may be frivolous when there's definitely more important stuff going on in the world, but when you see a bodice ripped to shreds in homage to Japanese horror films (hello, lovely Rodarte), nothing beats that kind of touchdown.
So, thanks, Gabrielle, for inadvertently nudging me back into the tents with your sloppy seconds. I still don't fit in, but that doesn't mean I can't scowl in the top row tugging at my plastic accessories while secretly squealing like a schoolgirl when the lights go down, the music starts pumping, and that first girl comes stomping out like a rabid zombie gazelle. I'll probably see you there again next September. Wear your pearls.
