New York Fashion Week; Fall 2009

The glaring juxtapositions that unfold inside the tent at Bryant Park during New York fashion week are so awesome and hilarious it’s hard not to laugh. Well, snicker really. Look to the right and there’s a blonde bobble head in shiny black leggings and a plaid shirt teetering by on six-inch stilts. Look to the left and you have a portly security guard in a cheap black suit, utterly indifferent to Oscar de la von Furstenberg and confused by people who wear their sunglasses indoors. For every ironically-coiffed fashion blogger there’s a maintenance person with the same haircut. Girls and guys barely out of adolescence posture in outrageous getups that include capes and sequined bowties, while uttering things like “I told my assistant to RSVP me and my mom.” It’s comedic gold.

It was with this sense of lightheartedness that I dove into fashion week this season. Maybe it’s because I’m so psyched to be back in New York or maybe my happy pills are kicking in, but there are a lot of things that could’ve ignited the rage that lies not-so-dormantly within and yet, I giggle. For starters the flight that I had already checked in to and boarded on Thursday was cancelled due to strong winds. Grr. When I went to reschedule for the next day I could only get a flight into Newark. Grr grr. The flight Friday was delayed and I missed my first show. Grr grr grr. Then I was turned away from two shows because the rooms were over capacity, despite having an invitation and a seat assignment. Grr grr grr…you get the point. And yet, I giggle.

The Erin Featherston show tonight was certainly good for a few laughs. Not that the clothes weren’t lovely or covetable, but the circus-inspired music got me going (Frankly, it just reminded me of the spirited tune that plays through Homer Simpson’s head when he’s pretending to listen to Marge as she warns him not to do something wacky and illegal). So, I say bravo to Ms. Featherston for eliciting thoughts of Homer Simpson during her otherwise sophisticated presentation of crystal-embellished cocktail dresses, ladylike brocade coats with bow-accented closures, whimsical bell-shaped mini skirts and elegant cropped tuxedo-inspired jackets. She seemed to draw from old school Parisian couture, over exaggerating classic themes like girly bows (in the models’ hair, and a very large and sequined one on the front of a delicate black swing jacket), polka dots (black-on-black on evening coats and dresses), and crinolined skirts that bounded merrily down the runway. The hair and makeup seemed Belle Epoque-influenced with smoky eyes, a classic red lip, and mounds of hair crimped, teased and pinned loosely at the nape of the neck. It was a beautifully conceived and executed show. Who’s laughing now, huh?

Certainly not a collection for the faint-hearted, but legions of edgy youngsters will surely be clamouring for these goods.

The mob scene at the Miss Sixty show was somewhat laughable, except when the Nazi working the entrance yelled at me because I didn’t bring my invitation. Nor was it funny when I got into an argument with the tanorexic who insisted that she was the rightful occupant of seat number G 5 C. Flight won out over fight. I was tired of listening to her bitch, so I switched seats. You have to hand it to the publicity people at Miss Sixty, though. Never before have I seen so many people get so worked up over a show that belongs on a “walk-off” finale of America’s Next Top Model. True to form, the show consisted of directional Euro style in the vein of acid-washed cropped Harem jeans, long faux-fur stoles, printed jumpsuits with exaggerated ‘80s “power suit” shoulders and a flirty tiered mini dress in comic book-bright blue, yellow and red. Certainly not a collection for the faint-hearted, but legions of edgy youngsters will surely be clamouring for these goods. And they’ll be eating my dust as I race past them toward the gorgeous mid-calf and knee-high boots in rich aubergine and navy suede. The famous faces on the runway (Sasha Pivovarova, Jessica Stam) were a nice complement to the famous faces in the front row (Mischa Barton, Minka Kelly, Kristen Bell), who all happily bopped away to The Runaways’ “Cherry Bomb.” Stam, for her part, giggled a little every time she passed by a scruffy stranger in the front row. Either he’s one helluva funny guy or she’s in on the joke too…