I arose from my sickbed to return the Bryant Park tents because I know that is what all of my faithful readers demand from me. What would Fashion Week be without my discerning eye and my desire to bring all of it to you, mes fidèles lecteurs? A hollow shell, that’s what.
The untimely death of the genius designer Alexander McQueen has left a pall over New York Fashion Week. The atmosphere isn’t exactly grim, but it is definitely there. On Thursday, each show began with a moment of silence to acknowledge his passing.
I was supposed to start my day with the Simon Spurr show. But in the words of the late, unlamented Phil Rizzuto “WW (wasn’t watching).” It was almost too much to get myself to get myself together to drag myself to the Bryant Park tents. The level of fabulousity I struggle to maintain is hard labor, let me tell you! I was not at my best, which is why there are few photos .
The Diane von Furstenberg show was full of feminine delights and pushy media folk. Yours truly was almost knocked over by a peon with a Canon point and shoot. And still having a terrible cold, as I made my way to my seat, I sneezed on my former BFF, Andre Leon Talley. (The Rachel Zoe incident will take a long time to forgive or forget.) Unlike Alec Baldwin, he was not wearing suede. Be grateful for small favors.
“Bask in my awesome, bitches”
In my haste to get away before an unpleasant scene, I again met my new BFF, Tim Gunn. He was so delighted to see me he pushed Fern Mallis out of the way.
My BFF, Tim Gunn
He particularly admired my mink vintage cigarette case, which I use as a business card holder. When rummaging through my handbag, the fur makes it much easier to find.
I shall never understand the double row of celebrities or whatever they are at the center of the runway. It reminds me oddly of cafeteria seating.
As for the show itself, there was an homage to her famous wrap dress and much of the collection was black. Diane clearly knows how to design for a woman’s body. Her clothes can be worn by woman 19-69.
Model waiting to go on the runway
The finale of the show was a sensational metallic pewter draped dress which on closer examination had a rather strange little edge of blue tulle.
At the end, Diane herself walked the entire runway with her family. There was not a dry eye in the house except for yours truly. I detest cheap sentiment, however sincere.
DVF about to hit the runway
Before the Custo Barcelona show, I was (un)fortunate enough to interview the impossibly fey designer Vassilios Kostetsos, to which I will devote a separate entry. Suffice to say his aversion to larger women is only equaled by Oprah Winfrey’s self-loathing.
The Custo Barcelona show had, like all of his shows, a lot of thumping, thundering noise. With androgynous models speed-walking around the catwalk. Custo Barcelona designs for very young men and women. Since I am not very young, only ageless, he is not “targeting my demo,” so to speak. To be honest, the only way one could tell which sex a model was, was by the size of their thighs. The men have a bit more meat on their legs.
The show was called “Hairy Metal,” which to your faithful correspondent is a truly disgusting image. It translated into something far more palatable, albeit a bit strange: large fuzzy tunics, clothing with random strips of fur applied as though the designer had thrown them against a sweater covered with superglue.
The coats were the strongest part of the show, thick with texture. Even though these designs are for club kids, I could have used one of them in the frigid February weather.
When the designer came out, he wore a color-blocked sweater that underscored that he is too old to wear his own designs. Comment bien triste.
Off to a hot bath and one hopes a lessening of sputum. Next time I might sneeze on Fern Mallis, and that would be the end of the tents pour moi!
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog
Photos not taken by moi are courtesy of Getty Images