The seventh day. The looky-loos are bored, the tourists are at their day jobs, and the only ones left in the room are the professionals. It ain’t a crowd of working stiffs, but you can tell most of these folks would rather be sipping champagne somewhere else.
The shine is off the apple here at Fashion Week, but that’s a good thing. Every bitch in the room wore her best outfit last night at Oscar de la Renta, and today it’s all comfortable shoes and ponytails. It’s like the entire event exhaled and let out its gut a little bit. Even the smiles on the PR girls seem more honest.
I’m headed to the Nanette Lepore show in a moment, but for now I’m content to sit and watch the Michael Kors crowd put on a million dollars worth of sunglasses and shuffle towards the exit in search of brunch.
It ain’t over yet, though. After this, I’m off to the Jeremy Scott show where I expect to see some hipster high-fashion fuckery.
Sunday. The city is made entirely of velvet ropes and police barricades. There are gatekeepers everywhere, publicists and NYPD, an army of clipboards and radios in a uniform.
In the streets, they’re doing spot checks of every box truck along 9th Avenue looking for terrorists. In the tents, they’re doing spot checks of every backstage pass looking for crashers.
It’s a time and place that relentlessly demands you justify your existence. It is both frivolous and serious, and there is enough free floating narcissism and paranoia in the air to choke out all the oxygen.
That’s okay, though. It kinda gets you high.