I’ve been trying to be less dismissive of New York Fashion Week lately. Really, I have. I love New York City and I know that many people there work so very hard to put on all these shows. It’s also an election year so I feel like I should just generally be more patriotic, but it always seems like the truly directional designers always show in Milan and Paris. Like, if Mrs. Prada shows drop-waist dresses one season, guess what kind of waists everyone is going to show the next. But, no matter what the waist, she ain’t showing them at Lincoln Center. And did you ever see a full-size fucking train loaded with models and Louis Vuitton luggage pull into a tent in Bryant Park? Yeah, I didn’t think so.
New York always seemed like the place where D.J.-turned-designers and reality TV stylists-turned-designers were more likely to find a place on the roster, and prior to this season I’d never even heard of the other two-thirds of the people that were scraping together a million bucks to send their shit down a runway. Imagine my surprise, then, when I consulted the schedule of this year’s Mercedes Benz Fashion Week and saw some names that I not only recognized but also couldn’t wait to see what they’d come up with. The Rodarte girls and my old boss Tommy Hilfiger brought their collections back from Europe and the Pierre Balmain line was going to show here, too. I’m not sure what caused the westward migration but I’m thankful the only bright spot of my week wasn’t just the glittery drag catwalk that is The Blonds.