It’s February, it’s freezing cold outside, the snow has piled up, there are lethal patches of ice everywhere, and we are in the midst of the craziness, the color, and the oddball asides of New York Fashion Week once yet again. Consider the guest at an elegant party on the Upper East Side, where I had gone to photograph. She backed away from the hors d’oeuvres table, then turned to me and whispered, “Isn’t it horrible?”
“Horrible” was a fragrant cheese oozing away on a silver platter alongside succulent slices of pineapple, bunches of enticing grapes, vibrant red strawberries, and morsels of mangos.
The fromagephobe wrinkled up her nose in dismay and confided to me in this chic hotel duplex rented for the occasion that she had fled up the staircase to seek refuge as far away as possible from this pungent aroma. There was cigarette smoke wafting from the terrace instead.
I responded brightly, “Well, I always thought, the stinkier the cheese, the more flavorful!”
If only I could find aromatic cheese repugnant too, I thought to myself, my life would be so different. I’d be in possession of a super soignée appearance, and I would never be homesick for France.
During New York Fashion Week the city takes on an even more frenetic pace and exotic atmosphere than usual, and I just love it. It’s an escape from the ordinary, everyday reality, something akin to playing make believe as a child or disappearing into a good book. I love the sights and sounds of New York Fashion Week, the accents of all the people who gather from far-flung locales, their love of fashion and style drawing them all to New York City. I feel elated when I see people putting so much care into their appearances for the sake of preening and playing at the parties and shows, especially given the current abysmal political climate. On the first night of NYFW, the Anglo-American brand rag & bone threw a dazzling 15-year anniversary party for itself, chock full of the usual mix of glitterati, super models (Joan Smalls! Freja! Amber Valletta!) and super talented artists, including Lil Buck, who broke into an impromptu and exuberant dance performance, enlisting a fashion editor as his willing partner.
Instead of featuring the clothes in a runway show, there was an exhibition of print and video work the brand had commissioned over the years. Photographer Glen Luchford, who had captured countless subjects with a gigantesque Polaroid camera just 72 hours prior to the start of the exhibition, and whose work was therein featured, chatted with gallerist James Danziger. At every turn, many of the subjects featured in the photographs could be spotted in the flesh. There’s Mark Lebon and his son, Tyrone, mid-pose, in front of a portrait of Mark. The work of Frank Lebon, one of three photographers in this talented family, was also featured in the show.
At the Jeremy Scott after party, where the designer himself mingled alongside all the guests, one among them, in a minimalist frame of mind, wore a black G-string and black bra under her leopard print coat, complemented by black sunglasses and plexi heels. She quickly shed her coat, allowing it to drop to the floor and then nonchalantly circulated among the amused but nonplussed partygoers. When DJ Mia Moretti spun George Michaels’ “Freedom” the entire crowd happily broke into dance and sing-along. No, Donald Trump, you were not on this guest list, and you never will be.
The next evening, I was caught off guard. It did not occur to me until after I had finished photographing a partygoer in a beret, that it was, in fact, the aforementioned DJ, from the night before, transformed from NYC club kid into a film noir character in sophisticated Miu Miu attire, there for a screening of a film directed by Chloe Sevigny, starring the hilarious and quite sardonic comedian Carmen Lynch. The film, “Carmen,” is the latest in a series of films commissioned by Miu Miu, called “Women’s Tales.” It was early in NYFW, but still, not one seemed to want to leave this fun and Euro-chic Sunday movie night party.
This season, Marc Jacobs brought his show into the street, although quite frankly, there was already quite a show on the street. A young and friendly aspiring model and Brooklynite polyglot student named Nico, of Greek and Romanian descent, garbed in a comme des garçons t-shirt, graciously distributed miniature packages of Marc Jacobs’ new eyeliner to all willing recipients. Outside of the Park Avenue Armory, where the show was held in churchlike silence, the street became the show, and a boisterous one, at that. A young designer set up shop on the corner of Park Avenue and 68th Street, where she posed three models decked out in her colorful designs, accessorized with a King Charles spaniel as an added draw, and a crowd gathered, desperate to take photographs. If you didn’t know better, you would think that this was in fact the Marc Jacobs show, itself.
Wait, there’s Grace Coddington! One ambitious pedestrian daringly asked the renowned Vogue magazine creative director to pose for a selfie with him. And she did. The crowd went wild. Passersby, for the most part comprised of hordes of street photographers, could only catch a glimpse of the real Marc Jacobs tableau of models posing behind a wall of speakers, as security was out front in full force, barking incessantly: “Keep it moving!” Meanwhile, those quick on their feet were able to run after Marc Jacobs striding purposefully out of the Armory at the conclusion of his show. Down the steps and there he goes, around the corner and further down the block, solemnly trailed by long and lithe models wearing his latest hip hop inspired collection. The entire procession was punctuated by the sound of Isaac Hayes’ beautiful voice singing a sad and plaintive “Walk on By.” Marc and his models disappeared behind the side street door of the Armory marked “Backstage Check-in”, fiercely guarded by security, as everyone clamored for just one more view.
And soon enough we all did walk on by. It was an invigorating finish to yet another New York Fashion Week. Off into the brisk New York City night.
Robin Siegel
Robin Siegel is a photographer who lives and works in New York, USA.
