New York Fashion Week: Of love and lattes

Ahh, Fashion Week: the one week (twice a year) when you walk a little taller (mostly because of your 6” heels), smile a little brighter, and share notes on whose extreme level of caffeine consumption comes the closest to bordering on unhealthy.  Attending a fashion show suddenly warrants a double-shot espresso and a “survival kit,” and everyone seems to be wearing fur.

It’s the one week when everyone’s new life goal (or perhaps just mine) is to be featured in a street style blog, and you can say things like “that’s so chic” without being ironic.  At least, I’m not being ironic…

Yes, I love Fashion Week.

On Thursday afternoon, I went to the Kimberly Ovitz show in midtown, housed in a large event space near Penn Station.  My strategy for attending shows, as of late, is to look as calm and nonchalant as possible while I discreetly Instagram and Tweet at everyone I know using obnoxious hashtags like #nyfw #chictothenextlev #annawintour, and the like, and try to capture “street style” pictures of show-goers without their knowledge.  These usually end up being semi-creepy photos of their backs that I take while I pretend to be texting... 

Exhibit A.

As I waited for the show to start, snapping ambiance photos of the runway and anyone I thought could potentially be “famous,” I had to struggle to hold it together and subsequently almost peed myself as Anna Wintour took her seat in the front row. 

#anna

The show started, and I felt like a kid in a (very expensive) candy store.  Or like my usual self in the Saks Fifth Avenue shoe department… Anna Wintour put on her signature sunglasses, and I thought – you know what?  If I were Anna Wintour, I’d probably wear sunglasses during every show, too.  In fact, I could probably wear whatever I wanted, because I’d be Anna Wintour. 

This precipitated a long conversation with myself in which I went through the various signature accessories I could potentially patent as my own if I were to, one day, be the editor of something the magnitude of Vogue.  Would I wear sunglasses indoors?  An oversized fur hat?  Or perhaps I’d build my persona around a small animal that I’d carry with me in my handbag – not a dog, as that’s now cliché, but perhaps a rabbit.  Or a hedgehog.  A turtle?

I digress.

As the show progressed, I will say that I could see myself owning every single look that came down the runway (in the sartorial fantasy land of my mind in which I can see myself owning pretty much everything).  The collection was wearable, versatile, but also infused with more color and prints than are typical of the fall collections, especially coming from a designer like Kim.

The standouts were a beautifully printed maxi with a severe plunging neckline, and a cobalt blue dress with strategically placed cut-outs.

In addition to the collection, Kim also premiered her new line of jewelry, a collaboration with Shapeways, and a must have if you like anything cool or different.  Which, if you read this blog, you probably do.  Unless you hate my blog and, for some strange reason, have made it this far…

I managed to snag a new Shapeways for Kimberly Ovitz ear cuff (many thanks to my good friend), which I’ve since decided looks kind of like a futuristic blue tooth and has quickly become my new favorite thing that I own.  I have yet to take it off – partially because it might be stuck, but mostly because we’ve fallen in love.  Check it out - it's basically the coolest thing since sliced bread and fat free fro-yo.

As I walked home in my Kimberly Ovitz dress and severely cool ear cuff, I had a thought.  Between the glitz, the glamour, the fur, the impromptu Anna sightings, and the endless chatter about how we all “need a coffee,” Fashion Week reminds me why I got into fashion in the first place.  The popular hashtags and seasonal Pantones might change, but the creativity, passion, and excitement are constants from year to year.  In an industry built around artistic innovation juxtaposed with forced obsolescence, Fashion Week makes the world go 'round.

A small reminder if you’ll be tweeting this week: note that #chictothenextlev has unfortunately been replaced by #nemo, which, up until a few minutes ago, I assumed was an obscure reference to the movie…

Spotted: Tory Burch, far left.

Happy Fashion Week, everyone.

What's your Fashion Week tale?  Share your favorite Fashion Week moments below!

Why I Can't Get Rid of my Shoes

For a similar look, try these or these or these... just make sure they're your size.

Hi, my name is Jessica, and I have a sample sale problem.

My favorite pair of shoes are so uncomfortable I can’t actually wear them (you’ll notice they are photographed on my book shelf as opposed to on my person for a reason).  Despite the fact that wearing them makes me want to sever a foot, we just can’t bear the thought of parting ways.

I remember when I first knew I had to own these shoes: I was at a taping of Oprah in Chicago (Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen were the guests, and it was one of those defining life moments when all the stars align and magic and fashion can happen) and Oprah walked out onto the stage barefoot, holding the shoes up to the live studio audience.  I fell in love. 

It wasn’t until she sat down that she actually put them on, but I decided to put my better judgment aside (as I am wont to do) and overlook this minor detail at the time.  I subsequently made it a goal to hunt them down and own them.  When I finally met them in person on the sale rack at Barney’s, I was so in love that I was blinded by the fact that the last pair did not technically fit.  But, since I’d already fantasized about our future children, I bought them anyway.

That was almost five years ago, and they have since become a permanent fixture on my bookshelf.  I’ve tried everything; I took them to my miracle-working shoe man, I tried stretching them, I even tried taking a kitchen knife to them to open up the toe box myself.  That’s when my roommate had to sit me down and intervene…

So I thought to myself, serrated steak knife in hand: Am I crazy?

The answer, obviously, was yes.  But I am not alone. 

Upon further investigation, it turns out that about 80% of women keep clothes that don’t fit, and 67% think they’ll be able to wear them again.  And then there’s the occasional (delusional) individual who is still holding out hope that her feet will shrink…

So what is it that makes the idea of parting ways so difficult, even if the item in question is no longer functional?

I spent some time researching this phenomenon and discovered that the degree to which we develop emotional attachments depends on the degree to which the item is irreplaceable.  E.g. the degree to which we bought it at a sample sale...  Nowhere is it suggested that the item has to function properly (aka fit) in order for it to develop emotional significance.  Go figure.

As I evaluated these claims, I realized that, given my current trajectory, in six month’s time I’ll be blogging about my debut on Hoarders: Buried Alive.

I’m holding out hope that my future daughter will have slightly smaller feet than I, or perhaps, one day, I’ll lose a toe.  But until that happens, I’ll continue to put on my lovely shoes for 15 minute intervals at a time in the comfort of my apartment, occasionally tell them stories, ask them for advice, read them novels… and then return them to my bookshelf where they will silently watch over me.

No Pants Sunday

Dress: Topshop (from summer, can you tell? But this one's similar or try this skirt) Sweater: Vince. Boots: Tory Burch (similar). Shades: Valentino (similar).

A couple weekends ago, I got to thinking.  Is it just me, or have we reduced all non-work related weekend activities to three basic life-sustaining categories: eating, drinking, and shopping (ok, so maybe the latter isn’t exactly “life-sustaining”)?  When I ventured out of my apartment looking for an activity, for the first time as a New Yorker, I felt underwhelmed by my options. 

Let’s break this down.  A typical weekend consists of brunch (eat) and a leisurely stroll through SoHo in which I inevitably buy something on impulse (shop) followed by dinner and drinks with my girlfriends (eat and drink).  And, while I sometimes change it up a bit – I’ll make a purchase on 5^th Avenue instead of in SoHo, for example – I can’t help but feel like my weekend life has become nothing more than variations on a theme. 

Eat drink shop.  Eat drink shop.  Eat drink shop.  I was starting to feel a little bit like Julia Roberts, but without the whole worldwide voyage of self-discovery bit.  It’s like a vicious cycle that’s bound to leave us all drunk, fat, and broke (unless we all go broke first, in which case we’ll just be drunk, broke, and hungry…)

That would be awful...

In an effort to avoid this fate, last weekend I resolved to shake things up a bit.  I put on the brightest piece of clothing I own (see not-so-subtle neon dress pictured above, also seen here) and took my fluorescent self out of my comfort zone up to Sylvia’s in Harlem for an adventure.

Sylvia’s is a fantastic brunch establishment that I highly recommend if you like live Gospel music, grits, or chicken fried anything.  With a bottom-less biscuit bowl and enough gravy to drown a cat (if you were so inclined, which I sincerely hope you aren’t), it was a good time had by all.

Commence starvation diet.

But as my 10 best girlfriends and I bonded over a mimosa and a jubilant rendition of Lord, I Lift Your Name on High before heading back downtown, I realized that, despite my best efforts, I was, in fact, eating and drinking. 

On the subway home, I tried to think of an activity that could possibly be more interesting than my morning Gospel brunch (which was, admittedly, pretty fantastic), but without the eat, drink, shop element.  Comedy club?  Drink.  Street fair?  Shop.  Watch football? Eat. Drink.  Plus the unfortunate fact that I hate football…

But then, I noticed something abnormal; something slightly disturbing, rather shocking, and questionably sanitary…

Half of my fellow subway riders had neglected to wear pants.

As I looked at the pale and over-exposed legs that surrounded me, I started to wonder: how does one just forget to wear pants?  Had they gotten hot?  Had the eat, drink, shop cycle left them without sufficient funds to properly clothe themselves? 

… should I take off my pants?

I mean, I guess I could...

It turns out the mass of pantsless riders was no coincidence.  I had stumbled upon pantsless Sunday, an annual phenomenon uniting the like-minded pants-haters of New York.  I guess because pants are just so confining, it’s only natural that someone would, one day, revolt.  In fact, if you, too, feel strongly against public decency, you can read more about the anti-pants movement here.

And, that’s when it dawned on me: there are options!  If I’m ever again unsatisfied with the status quo – the daily eat, drink, shop – I can always drop trou and ride the subway. 

Well, phew.  Thank goodness.



Your thoughts and comments are encouraged!