I crashed New York Fashion Week.
Before this past weekend, I knew nothing about fashion. I mean, I knew who the major designers were, and I knew that brands like J. Crew and Lacoste and Target were far from the height of chic. I didn't know anything about the world of fashion itself.
Sneaking into Fashion Week is a lot easier than you would expect, but you have to know your way around. Certain phrases will get you past the security guards, and other phrases will get you a seat at one of the major productions. One slip-up, though, and you get expelled.
I got to Fashion Week Thursday morning wearing a $100 Banana Republic suit and a Target undershirt. My whole outfit probably cost the same as the other attendees' leggings. But as I learned, it's not what you wear, but how you wear it.
I walked up to the entrance at Bryant Park, strode confidently past the mass of bystanders taking pictures and hoping for that one glimpse of their favorite celebrity (Mischa Barton, Kate Bosworth and the Olsens all attended shows), and up to the security guards whose suits were worth more than their own internal organs on the black market. One phrase-that's it-and I was inside. I am of course not going to share this phrase with you. That would be cheating.
Once you're inside the tents, you're a celebrity. You belong. The real fashion world celebrities-the Queer Eye guys, the Project Runway folks, Vogue's editor-in-chief (and the Devil from The Devil Wears Prada) Anna Wintour, celebrity stylist Rachel Zoe, models, designers-mingle with the regular folk. Well, not Anna Wintour, but she's an anomaly.
If you've made it inside the tents, you're someone. The average Joes off the street can't get in-they're outside with their cameras and jeans and miniskirts and faux-Chanel sunglasses. If you're in the tent, you're not average. And everyone knows it. If you want to fit in, you have to stand out.
Getting into the tents is one thing, but that's not why Fashion Week is so great. What makes Fashion Week the life-changing experience that it is are the runway shows and presentations. Those are a lot harder, but not impossible, to sneak into. All it takes is a little fraternizing with those people wearing $800 Louboutins and $600 Swarovski-encrusted thongs and knowing, again, exactly what to say to the hundreds of people running security.
Once you're in the show, with the fluorescent lights and pounding music, watching as the waifish models swish their hips, you become mesmerized. This is a world of beauty and perfection, where creativity flows like water. The designers are prophetic, predicting and knowing exactly what will become popular two years down the road and acting on it.
I made it to four shows, and by the end of them I knew exactly what looked good and what didn't. Erin Fetherston's collection looked like a bunch of bedding cut into nightgowns. Vena Cava's presentation was cute, but too safe. Doo.Ri's show was by far the best-her designs showed patience and experience. And then there was Project Runway.
Everyone-literally everyone-who knows anything about fashion, considers Project Runway to be a joke. In fact, many call it a travesty and refuse to even acknowledge it exists. Everyone laughs at Heidi Klum with her stock phrases ("Either you're in, or you're out," "Everyone's on pins and needles," etc.) and balks at designers like Michael Kors and Vera Wang who judge the collections. And so it is with the fashion world-everyone inside hates the outside world. They take fashion seriously, and see any commercialization as a crime.
And then there's Anna Wintour, the great guru of fashion. She strides in with her entourage, not looking anyone in the eye, hiding her face behind her trademark bob. It is a great honor to a designer if she attends their show, and she has the absolute power to make or break any designer's career.
She sits in the front row of the shows she attends-heaven forbid that she would be seated one row back. Doo.Ri was the only show I went to that Anna also attended, with her huge Chanel sunglasses and poker face in place to prevent anyone else from reading her reactions to the collection. She is, indeed, the Devil. Or maybe she's God.
It all begins to make sense when you examine the history of fashion. The entire industry is a fight between good and evil. Satan created it: He told Adam and Eve to eat the apple, that they would know the difference between good and evil if they did. They took a bite, and then realized they were naked. Then came clothes.
Fashion Week is therefore a testament of how mankind learned to make good of this evil and turn Satan's work into perfect beauty. It makes you forget about the pain and suffering in the world and restores your faith in humanity.
As I was waiting for my plane to Durham, I looked around and saw exactly what the attendees at Fashion Week abhorred-regular people. Unoriginality. I felt a stinging sensation as I sat there, because I realized I, like Adam and Eve, had lost my innocence.
I won't be able to buy clothes at Target or J. Crew anymore, because I know that it's the easy way out, and that's just not good enough. But as I boarded the plane, I began to realize that knowing the difference between good and bad clothes, eating that proverbial apple in Bryant Park, really isn't that bad at all.
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