Wake up, Honey! It's time for fashion week
On energetic revivals, Lululemon and mini-shorts
A few weeks ago, I was feeling majorly burnt out by the fashion calendar. Awards shows aside, having to consider Menswear, then Couture, then Pre-Fall?? (this is me still timidly asking the Fashion Gods to eliminate Pre-Fall). But I’m BACK baby, because New York Fashion Week has, for the first time in YEARS, injected me with its sweet juice.
What’s different about this season? I think it has something to do with Covid (as most things still do). It feels like 2023 was the first year we were able to shake off some creative cobwebs, and be intentional in what we were creating. There was newness, and things not just borne of grief or fog. We’re now seeing the fruits of that labor.
In New York, I’m now feeling that people have a renewed sense of who they are, and it was apparent on the runways. Maybe it’s because the real estate market seems to be stagnating, maybe it’s Chloe Sevigny talking about her disdain for dogs and Lululemon, but either way people seem to have redeveloped their cojones.
What struck me about these shows is that they seemed to be declaring This is New York. New York is not an offshoot of Paris or London or Berlin; New York is no longer trying to appeal to the influencers or celebrities or PR; New York is not creating for the sake of shock value and clickbait (although if that happens, cool). These designers were standing in their New York-ness. The sleekness and sex and insouciance and eccentricity of it all.
I truly hate the phrase quiet luxury. All these clean girl/chocolate syrup/glazed donut aesthetics can bite me. They all boil down to a very real phenomenon that most have known for years: wealthy people often wear restrained outfits in luxurious fabrics, whose cost belies their simplicity. There is often a difference in the way expensive clothes fit, and was evident at the Maria McManus show, even when viewed in 2D.
The coats and dresses hung heavily on the body; sheer fabric swept around the skin and fell, kissing knees and ankles. The fit wasn’t skintight, allowing for the fabric to drape and breathe in a way we don’t often see in tailoring today. The luxury wasn’t quiet, however: it spoke in a clear voice, saying “I am a woman of purpose.”
I’ll be vulnerable for a second: as I looked through the LaPointe show, I shouted “Oh My God!” out loud to myself several times. I was going full cartoon wolf *eyes popping out of my skull*. I was giggling and kicking my feet!
This show was so sexy it hurt me. It was the return of ankle boots- take note! There were day-glo colors and long coats aplenty. It was a cacophony of Beyoncé’s RENAISSANCE tour meets The Matrix, meets the coolest girl you know walking into Café Grumpy at 7am, looking disheveled yet fabulous because she hasn’t gone home yet from the night before .
I never thought I’d say this, but the Proenza Schouler show made me believe in the power of wearing white. As an avowed disciple of the all-black outfit, I was shoving aside the darker colors to get to their draped columns of ivory, and cocoons of bisque wool. The show overall felt like an ode to the cool girls they dressed in the early millennium, now all grown up and collecting art by Ruth Asawa and Simon Hantaï.
The Monse show seemed to have been created particularly from the depths of my own imagination. Pastoral toile prints? Check. Pulp comic printed sweater sets? Didn’t know I needed it, but I definitely do - Check. A long overcoat merged with a barely-there sandal? Sure! The mostly muted tones, shot through with shades of yellow and pale blue, felt like an energetic shift from hibernation to feeling alive again after the doldrums of winter/Covid/our 2023 selves that we’re ready to shed. Unexpected, modern, preppy and vivid.
There is still so much more to say, and I’ll probably write at least one more overview of NYFW before it’s over, but I’ll limit myself for now. Onward and upward!