For a First-Timer, Fashion Week is World's Most Glamorous CircusBy Kristen Kelly It's more than six days post-Fashion Week and my apartment is still littered with the trappings of the week's festivities, show programs covered in hastily scribbled notes, wrinkled copies of the The Daily, free swag courtesy of everyone from Bobbi Brown to Delta Airlines, and my long sought-after press pass, hanging idly on a coathook. With no more shows to cover or parties to attend, it feels like an indulgence just to sit around my apartment with messy hair, dressed in messy clothes, a la Jennifer Beals in "Flashdance." It's a welcome change from the daily pressure to rise at dawn, assemble a chic outfit, and arrive at the Tents perfectly coiffed and made up, lest you garner a sneer from Anna Wintour or one of her minions. Still, I find myself wishing that Fashion Week wasn't over. I've lived in New York my entire life, but when I walked through the doors of those famed Tents, I truly felt like I had arrived. Since childhood, just the looming presence of those vaulted white structures in Bryant Park has inspired in me a knee-quaking awe, a longing to worship at the altar of fashion. What exactly went on in there, I wondered. Did all the beautiful people lay about sipping champagne and sharing witty stories? Did harried designers scurry around looking for pins while simultaneously attempting to quell models' catfights? I was about to find out. For the first time, I was going inside, a bona fide member of the press, equipped with notepad, camera, and a generous dose of nervous anticipation. Inside Fashion Mecca Once inside, the atmosphere is a curious mélange of magazine editors, buyers, eccentric fashionistas, black-clad PR flacks, and at the Heatherette show, drag queens by the dozen. Photographers, reporters and cameramen camp out in tight corners, rushing to upload photos and type up coverage of the latest show. Nearly every inch of the lobby is branded; UPS, Delta, MAC, Kenneth Cole, Lycra, and Cingular all have a little nook to call their own, and main sponsor Olympus has its name splashed right over the entrance. Energetic brand representatives lure you into their booths with promises of free swag and more importantly, free nourishment. With all the hurried activity in the Tents, there's rarely time for a full meal, and I quickly learn that the "Fashion Week diet" consists of free brownies from UPS, frozen coffee drinks from Delta, espressos from MAC, and bottle after bottle of BAWLS Guaranexx energy drink (sugar-free, of course). This must be how fashionistas stay thin, I think to myself. Forget about those detox spas out in the desert; Fashion Week is like a twice-yearly crash diet. Spend a week in the tents consuming only caffeine and the occasional brownie, come out 10 pounds lighter, and spend the off season eating whatever you want. The sponsors' influence in the Tents is so strong that I find myself being reprimanded by a security guard for my choice of beverage. As I stand there sipping a bottle of Boylan's Diet Root Beer, a man approaches and asks if I'd like some water. When I politely decline, he says, "Well then, you'll have to either throw that out or finish it outside." "Oh," I say, "are there no glass bottles allowed in here?" "No, just no non-Pepsi soft drinks," he replies. Bemused, it finally dawns on me that Pepsi-owned
Aquafina is a major sponsor of Fashion Week, and consuming anything
but is verboten. I slink outside with my root beer and
return just in time for the Marc Bouwer show. Celebrities pour in, sometimes slipping in through side doors, and sometimes, as in the case of frequent attendee Ivana Trump (Donald's former wife), just breezing in the front door and bypassing the crowds. Anna Wintour seems to materialize out of thin air and disappear just as mysteriously; one minute she's there and the next, you're just looking at an empty chair. Young starlets eager to raise their profile flood the front row; frequent guests include Mischa Barton, Kristen Bell, Carmen Electra, JoJo, Brandy, and the Hilton sisters. By the end of the week I'm so used to their presence that I barely notice them. Others are more rarely spotted and still inspire a little thrill: Cameron Diaz, Julianne Moore, Liza Minnelli, Martha Stewart, and Janet Jackson all make the occasional appearance. Backstage, journalists and their crews roam about, snapping pictures and attempting to score interviews with designers, models, hairstylists, makeup artists. Models sneak naps underneath racks of clothes, and assistants give gowns a last-minute steam and search for missing shoes. And as for model catfights, you're far more likely to see Lily Cole and Jessica Stam hugging and chatting than pulling each other's hair. Though security backstage is far tighter than at the main entrance, the occasional interloper finds his way in, only to be confronted by one of the myriad publicists who hover about like mother hens protecting their brood. At Peter Som, when one uninvited guest claims to work for IMG (the media conglomerate responsible for organizing the shows) but can't produce credentials, the five-foot-two, 90 pound publicist standing before him has never been more intimidating. Soon, everyone is being herded out of the backstage area, and the seats in the tent begin to fill. Music goes up, lights go down, and next spring's looks are paraded before us. We see rich jacquards and brocades at Peter Som, neon colors at Chaiken and Lacoste, and coatdresses at Diane von Furstenberg. Models lay about on faux lawns, picnicking and shucking corn, at Vena Cava. Pink, coral and red lips dominate the runways, thankfully marking an end to the "corpse bride" look. And high-heeled oxfords and ankle boots just about everywhere, from Proenza Schouler to Rag & Bone. It's like a glimpse six months into the future, minus the crystal ball and quack psychic. Some of the shows are all business; the models strut down the runway, the designer comes out for a quick wave, everyone claps and then files out. Others are more of a spectacle. On the first day of Fashion Week, jewelry designer Chris Aire's show features a $50 million gold and diamond gown, not to mention surprise performances by Cee-Lo of Gnarls Barkley and Mos Def. At Baby Phat, a fight breaks out over front row seats. And at Tracy Reese, the designer complements her samba-themed collection by sending a dancing couple down the runway. It is truly the world's most glamorous circus the beautiful, the eccentric, the dramatic, all under one tent. And now, as I look at my press pass hanging there unused, I can't wait to get back in when Fashion Week returns in February. Posted on September 26, 2006
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