Waking up late is in the mornings is usually not a problem for me, mostly because I usually have nothing to do in the mornings. I generally sleep in until whenever I wake up, and I generally wake up whenever I do. This is not the case during Fashion Week. Sleeping in creates problems, and problems create me being in trouble.
I woke up groggy from the night before, super late and in a rush. I looked like hell but that didn’t matter. The key was I was awake, and as far as accomplishments go, that was a necessary one.
I took the elevator up to the 8th floor in pursuit of coffee. The doors opened into utter mayhem. Fashion kids were running amuck at the Eckhaus Latta presentation, and as far as I could tell, they didn’t realize it was way too early to have that much energy. I walked into the room where the show was being held and got even more confused. Two girls were walking simultaneously on a single treadmill; others were lying on inflatable air mattresses on the floor, nonchalantly chatting with each other like they were at a party. Why the cinderblocks were there was beyond me. It really felt more like being in an apartment in Bushwick than it did a fashion studio.
Different shows bring different crowds. Younger, less established designers often have more fun with the presentation than the more established lines do. I’m not saying they’re better or worse, I’m just saying they’re different. This became abundantly clear when I walked into the next show, Cushnie Et Ochs. All the kids with high tops and loud t-shirts were replaced with straight elegance and status. Fashion icons like Kate Bosworth were all around me, and our artist Jessica was working on overload. She must have been high as fuck on adrenaline. Photographers were snapping excessively at the celebrities, and I just stood there feeling like the biggest scumbag in the room. Looking back on it now, I probably shouldn’t have worried—intern Jon Larsen was somewhere nearby, undoubtedly taking it to the next level.
What a scumbag.
I wrote Jon Larsen’s name on my press pass, just in case I got in trouble. The way I looked at it, nobody knew exactly who I was or what I did anyway, so if I did something stupid and maybe crossed the line, I’d simply say, “I’m Jon Larsen motherfucker,” show ‘em my credentials, and walk away like an asshole. Hopefully that would get him fired. It was a personal project.
The show itself was pleasant enough, lots of shear whites and skimpy clothing. For me, there’s something weird about staring at scantily clad models. It’s kind of like a strip club, only you throw money at the clothes, not the girls. Designers like exposing breasts through transparent fabrics, and it’s unavoidable not to notice. In general, I only steal quick glances, as I hate feeling like a creep. Clearly there’s no future for me in fashion.
After Cushnie, I walked over to the Standard Hotel to check out the Houghton runway show. It was on the 3rd floor balcony overlooking Chelsea, and the weather was hot and gross. People were shooting photos with Ipads, which is a pretty ridiculous looking thing. I saw Ryan Stroock Stern, the event planner for the Standard, and he told me I spelled his name wrong in an earlier post. I lied and told him I’d fix it. (FYI, Ryan’s a good guy, and he enjoyed taking care of me. He’d tell me where the free the drinks were, who to interview, bum me smokes and straight kick it. He also worked like a madman, which is a good quality to have if your job involves coordinating all sorts of crazy people’s bullshit.) I high-fived a bunch of people and walked around feeling out the atmosphere. The Standard has a different style of shows, probably due to its proximity to the outdoors. At Milk during Fashion Week, people never get to see the sun, but at the Standard they’re forced to stew in the humid air. The grass is always greener.
For this show, I decided to try out a new approach to reviewing—I’d turn my back to the runway and have a girl from Sweden describe it to me. Her English was better than my Swedish, but she admittedly she wasn’t exactly the fluent in the language.
“Flowers… it’s more flowers….”
“Cool,” I said enthusiastically.
“Flowers…”
“Cool,” I said again.
“Flowers, color, mute—mute colors. Flowers, color. White. Neglege.”
“Wow, I’d love to see that.”
“Music is interesting. Golden plated jumpsuit. Long dress, back open. More flowers…
I’m never going to review a show by watching it again. The show ended and I walked back to Milk to watch the Suno presentation. Suddenly, I got a call from Sarah Hey, Milk Made’s editor-in-chief.
“I have a special project for you and (photographer) Andy (Boyle),” she said. “We need you to go down to the Electric Room and interview Iman.”
We packed up our gear and headed over, stat. We’re good employees. On the way there, we discussed who Iman was.
“She’s David Bowie’s wife,” Andy explained, “a supermodel, a real big deal.”
“Oh, rad, I wonder if the drinks will be free. They’re like, fifteen bucks there or something.”
“Fuck…” Andy replied with a bummed out inflection.
“I know.”
We walked into the Electric Room and found out tequila was free, thank god. Iman was standing in the corner beaming like sunshine. She had a certain radiance to her, a beauty that you don’t see every day. It wasn’t necessarily a physical thing either, just something unique that drew everyone towards her like a magnet. I cut in line in front of some girl from Teen Vogue (who later accused me about it, the only reason I know that’s what I did) and asked her a few questions.
Iman was super busy and I didn’t really know what to ask her outside of her new project, an online fashion boutique/blog, so I decided to keep it short. Three questions sounded about right, two about what she was doing and one that I’d make up on the fly.
“Who are you?” asked Iman.
“My name’s Mike Abu, um–“
“I know, but who are you?” she cut me off. That was a question I didn’t know if I was prepared to think about.
“As far as it matters, I work with Milk Studios. I’m here writing for their online editorial Milk Made.”
“Are you?” Iman laughed.
“Presumably. I got asked if I could stop by and–“
“Oh, thank you!”
“No problem. Check it, I’ve got a few questions–“
“Look at him!” she demanded, pointing to a photographer. We posed.
Iman laughed and said, “I’m bossy all the time. Okay tell me.”
“I’ll be quick,” I promised her. “What’s your motivation behind this website?”
“I have five brands,” she told me, “and I’ve only had a website for my cosmetics. I thought, ‘Okay, I’ll have a website for all my brands,” and then I thought, ‘Oh God, it’s boring me.’
“Sounds boring.”
Iman paused. “Yes. So I thought, ‘I’m 57, I’ve been in the business for 35 years, maybe I know a thing or two. I’ll write my point of view.’ So, I thought, ‘I’ll do it.’
“Are you writing it as well?” I asked her.
“I write everything!” she beamed. “I’m a staff of one. I have to hire people because I can’t do it anymore.”
“I know the feeling,” I replied candidly.
“A staff of one?” she said rhetorically. “I can’t do it, it’s crazy!”
“If you need a writer, I’m here for you.”
“I actually do!” she said enthusiastically.
“Well, it just so happens that–“
“Dana?” she called out a woman swamped with more important things. “Contact!”
“I’ll give her my card,” I said, saving Dana the effort. “Now this is the most important question, okay? You’ve been in fashion for 35 years. Alright, cool. Do I need to do something about my hair?”
“No!” she exclaimed. “Absolutely not!”
“Thank god.”
“It’s natural, right?” she said suddenly, taken aback. “You didn’t do anything to it?”
“Not at all,” I replied.
“Don’t touch it!” she demanded with a laugh.
Either way, the interview went off without a hitch and gave me something to tell my sister about. That’s probably the only rational reason I’m doing what I’m doing anyway.
