Let the games begin, Fashion Week has got the city wrapped up in it's trivial charm. I'm seeing everyone teetering around the SoHo cobblestones in their best designer heels, severe black outfits from head to toe, asymmetrical haircuts galore, daytime model sightings on every street corner and spotting who's who Balmain shoulders at parties. Every night the weathers been beautiful, maybe a veil of mist, but you can feel the air dripping with a champagne buzz as everyone heads out, dressed accordingly.
When I first moved to New York City when I was seventeen, I had the least bit of interest in the world of high Fashion. Designers? I wore a boys Misfits T-Shirt with black skinny jeans from Trash & Vaudeville as my daily uniform. I was very oblivious to the Fashion world, even if always right there in front of me. One time I even had a fling with a model of the moment and I was just happy sitting there watching Evil Dead movies as a date, I had no idea what his job really meant, let alone even more bewildered when he refused to ride bikes with me because he didn't want to risk the chance that he'd "fuck up his face for fashion week."
Now, under the spell, somewhat a teeny tiny teensy part of the fashion machine on full steam and somehow in this span of a decade I've come to train myself to know every designer and their collections, every single bit of fashion history, every magazine, every model... even technical textile and production information, how to design a god damn ombre plaid.
It got me.
And it's an ongoing love/hate.
Though I still wear my Misfits T-Shirt every so often,
just to remind myself.