by Emily Chandler Westergreen
New York Fashion Week
was chilly this year, and I don't mean in
the normal "cold breeze up the short skirted fashionista" kind of way.
There was a definite change in the air in the tents this year. The
usual crazy, fun, nonstop fashion-never-sleeps vibe was missing. Maybe
because those who never sleep for fashion found themselves unable to even
cross the sacred threshold of the twice yearly Fashion Mecca known as Lincoln Center.
The idea from the Fashion Gods Above was to make Lincoln Center "more
exclusive." I have nothing against "More exclusive" (actually it's
kinda my MO!), but the result didn't feel that way. It felt,
well....empty. And lonely. What used to be a meeting place for the
fashion elite, a virtual street style runway complete with its own DJ,
has become a desolate tent occupied by the very boring elite.
Remember the open bar at Bryant Park? Yes, I do, very well as a matter
of fact. After the initial move to Lincoln Center, that was replaced
by an open bar of Kim Crawford wine (again, ok by me). The sadder side
of Lincoln Center offers Diet Coke...and for those of us who don't
like Diet Coke, even better: Frozen Diet Coke.
Have I mentioned a chill in the air?
And the darkness! A black "is it noon or midnight" kind of darkness. A
windowless Vegas casino darkness that makes you ponder weather to stay
for the Badgley Mishka show or crawl in the corner and take a nap on
your Dennis Basso (of course) fur.
So is it more elite? Hardly. The true elite run in through the back
door and out the same door. They never entered the tent in the first place.
Did I feel more special being allowed to enter this sacred space?
Well, yes, I did. But after walking 10 feet inside, I felt a major
letdown. I wished I could click my heels together like Dorothy and say
"there's no place like Fashion Week," and suddenly be transported to,
You know the one. The Fashion Week that was. The slightly-less-snobby
version of the most snobby event of the year.