01 March 2018 8:34pm PST
J. Carmen Price
Nothing says crime against humanity like New York Fashion Week. I mean that in the best way possible.
If you want a shorthand version of NYFW composed by those who claim expertise, check out Vogue. Or The New York Times–those bastards really take a liking to Cardi B in particular so talk about living up to their name and being truly “of the times.” (In other words: Cardi B will be irrelevant by the next presidential election).
Or you may subject yourself to the spiraling self-congratulatory world that is social media: nearly any person who considers themselves to possess a certain religious affection towards #trend has posted at least one photo, story, snap, etc. of this said fashion experience.
NYFW promises a surefire cure to the February blues. I mean, all those patterns? The accessories? The faux fur (no real fur, obviously, animals have feelings too)? The gorgeously thin models reminding everyone of their New Year’s Resolutions? Endorphin rush on maximum.
Oh and the best part about NYFW? Not the designers, obviously, because they’re the same every year and everyone is named Mark/Marc or something Asian persuasion. Not the shows. Not the celebrity appearances by Margot Robbie and others. Not the musical performances.
Ah, indeed, the best part of NYFW is the spirit of it all, because, lest we forget, everything stands to be a political statement now.
A shirt is not just a shirt.
A bag is not just a bag.
A boot is never just a boot (apparently, dear Calvin was going for some sort of metaphor with his show…?)
And so we overlook the seemingly Lizzie-McGuire-inspired skirt by Gypsy Sport and we say, “What an incredibly brave black, excuse me, African American model. And he’s wearing eyeshadow! And is that a mess of bleached braids atop his head? Wow, Gypsy Sport, just wow. Take all my money.”
Indeed. New York Fashion Week is a triumph. It is becoming, in a word, woke.
And NYFW is a migraine.
NYFW is completely unrealistic, one week among fifty-two, where one may elevate the basic routine of clothing oneself to ecstatic levels.
NYFW is an overripe pimple, just waiting to burst its infected innards onto the already claustrophobic and yet somehow gratifying existence of see-and-be-seen. Forget elitism–we are all about inclusivity, now…which is just another way of saying that we aren’t satisfied unless we hear a thunderous applause from everyone else.
So, applause, NYFW.
We have once more proven that fashion, for all its trumpeting inclusivity, exists mostly to make you plebs feel bad about yourselves. Applause.