I’m currently obsessed with New York Fashion Week. The sublime, the divine, and the well, limes on those vines. I want to wear nothing but clothes from Alice+Olivia for the rest of my life while I mock some of the other designers mercilessly.
The multitude of pill bottles mean I’ll never go to Fashion Week. I’ll never wear Rosie Assoulin’s absurd-but-amazing formal wear meant for office work. Or vice-versa. But that has to be okay. There’s no other option.
But some NYFW runways are for wearing: DKNY, Victoria Beckham, Rachel Zoe, these are clothes made for women to wear. But the others, the ones that sparkle and shine, the ones that glow in the dark, the ones that we sit back and say, No real person will ever wear that, those aren’t clothes.
Those are pieces of art. Those are new forms of modern art. And while I won’t wear them, and I don’t want to hang them on my wall, it’s pretty damn fun to watch them blaze their sparkly trails down the runway. We’re all going to forget that lovely black dress from blahdeblah. But the artists? They’re unforgettable.
And so am I,