I went into fashion week in the midst of processing the death of someone very close to me. It’s perhaps not the best time to put yourself through the rigors of running around town from show to show, but the idea of putting on a brave face and leaving the house to socialize somehow strangely sounded more appealing than sitting home taking it all in via Instagram, my thumb repetitively tugging down to refresh.
So instead, I half-heartedly wiggled into slip dresses and tied my sandals and started to snake my way around the city, nodding along as models strode past to the tunes of Sufjan Stevens and Vivaldi. There was more than one occasion when I felt my eyes get watery in the midst of a show, my mind wandering from what was in front of me to the consuming reality of loss. Half way through the week a friend asked me, “what are you going to write about?” and I realized that I’d navigated through a few days of heavy-duty stimulation on all input no output. I saw things, but I didn't really do all too much analysis. How do you distill your thoughts on a collection when you’re running on smooth brain mode?
Having had a few weeks to pull my thoughts together, I’ve mostly been stewing on our expectations today around what we wear for others (namely trends) and what we wear for ourselves, especially at a time when feeling vulnerable. All I wanted was to curl up in sweatpants, but in a professional setting, there still had to be some semblance of put-togetherness. That meant I was showing up in running shorts and sneakers, one-and-done dresses, and handpicked pieces that bring me joy. Getting dressed was more about natural intuition and ease than it was about calculating the puzzle of a perfect look.
I’m curious what happens when designers feel the same way? The trend cycle has turned us all into a confused mush of stimuli but inevitably the gravity of life pokes through the facade of it all. I feel some sympathy for those held to the expectation of inciting wonder and flexing creative prowess on an unforgiving and calculated schedule that doesn’t leave a ton of room for life stuff.
But enough with my thinky little precursors, onto the main course: what I DID like! What freed me from the chains of my own bleariness and little moments that did spark joy.
I delighted at Tory Burch, where models could be heard jingling in their approach down the runway. It was an impractical pronouncement — woven tunics embellished with bells that are what I can only imagine a nightmare at a movie theater or prim white-napkin restaurant, but might just make a splash on some dance floor. While it was silly, I always had the feeling that Burch was letting us in on the joke.
“In a chaotic world, we thought about what ‘effortless’ means now. Clothing that frees up space in your mind,” it says splashed front and center across the post-show email. Ah, salve for the mentally overstimulated.
There was lots of sheerness on the runways, but the place I found it most appealing was at Khaite, where see-through clothing didn’t feel provocative or earnest, but instead matter of fact. The cavernous black room at the Armory, punctuated by spotlights, was a striking setting for clothes that if anything I found elegant but un-dramatic. I like that there’s refinement and edge coexisting in a way that doesn’t feel forced.
To me, Khaite’s clothes are for sophisticated women who aren’t as complicated as perhaps they think they are (in a good way?). I aspire to be a Khaite woman, showing up to a cool party in some voluminous dress and strappy heels, or hopping on a plane in a trench coat, duffel in the crook of my arm (instead, flying to SFO I sat middle seat in sweats). Maybe one day all my perusing of The Real Real will pay off and I can become a PTKG (part-time Khaite girl) — seeking sleekness, but well aware of my boundaries.
Though I wasn’t there, I was pleasantly surprised to see the ways in which Proenza Schouler and Brandon Maxwell leaned into their own aesthetics. My favorite at PS was a skirt that looked like it had been strung from shards of glass. I WAS at Tibi, and similarly had to appreciate the way in which Amy Smilovic has settled into her idea of the Creative Pragmatist and looks back to the brand and its core customer to evolve. There was barely any color in the collection (withstanding a red sock and flat combo, frilly tuxedo shirt, and one or two other pieces) the styling was simple but smart, even in the head-to-toe Tibi clad front row.
“There is an absolute calmness you feel when you know who you are,” the show notes read, alluding to a collection devoted to a sure sense of self. “ To experiment relays curiosity rather than an erosion of your identity.”
On the note of feeling like yourself — beyond an immediate reframing of my priorities this past week, since going freelance a year and a half ago I’ve settled into a more holistic approach to attending shows — not feeling pressure to do it all, and taking a break when necessary. Chrissy Rutherford’s latest edition of her email FWD Joy, in which she discusses choosing to no longer attend at all, echoed a lot of my own struggles around identity and validity as a nebulous person at fashion week. Doing it on my own terms takes me one step further out of the circle, but also leaves me room to appreciate how special it all is.
Needing to finally deal with the realties of my personal life, I skipped the last day of fashion week. Paris rolls on as I write this from my dad’s couch in California. Now, I’m back to mostly casual in a cashmere Vince sweater, vintage Levi’s, and my Blundstones. It’s the kind of outfit that’s comfortable and casual, not really worthy of a mirror selfie. But, in the words of Burch, it’s effortless in that it frees up space in my mind. That makes it perfect for the stuff I’m dealing with offline.