Style matters

This is it.

The last blog about New York Fashion Week-I don't want to seem like I'm clinging on desperately or anything. After all, NYFW is already so last week, all eyes are now on LFW and soon it will be MFW, then PFW and then we'll have run out of fash weeks and acronyms.  Meanwhile I'm left here thinking about the swirly whirlwind of it all and wearing my Fashion loves Haiti T-shirt like a sad twat. The party is officially over at Bryant Park- permanently. Next season it moves uptown to Columbus circle-where there will be proper toilets. No more watching ladies in Lanvin heels hobble out of the tents to use the portaloos.

So I guess I should be writing one of those summary pieces, that pulls everything together neatly and summarises the trends for Fall 2010? I should, but I don't want to get bogged down in the detailing of the what to wear-for reasons I will expand on later. If you're interested though- there was tons of high waisted peg legs pants, winter florals, classic American sportswear in the veil of loose blazer jackets and slouchy suits. There was also a (disturbing) dominance of real fur in the collections.

None more so than at J. Mendel, where even the Louboutins had a mink trim.  I was just worried for this lady in the audience, for fear her pooch might get turned into a handbag

I could focus this last fash blog on the lack of celebs, which was a big talking point. It started with Marc Jacobs banning stars from his front row and then undoubtedly the economy also played a factor. The few famous faces that did rock up were at the biggest shows- where I was not. The only spot I got really excited about was 'noted fashion photographer' Nigel Barker from America's Next Top Model front row at Carlos Miele. Am happy to report he is just as shaggable in the flesh.  So this is why I am picturing a celeb stylist like Philip Bloc to illustrate this, rather than an actual celeb.

Plenty happened during the week, including the realisation that NYFW is more than a week, it's actually 8 days. I covered the Bloggers v editors debate and terrified teen blogger Tavi's mum by bombarding her with questions when she sat next to me at a conference. I told you about all the other  kids at the tents.  I rambled on incessantly about getting a seat at a show. I networked, met some lovely people and also some right tossers. I shopped inbetween shows and experienced some super charged style serendipity, grabbing the best vintage finds of my life. I got turned away from Christian Siriano I had a superlative attack at Elisa Palomino. I got fashion flu, met some lovely female paparazzi and a Welsh intern. I failed to get snapped by any street style photographers and concluded only thin people make it onto The Satorialist.

I wrote every day and treated my blog like my own little fashion magazine. It's pretty exclusive, you're probably one of only a few hundred readers. Lucky you (this won't get me a book deal though, so please keep spreading the word). 

The most important lesson that NYFW has left me with is thus: What you wear is less important than you think. The best looks were always in the audience rather than the catwalk, confirming for me that street style leads where designers follow. I noticed the outfits I envied weren't the matchy matchy, but  more eclectic, considered, yet with that air of thrown together.  There's an anything goes attitude among true fashion lovers that's refreshingly lacking in elitism. There are a few exceptions though and they mostly centre around neon on pensioners:

How you wear it is the key as ever. And that has nothing to do with fashion and everything to do with style. Fashion week left me thinking less about this season's pants or heel and more about being creative and caring less.

So for Fall 2010 I say fuck fashion.

And embrace style for every season

Tight fit

In fashion, being small is not just a prerequisite for the models.

Turns out you also need to be pretty skinny to fit in the chairs at the shows. On the occasions I've been lucky enough to upgrade myself from fashion pond life and actually snag a seat, I've spent the show spilling over onto the people either side of me.



I've developed a technique of hunching my shoulders inwards so that I take up less space. While doing this I watch clinically underweight models strut the runway. Occasionally a girl even thinner than her rake-like contemporaries, sticks out. Because her razor sharp collarbones do.

Shrinking women and the desire for us to comply is the ugly side of fashion. Clothes can empower and boost esteem but the demand for thin is how fashion diminishes females. Less space, less importance, less impact.

But there I am apologetically making myself smaller, partly out of propriety, but also for fear of judgement. Worry that the person next to me might see my womanly curves and deem them irritating fatness.

Bolder than me is the woman who flaunts her larger physique without apology.

No room at the in-crowd

So Welsh Alien is locked out of her first Fashion Show. Welsh Alien is now referring to herself under this moniker and in the third person.

This is because Welsh Alien is being extra fashion today, wearing an asymmetric dress, wedge lace up ankle boots, an ironic necklace, a fash pack oversized scarf and cherry red lipstick. Maybe Welsh Alien needs to fash it up even more like this lady in order to get in?


Her effort today did not prevent Welsh Alien getting denied admission to Christian Siriano due to what we will refer to as 'Lazy RSVPing'

In Welsh Alien's defence, organization is not her strong point and the whole rigmarole of getting a ticket to a fashion show is multi layered (to use a fashion acronym). It involves you applying to attend to a show and then if they say yes, you an invite, but then you still have to RSVP-even though you said you wanted to come in the first place.

So Welsh Alien sits forlorn in the reception area of the tent drinking her limited edition fashion week Diet Coke watching the former winner of Project Runway's clothes whizz by on the small screen.



Welsh Alien's cherry red lips are pouting.

Can I offer your giraffe a biscuit?

Toni Maticevski.

No, I've never heard of him either, but from the line outside The Altman building on W18th, you'd think he was the next coming of Christ.

When I finally get inside I am shoved a ticket with 'ST' on which I assume is industry abbreviation for 'standing'. I trudge over to another line and accept my fate as bottom of the fashion feeding chain. At the shows, who you are depends not just on where you sit, but if you get seated at all. Those given a standing position are pet food.



But 20 minutes later I hear the golden words from a PR- "Grab a spare seat if you can" I forget my Britishness and scramble frantically over a line of tightly packed fash people to claim my place in the second row. If there was room I would do the running man in celebration.

The show begins. A freakishly thin giraffe necked girl stalks down the runway in a full chiffon dress. Kinda grey. Then another giraffe in more grey. Not understated good grey, just dull, not invited to the party grey. I am fascinated by a model who is doing a kind of Monty Python walk in her 8 inch heels. The skinniness is breathtaking.

More heart stopping is what follows. Somehow the clothes have mutated into a incomprehensible mess. Stretch transparent Lycra with unfathomable sequin embellishment. Knickers on show at the back, more chiffon in a dollar store floral with a bunched up grandad jacket.




It's like boudoir met punk in a pub and had a one night stand...in 1986. At one point a Madonna-esque sequin bra floats by in a haze of my disbelief. It all screams cheap, market stall tat. Is anyone else thinking the same?





Right on cue the man next to be lets out a gigantic yawn.

''Oh god!" he laughs "Am I that obvious?"
I smile and put my hand over my mouth to address him "What do you think of this?"
"Do you know the designer? he whispers
"Fuck no!" I say
"It's a mess!" he tells me "It's like a student show. A bad one."
"Oh my god! I think the same! It's like a customising project gone wrong."
"It's a horrible miss match and only two of the models can even walk properly."

I smile at my partner in bitchy crime and then when the horror show ends we chat and introduce and shake hands.

I have made my first fashion friend.

Alexander McQueen pissed on them all (literally)

Within minutes of leaving my first NY fashion week show this morning I hear that Alexander Mcqueen has died at his home in London.

Just 40 years of age he committed suicide, depressed and grieving over the recent death of his Mum.

Billed as the 'enfant terrible' of the fashion world upon his debut his uncompromising work fast being a favourite among celebs.

My favourite story about him is his arrival at the stuffy Parisian salon of Givenchy. He is rumoured to have taken out his cock and pissed all over the table and declared "See the future".

Now that's a rock star.

R.I.P.