Thursday, September 5, 2013
Fashion Week. I have always felt particularly superficial gushing over the puff of a Chloe dress in the window somewhere, but I just have to admit to myself – yes, I love clothes. Yes, I need to stop buying clothes. Yes, I love Fashion Week.
Last week for the first time I was actually going to Fashion Week to see a collection of an acquaintance – Jerome LaMaar. He used to work with my sister, so I knew him from my times visiting her at her store. It was exactly the interlude I needed in the middle of a bad week. (In fact, all of August has been horrible and those sentiments are seeping into early September. )
After work Thursday I raced home to change into a fashion week worthy outfit. (It was a failure: a Tibi leather top, jeans, ancient Barney’s wedges). I packed a banana in my purse and scarfed it in a cab en route to Chelsea’s Inglot Studios.
My sister was already at the presentation, as were about 60 or so people. I said hello, and she was speaking with one of Jerome’s friends that I’d met previously. We imbibed on free liquor and I checked out the collection, titled 5:31 (after his birth month and date). And it was gorgeous – whites, pinks, lush peonies on the platform and mossy green texture on the shoes. I was obsessed with a white sleeveless jumper with cropped pants and a front zip, and rhinestone studded Levi’s and pale pink drawstring jackets. There was a clever sweatshirt with “More” (not “Amore” –made you look) that I immediately wanted. A few more familiar faces trickled in, lots of hugs and compliments on shoes (such well dressed men in smoking shoes with tassels!), more photos and impressed faces. I spoke to Jerome briefly. He has such an easy way about him, and seemed completely oblivious to the good impressions about the collection. I left at 9 p.m., when all the fans were in a receiving line for photos with Jerome. My sister and I dodged the peony and rose petals on the floor and took an elevator back to a windy Manhattan street. I felt a little transported.
I always find inspiration in unexpected places. Usually fashions shows (and hell, fashion week) makes me feel small and inadequate. The feeling is worth it, since I also leave with my aesthetic senses firmly quenched from garment overload. But this time, I felt inspired by Jerome and his work, and the crowd, and the overt femininity-with-an-edge angle to his line. Walking home through Chelsea my mind filled with y own goals and aspirations. My friend was doing something brave, and daring with a beautiful outcome. It felt so good to see someone making something. Anything.
I must strive for this. I must create more.
That weekend I searched for peonies at every shop, but sadly their season has passed.