It looked like an FIT football game. The metal bleachers were filled with couture-clad gossiping fashion figures, all sipping mini-bottles of prosecco with straws provided at the entrance by dapper waiters. Instead of a gridiron, however, there was a runway. Photographers were executing carefully choreographed plays, snapping shots of the demi-celebs and blitzing the bold-faced names with Manning-worthy precision.
The Cynthia Rowley show was about to start. With the bleachers filled, we left our prosecco at our seat and went to speak to some of the notables in the room. Abigail Breslin, Toni Braxton, Nigel Barker, Peter Brant Jr., James Frey, and Rebecca Romijn were walking around the space, trying to be seen.
First, we approached Terence Koh. Well, we spotted a white furry monstrosity which we later determined to be the artist. His legs were completely hidden beneath what appeared to be a deceased polar bear, and he wore a matching winter cap on his head. We asked about his tundra-inspired ensemble. “It’s white albino Yeti snowman,” he whispered. Glad he clarified, we asked Mr. Koh if he had any routines for Fashion Week. “Um, not eat,” he said in an almost inaudible pitch. Had he eaten today? “No, just cucumber juice.”
Moving on, we spoke to Kelly Rutherford who explained she was most excited to see Son Jung Wan’s show this week, who she described as “an orient designer.” We asked Ms. Rutherford about the Santorum surge. “I don’t know, what is this? The Santorum?” We explained that Rick Santorum was a potential Republican candidate who was enjoying an unexpected wave of popularity in the primaries. “She’s asking me about politics,” Mr. Rutherford said to her assistant. “That’s where I draw the line. Its fashion week!”
We returned to our bleacher seat where, sadly, someone had absconded with our prosecco. Soberly, we settled into watch the show. As the looks were being paraded in front of us, several real-time images of the models were being projected on the back wall in black and white. One angle, however, was fixed not toward the runway but directly at Jen Brill, who, noticing her colorless likeness began to point as one inevitably does at sporting events when appearing on the big screen.
Regaining her composure, she tried to evade the frame by sitting upright. Sitting one seat down, however, was Derek Blasberg who was clearly enjoying his moment in the sun. The Classy author made finger puppets and pointed at himself, relishing the projected fantasia.
We caught up with Mr. Blasberg after the show, arm in arm with Ms. Brill. He inquired as to which publication we represented. “The Observer,” The Observer said. “Oh cool, well, we can be smart. I liked that it was a modern take on the technology obsessed superhighway that fashion has become, it also looked really cool.” We asked about his jacket, a riff on a letterman (adding to the sporty vibe of the occasion) with his name on the back and an animal print image of Missouri in place of a well-deserved Varsity letter. “Its amazing,” he said of the jacket. “This is Missouri, in leopard print which is my favorite color. And my last name,” he said, turning around, “Which means ‘mountain that blows,’ in German. Windy mountain is what we prefer to say, but Mountain that Blows is the literal translation,” he informed us.
Walking out, we smiled at the overturned bottles of prosecco in place of bud lights, the jettisoned programs detailing each runway look instead of player stats. This particular big game was over.
