New York Fashion Week, always a blur, was also this year a swirl of slush, ice and polar vortexes, which didn’t stop The Transom from undertaking the nearly biblical task of trying to set a record for most events attended. Herewith, a summary.
At the show for fashion website VFiles, models with sunken cheeks walked the catwalk clutching bespoke water bottles. (If you give a model a molly …) Later, Details was feting its new cover, a spread of a half-dozen identical-looking beefcakes. A blogger friend pointed at the magazine’s front spread and named the male models, one by one. Quite impressive really.
The shoe designer Alexandre Birman hosted a party at MoMA, on the fifth floor, with its Cézannes, Van Goghs and Picassos. It’s a rare pleasure to watch well-dressed women take selfies in front of Les Demoiselles d’Avignon.
The night began at the X-rated burlesque club the Box for the LDN Hardwear presentation. One look featured a dress with a gold zipper all the way down the front. “You can zip that shit right off!” said Jessica Horwell, the designer who made the dress. Noted. Elder Statesman threw a party later, where the looks hung from a revolving clothesline in the center of the room. “It’s cashmere, and inevitably it’s going to end up at the dry cleaners,” said model Erin Wasson. “Luxury means dry-cleaning.” Thankfully, the looks were on mannequins, not real models, who may have complained if they had to hang suspended for three hours spinning around.
After a few drinks at the Ace for, of all things, a bespoke umbrella manufacturer, it was off to Hammerstein Ballroom for the Moncler show. A choral group’s tuxedo-clad members performed a chilling requiem with their legs affixed to metal harnesses, the machines turning and leaning them to and fro as they sang, with stacks of models in Moncler coats standing silent behind them.
Before the Opening Ceremony party on Sunday, we hopped in an SUV with the ATL Twins, Sidney and Thurman Sewell, famous for their roles as James Franco’s henchmen in Spring Breakers. They have resplendent golden grills in their mouths. “The girl I fucked last night, man, she was fresh, she’s a model,” said Sidney, displaying a picture of said girl on his iPhone. “The girl I fucked was pretty fine, too,” said Thurman, sitting beside him. “But my girl, her pussy was so tight and so wet,” said Sidney, waving his phone. “Look at this shit!” he said, displaying the evidence. We went to Milk Studios, where Daniel Arsham was hosting a party for the streetwear line Stampd LA, and the artist showed up in a tan cowboy hat not dissimilar to the hat Pharrell Williams, Mr. Arsham’s frequent collaborator, wore to the Grammys. Did he steal the idea from Mr. Williams? “I’ve had this hat for 10 years,” Mr. Arsham said. “Pharrell stole it from me.” Opening Ceremony was apparently Belgian themed—chocolate oozed out from atop the white backdrop—and then came the after-party at MaisonO, hosted with the label Hood By Air. “I’m just looking forward to sleeping,” said Shayne Oliver, Hood By Air’s designer.
Telfar Clemens had his show Monday at the New Museum, and the soundtrack reminded us of this each time a model reached the end of the runway: “Telfar!” said the voice that echoed through speakers in the room. “Telfar. Tel-faaar. Telfar?” “I kept turning around the entire time, because I kept thinking that people were calling me,” Mr. Clemens said. The cross-section that was the Telfar front row—video artists, Internet personalities, viral chroniclers of the outré—made its way up the Bowery later that night for the Purple Fashion magazine party at Chez Andre. There amid the young upstarts was Paris Hilton, who relished the art kids’ reverence of her as a post-fame icon.
[Description redacted. The turkey wrap we ate for lunch was the most eventful part of the day.]
Jeremy Scott had a party at Up & Down, the new space on 14th Street and Eighth Avenue that has gone to great lengths to emphasize its cool quotient. The rapper Riff Raff was there, so maybe they’ve earned it. A tiny room for extracurricular activities didn’t hurt either.
And on the last day, New York was blanketed with snow, but why stay in when it’s the seventh anniversary of the Box? So back to the Box, the high-end sex club. The show read like a greatest-hits compilation of the place’s sex performances: large objects pulled from unprintable places, gallons of fake blood pouring from eyes and ears, feats of strength performed by nubile teens. Most memorably, there was a naked woman pleasuring herself onstage, spraying the front row with bodily fluids, all while taking a selfie with her one free hand. A fine Fashion Week metaphor. Everyone watching applauded.