Fashion Week Shame: A Standing Ticket to Altuzarra
The finale at Altuzarra SS16. Photo: Getty Images
For a while there, I was feeling pretty cool.
After zooming through four (!) security checkpoints, I was finally backstage at Altuzarra, one of New York Fashion Week’s hottest tickets. Major models like Amanda Moore and Aya Jones posed for my Snapchat. Makeup artist Tom Pecheaux—the man responsible for Kendall Jenner and Cara Delevingne’s most beautiful runway moments—walked me through the show’s dreamy beauty. Hair legend Odile Gilbert (the genius behind Kirsten Dunst’s epic Marie Antoinette looks) showed me how to twist my hair into a perfect demi-braid. And the catering table was piled high with gourmet food and Fiji water. I even air-kissed Joseph Altuzarra himself… and nearly knocked into Anna Kendrick on the way to the restroom. Maybe, I thought to myself, I’ve finally made it.
Of course, that kind of confidence is often the kiss—or in this case, the air-kiss—of death. Mere moments after sharing a tiny space with fashion legends, global beauties, and an Oscar nominee, I experienced the NYFW equivalent of “you can’t sit with us”: A standing ticket to the show.
Here’s how it works: Just like at Versailles, the fashion world has its own complicated hierarchy, complete with monarchs (Anna Wintour, Marc Jacobs), favored nobles (cool young designers, celebrity stylists), suitable matches (rock star daughters, pretty magazine editors) and peasants (that would be me). New York Fashion Week is basically a Game of Thrones jousting match, with Kardashians instead of Khaleesi. And just like in Westeros, we sit in order of importance. Major editors, important store owners, Instagram starlets, web moguls, and celebrities perch in the front. Behind them sit their second-in-commands: accessories editors, regional boutique buyers, pretty kids who DJ cool parties. The third row is filled with personal assistants, very young magazine employees, and employees of the sponsors (i.e.: the brands behind the free champagne and nail polish). And then, way in the back, is standing.
At Altuzarra, we were a melting pot of misfits: fashion interns, street style photographers, the little sister of a makeup artist, someone who claimed to work at Siberian Harper’s Bazaar. (This season’s trend: snow!) Also present, an awful lot of professional show crashers—people in outlandish outfits who drop names and claim “I’m on the list!” loudly and persistently enough that they’re often allowed inside. I was next to a Texas native who kicked off her python heels as soon as she got inside, and a heavily-tattooed iPad photographer who used to play professional basketball in Korea, which is actually really awesome.
“Oh look, there’s that person from What Not to Wear,” said the Texan, pointing loudly to Project Runway judge Nina Garcia. “And look!” she cried, even louder, “It’s that woman from American Horror Story.” (It was actually Grace Coddington, Vogue’s creative director, but okay.) As she gestured wildly with her sequined sleeves, several people—one of my editors included—turned to look at the fray happening behind them. I considered ducking to avoid being seen, but whatever. I was assigned to the back row, fair and square. I would embrace it. I would defy it. Okay, fine, I would crop all my Twitter pictures so nobody could tell. I couldn’t tell which feeling I hated more—the shame of being relegated to the we-don’t-care-about-you section, or the double shame of caring in the first place. There are real problems happening. Standing at a beautiful fashion show is a luxury. And yet… I couldn’t shake the fear that the back row was social suicide, and I might lose jobs—or at least party invites, which believe it or not, often lead to jobs—because of it. Welcome to fashion. Welcome to my life.
The good news: The clothes were amazing. Beautiful, refined, exciting, and definitely worth standing for (especially since, unlike my Texas comrade, I was wearing flats). The bad news: the entire experience confirmed I need to work on perspective and gratitude, because I didn’t realize I was such a shallow, status obsessed girl. At least I’m one with flawless Instagram shots of the runway.
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