NYFW, like all fweeks, comes loaded with tricks. Admittedly, even when tricks aren’t on the menu. Is it even a wonder they keep the date so close to the night of the devil? Michelle Marybone believes there’s something to be said about it and here, in an excerpt from last night’s grand speech at the Quartz Lounge, the madame confesses to a sea of passerby, “yes.” The word “yes” meandered through the foyer and skipped the lineup to the enlarging ears of Sir Goblet Brown. Goblet, now thrice the age of himself must have thought it a miracle for the wind to pick up just in time to hear the words spoken. But it wasn’t until the following morning in the somewhere between Ludlow and Murchinstown that the undefeated champions of fashion took it upon themselves to announce the grand opening of not only the Terraza Maravilla, but also the unveiling of a new piece of clothing that would leave a rosy-cheeked Bror August sweet on a rose. Sheer and sugary as it may have all been, it was these same events that provided a fweek that left rumour spread thin on the asses of anyone who had their noses a little too deep in runway madness.
Saturday night at Escalza was NYFW’s first orange-themed show. Though it was thinned out in large part by Gauntlett Cheng‘s old-world glamour run at Don’s Bar & Grill, the sea of orange on display proved to be nothing short of spectacular. Orange pants and orange shoes with big shiny orange buckles and bits of orange was the dress-code for the night. Timmy, who worked hard at the door, showed up wearing a very funny orange T-shirt with an equally funny orange jumper and delighted on-lookers with his matching bag of gifts and words. From Timmy and onwards the lineup stretched like foreskin around the block and well into the New York Museum of Pictures and Drawings. Up at the front of the line a cacaphony of cameras blasted off high quality images as the King and Queen of New York City graciously tumbled out of a car to greet their aroused fanbase. Quick-talking Jonci and his gorgeous dancing wife Sharky shook one particular hand so hard that it simply fell off. Jonci, being the quick-quacking man he is, thought it clever to get on both knees and lead the line into New York’s world famous sewer system, where they would remain trapped for upwards of three hours. The orange line followed behind Jonci, each line member dropping to both knees before falling into the city. As the models poured out of a nearby Vaquera show, they too joined the parade. Potato-sacked and pinstriped peasantry canoodling with line-folk.
The mic creaked and the crowd came to a standstill. An empty stage was begging for its raison d’etre. From behind the whimpering curtain we heard the sound of a horse starting up. Paroom, paroom. Right before our eyes it squealed onto the stage and showed off with impressive donut maneuvers. The beast was painted a thick bright orange with an orange tail and mane to match. The much talked-about tail wagged around and triggered an uproar of laughter from the audience. The performance lasted two hours and the laughter only grew louder. Up on top of the orange horse was none other than fashion week’s Homme Sans Nom. Draped in a gorgeous Jeremy Scott runway mint packet and howling uncontrollably at the receding sun. The Homme toppled off the horse and shot straight down into most of the many prepared cakes. After a substantial amount of time swimming through the cakes his head sprung up to reveal a smile and fast-blinking eyes a world could remember. “Who want’s to see what’s behind the curtain?” he exclaimed. “We do! We do!” responded the crowd. The room went black, rendering eyes useless. Our ears attuned to the sound a curtain makes when it slides open. When the lights came back on we looked straight ahead and cheered.
Looking Back: NYFW SS17
PHOTOS BY MAYA FUHR
JOURNALISM BY JORDAN MINKOFF
NYFW, like all fweeks, comes loaded with tricks. Admittedly, even when tricks aren’t on the menu. Is it even a wonder they keep the date so close to the night of the devil? Michelle Marybone believes there’s something to be said about it and here, in an excerpt from last night’s grand speech at the Quartz Lounge, the madame confesses to a sea of passerby, “yes.” The word “yes” meandered through the foyer and skipped the lineup to the enlarging ears of Sir Goblet Brown. Goblet, now thrice the age of himself must have thought it a miracle for the wind to pick up just in time to hear the words spoken. But it wasn’t until the following morning in the somewhere between Ludlow and Murchinstown that the undefeated champions of fashion took it upon themselves to announce the grand opening of not only the Terraza Maravilla, but also the unveiling of a new piece of clothing that would leave a rosy-cheeked Bror August sweet on a rose. Sheer and sugary as it may have all been, it was these same events that provided a fweek that left rumour spread thin on the asses of anyone who had their noses a little too deep in runway madness.
Bror August
Sightings!
Saturday night at Escalza was NYFW’s first orange-themed show. Though it was thinned out in large part by Gauntlett Cheng‘s old-world glamour run at Don’s Bar & Grill, the sea of orange on display proved to be nothing short of spectacular. Orange pants and orange shoes with big shiny orange buckles and bits of orange was the dress-code for the night. Timmy, who worked hard at the door, showed up wearing a very funny orange T-shirt with an equally funny orange jumper and delighted on-lookers with his matching bag of gifts and words. From Timmy and onwards the lineup stretched like foreskin around the block and well into the New York Museum of Pictures and Drawings. Up at the front of the line a cacaphony of cameras blasted off high quality images as the King and Queen of New York City graciously tumbled out of a car to greet their aroused fanbase. Quick-talking Jonci and his gorgeous dancing wife Sharky shook one particular hand so hard that it simply fell off. Jonci, being the quick-quacking man he is, thought it clever to get on both knees and lead the line into New York’s world famous sewer system, where they would remain trapped for upwards of three hours. The orange line followed behind Jonci, each line member dropping to both knees before falling into the city. As the models poured out of a nearby Vaquera show, they too joined the parade. Potato-sacked and pinstriped peasantry canoodling with line-folk.
Vaquera
Gauntlett Cheng
The mic creaked and the crowd came to a standstill. An empty stage was begging for its raison d’etre. From behind the whimpering curtain we heard the sound of a horse starting up. Paroom, paroom. Right before our eyes it squealed onto the stage and showed off with impressive donut maneuvers. The beast was painted a thick bright orange with an orange tail and mane to match. The much talked-about tail wagged around and triggered an uproar of laughter from the audience. The performance lasted two hours and the laughter only grew louder. Up on top of the orange horse was none other than fashion week’s Homme Sans Nom. Draped in a gorgeous Jeremy Scott runway mint packet and howling uncontrollably at the receding sun. The Homme toppled off the horse and shot straight down into most of the many prepared cakes. After a substantial amount of time swimming through the cakes his head sprung up to reveal a smile and fast-blinking eyes a world could remember. “Who want’s to see what’s behind the curtain?” he exclaimed. “We do! We do!” responded the crowd. The room went black, rendering eyes useless. Our ears attuned to the sound a curtain makes when it slides open. When the lights came back on we looked straight ahead and cheered.
Jeremy Scott
More Sightings!
