Oscar de la Renta is the designer for the Laura Bushes of the world, and his front row yesterday was, as one might guess, a socialite-a-polooza. Every girl you see on Patrick McMullan was taking mental notes on which evening gown to get her husband or father to buy for her.
Imagine our slack-jawed surprise to see Paris taking notes from the front row at Max Azria (it WRITES!) while Nicky sat sour-faced and bored. What gives, heiresses? We turned to each other in queasy dread: Would we have to reassess? Would our world plop off its axis and into a sea of shame?
Waiting to get into the Marc Jacobs show at the Armory tonight was like lining up for the new Star Wars, except with fashionistas instead of geeks. But the wait and the attendant fear that we were all about to be killed in the unholy, disorganized crush of humanity was worth it, because this was the premiere celeb spotting event of our lives.
We spent the first few days of Fashion Week giddily anticipating our first glimpse of Anna Wintour. We fielded several phone calls from home asking if we’d seen The Bobbed One yet. But the answer was always a downtrodden "no." Until today.
For those of us who communicate via hand gestures and scrunched faces, Fashion Week is a real exercise in restraint. Thank God for actress Tracee Ellis Ross, whose enthusiasm broke the mold at this morning's Brian Reyes show.
If there's one thing we've learned in our two days of roaming Bryant Park, it's that there is no such thing as "Hurry up, the show starts in 30 seconds."
Our evening began with a 6 p.m. Karen Walker show, her first-ever U.S. presentation. Now, when neither of you is a local and one of you was born without a sense of direction, it's best if the other is not terribly trusting. Sadly, that's not the case.
So far, our sojourn here at Fashion Week has been fun and fascinating and, surprisingly, pretty organized. But no more. The Baby Phat show was a total mob scene literally: A fight broke out in the front rows while we were waiting for the show to start.
Admittedly, after standing in line in the lobby for what felt like about ten years (fine, it was probably more like 45 minutes), we felt a little violent, too. Especially when we realized we were going to be suffering the slings and arrows of Standing Room Only Seating.
1) Wow, we are in the front row and not to be dorks, but it completely rules!
2) Pre-med majors would do well to sit here for anatomy class; one sheer red Felder Felder dress in particular gave us a clear view of all the model's reproductive organs and their nearby friends.
3) Is that... that's not Bruce Dern in the second row, is it?
It's too bad there weren't many starlets at the Verrier show. They could have used the guidance.
Instead, we had to look at the adorable array of forties-style outfits and imagine how brilliantly Mischa Barton would pull off the short white shift bedecked with navy Swarovski crystals; how cool and chic Jennifer Aniston might be in one of the two-tone pleated pencil skirts (if she would just put down the cargo pants and basic black, please, for the LOVE OF GOD); and how youthful and breezy Kristen Bell could look in the penultimate dress to come down the runway, a light-blue chiffon number with crystals on the waist and straps.