Ahh, fashion week! I can still smell the Aveda and the tang of vomit from all those tossed up lentil wraps. I went to see the Gen Art “Fresh Faces” show, and that was Faaaaancy. Anne was stunning in the best outfit in the show, a bustled jacket by Alice Ritter, who is a very cute and fun french girl. I was backstage with her and a sea of toothpick shaped models, watching them get hair and makeup, and dress their identically endless limbs, while the slender high heeled citizens of fashion New York bickered with the ticket girl for a V.I.P. seat. I watched the show from the back, admiring walks and gauzy layers, and hoping to steal a gift bag.
I got to see the studios of a couple of cool designers (no name dropping!) while Anne was there trying on stuff in the middle of the room. In between appointments, we tramped around the Village and SoHo, where we saw the fashion photographer Terry Richardson Penis Show. Porn has made it to the galleries (AGAIN) and here are the large photos of Terry in sweatsocks, his whanger pressing through the faces of models, to prove it.
Bite me, Terry Richardson with your porn face and bad tattoos. Oh you make sex so cool.
I saw Anne again at the Dres show, which was a red light affair at the Hotel Gershwyn, much flocked by transvestites. I wore pink knee highs. Anne had a polka-dotted skirt and latex makeup. The stylists there were all Very Hott gay men. One was about 6’4″ in a pair of dandy trousers and a pinstriped hat. That’s tall enough to break my heart. Why are gay men so hot?
I stayed in the Model Apartment, a sort of agency dorm for models just a block from the Alexander McQueen shop in the meatpacking district. I love watching bits of flesh and rivulets of fatty blood get washed off the sidewalk in front of these designers. Offal and the fragrance of Stella McCartney- together at last! Staying at the M.A. was really Something. The girls aged 14-21, all very sweet and lanky, talking boys and waist sizes and look books. They were pretty and innocent creatures, ridiculously coltish in their long, tight jeans.
Also included in this fashion weekend were a night of dancing at the Pyramid, walks on the Hudson, a trip to Green Point to see the view of Manhattan from Violet’s new rooftop, a Sunday afternoon wandering Central Park, and a brief tour of Jersey City, which is another story altogether. It was so fab to see Violet, and to badger Manuel on the Street for his first new York chronicle. Coming soon!
Right now Anne is doing a shoot for French Vogue, and I hope Violet went to see her last show. I whisked straight to work on a 3:30am train on Mon., ending three solid days of not seeeing a single Fat Person in Gold Pants.
In these strange environs, I was mistaken for a model a couple of times. I said “Baby, I got 20 lbs. going in the wrong direction!”. I really did.
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