I Would Sell My Soul To Go To Fashion Week

Every time I say that, I always wait for the devil to appear in a cloud of smoke uttering, “oh reeeaaaaallllyyyy?” But it never happens. I’m overly prepared for when and if that moment does occur because I will kindly hand him over my soul, which I imagine to look like some type of glowing orb, if he got me the hook up to all the best shows. I’ll sign on the dotted line, “I, Kate, happily give my to soul to Satan himself in order to work Fashion Week.”

I’ve been once and it was like taking a bite of the most to-die-for piece of cake you could never even fathom, but not finishing it and never seeing it again. Sigh. I went when it was still at Bryant Park and my friend and I technically didn’t have tickets. We just used fancy invites she had from another show to flash security when we walked up the steps and into the tents (shockingly easy), which might have been one of the coolest slash most insane moments of my young life … with all the paparazzi wondering if I was “someone,” but I’m pretty sure “someone” wouldn’t rock Forev 21 booties like I was … although those booties were fierce, I still have them.

So when we got in the tents, we just kind of melted into the background of all the madness and watched. It was very surreal, Alexander McQueen had just tragically took his own life and you could tell there was a stir within the tents about it. I won’t bore you with details but I became complete, to be ultimately cheesy. But I don’t just want to be a wallflower gazing at these fabulous people. I want to be in the hurricane of fashion. I want to be on my iPhone emailing, tweeting, updating my status, blogging and Tumbling all at the same time like a maniac, moving a million miles a minute. I don’t need to be sitting next to Anna Wintour in the front row, I just want to be in eye sight of the runway. That’s all I ask. I don’t even need a seat.

As much as I want to blog about what’s going on during Fashion Week, the message kind of loses it luster when I read about it from some site who read about it from some site, who heard about it from someone else who was sitting next to this person at the actual show. It pains me to say that, but it is true.

There are just places in life that you know you belong, and for me it is here. It bothers me so much when I hear people in the industry say how crazy fashion week is and how it is the week from hell. Jesus. Christ. Boo-frickity-hoo. I realize it is an insane week and never stops, but all of it makes my heart skip a beat. I know anyone would say I’m crazy and I would change my mind once I’ve been through it, but honestly I’ve been through intern boot camp, real life boot camp and beyond … bring. it. on. And no, I’m not in it for the free goods or the opportunity to rub shoulders with the rich and famous, or the chance to attend fantastic parties, I straight up just want to report the fabulous lines to all of my fabulous readers. It makes me giddy in fact … like school girl giddy … like holy shit David Beckham just told me I’m beautiful giddy.

So yeah, I’ve had a love affair with fashion week since I was in high school and randomly stumbled upon coverage on the Style Channel and sat there in awe with drool coming out of my mouth and knew I belonged there then. Since then I literally live on NYMag.com’s The Cut, since I find them to have the best coverage.

So yeah, Fashion Week starts Feb. 9, meaning I have two more days or so to sell my soul to the devil to get me there … until then I shall wait patiently …

Remembering The Brave

10 years ago I was a freshman in high school. 10 years ago today I was sitting in my second period class when the news broke about the attacks on the U.S. Oddly enough my mom and I had just been to New York City and we sat and had coffee and a breakfast sweet in a quaint little bistro on the side of the towers. I so clearly remember looking up at them and thinking whomever had the office on the top floor must be so powerful.

I have such clear memories of this day 10 years ago. How it was the most gorgeous day and the beautiful blue sky. How I wondered if TRL would be on that day (I was 14, this was a big deal to me). How my World Civ. teacher, an american cowboy himself, excused himself into the hallway because he was in tears. How they played over the intercom throughout my school live coverage of the attacks. How my algebra teacher kept trying to explain to us what “x” equalled when the first tower fell and someone telling him to, “shut up.”

You will always remember where you were on this day and these vibrant and quick little memories. You will tell your kids and their kids and their kids.

My heart goes out to all of you who lost a loved one on this day 10 years ago. My heart goes out to all of the brave people who selflessly helped rescue others to safety and gave their lives for the sake of the U.S. My heart goes out to Washington D.C., New York City and Pennsylvania.

Never forget.

Don’t Shame The Dress Just Because It’s Good!

Okay so we all have that … I believe Beyoncé referred to it as the “freakum dress.” That one dress that fits us like a glove, hugs all the right spots and makes us feel like we could strut the catwalk. When you try this dress on in the fitting room, at least I know I want to jump up and down, put my hands on my hips, strike a model pose and look at myself in every angle on my tippy toes.

So you buy said “freakum dress” for a specific occasion, wear it, hit it out of the park … and then what? You had a great night in it, met lots of fantastic people, fantastic things happened … and when the night is over, is it supposed to be sucked into the vortex of your closet never to return? According to society, yes … that is EXACTLY what is supposed to happen. Would Kim Kardashian be caught in the same dress she got at Bloomingdale’s twice? HELL no … so why, the average Josephine, should we? Oh THAT’S right … because I’m NOT a Kardashian … rriiiigggghhhttt.

I swear, we live in a world now where it is quite easy to think of yourself as a celebrity with our social media, smartphones and high-speed careers. And it has been pounded in our heads that it is such a faux pas to wear the same dress numerous times. For example, when I went to New York this weekend, I brought two different dress options with me, one was new and the other was my freakum dress that I had worn about three times prior. I put on dress number one and EH, but when I tried on my freakum magic, I IMMEDIATELY felt shame because I had worn it so much, no matter how fantastic it looked. Luckily my wise friend that I was with asked me why I was shaming a dress because it was good and immediately I snapped out of it. (So wise that one).

So why didn’t I want to wear my go-to dress? Well, I was worried that I had been photographed in it numerous times at different functions. What? Hi self, YOU AREN’T A KARDASHIAN. It isn’t like these photos would end up on the cover of US Weekly with a headline that reads, “Kate’s Freakum Dress Strikes Again,” or “Wardrobe Repeat Kate.” Let’s be honest, the only place those pictures would end up is Facebook, and if you are sitting on Facebook counting the times I re-wore the dress, well Jesus, God save you. I also fear bitchy people recognizing me wearing the dress and calling me out for it. Hey, those jerks DO exist are out there.

We aren’t celebrities, and if you are … I am green with envy, let me tell you. But I’m assuming everyone reading this is probably not famous  … so if you have a dress that you love and could kiss and makes you feel like the minute you step out of your house paparazzi will be standing there flashing cameras in your face … wear it dammit and wear it good! Wear it as much as you want, because good dresses come few and far between. I’m not giving you the green light to rock every weekend, because, well that would be a little over the top, but you get the idea.

Dresses are meant to be worn, not to be retired after one wear like a one-of-a-kind piece of couture. Thank you to my lovely friend for these fabulous words of wisdom. I rocked the hell out of my freakum dress in New York City because I refuse to shame another fabulous dress I own. Sometimes … it is okay to not have to keep up with the Jones.

“I Want To Empower Women. I Want People To Be Scared Of The Women I Dress” -Alexander McQueen: Savage Beauty

There aren’t enough adjectives for me to describe how much I love New York City … there just aren’t. This weekend made me feel like ME again, and I don’t think too many places could do that … but I digress. There have been numerous tweets, articles and Facebook posts from fashion journalists describing their experience at the McQueen exhibit at the MET, so I thought little ol’ me would share my story.

I waited outside the building, in the heat, for what I want to say was a little over an hour, which wasn’t bad because it was beautiful out and there were street vendors selling some pretty great artwork. I had also never been to the MET so just the sheer magnitude of the building was mystifying to stand next to. So when I made it inside the building under two hours, I was secretly saying to myself, “what were those fools at NYMag.com complaining about.” Did anyone ever tell you karma is a bitch, because it is.

I paid my donation, which was a dollar … judge all you want, and got directed to another line with a sign in front of it that said, “Wait Time For McQueen: Savage Beauty, 3 hours.” So, CLEARLY they were just being silly, right? Please dear God just be kidding. Turns out the MET can do a lot of things, but joke is not one of them.

What happened to me within the 3 hour waiting in line span:

  • The line literally wrapped around the whole upstairs like a snake. When you thought it stopped, it didn’t. In fact in one section, you had to wrap around it TWICE. There was no end in sight. It was like a massive sea of strangers, drones, just waiting for something that I couldn’t help but think HAD to be amazing otherwise what the HELL were these people doing here. Not ALL of them could have such a high respect for fashion! And whenever there was a bench in sight to sit down on and take a break, the line of course moved. Bastard.
  • My feet started to hurt like I was wearing 6 inch pointed stiletto heels, when in reality I was wearing some fabulous Old Navy sandals, when the hell does that ever happen? I never sat for fear I wouldn’t get back up. No one did, it was crazytown.
  • The exhibit wrapped around a lot of ancient Japanese sculptures and artwork, along with several other ancient sculptures from different cultures, and throughout hour 2 1/2 I was to the point of hallucinations because I was pretty sure the sculptures were talking to me.
  • There was lots of very well-dressed people in line. Not like hipster, I’m trying too hard, “OMG I only wear couture,” or “I just bought every interesting floral dress I could find at F21,” kind of well-dressed, but a lot of interesting and well thought out looks that kept my eyes entertained. Who needs reading material?
  • Literally the wave broke out in line during hour 3. It was amazing. At least people were joyous and cracked out like I was because I did hear some fights broke out throughout the life span of the exhibit.
  • Hour 3 1/2 I was walking past a glass case and could have sworn one of the gold elephant sculptures from some tribe in India was a McQueen armadillo shoe. Hi cracked out central.
  • When it looked like the line ended, it didn’t and it was just a sign that said “45 more minutes.” Eff. At this point me and the person I went with decided McQueen himself DEFINITELY was inside the exhibit and was going to pop out and be like, “PSYCHE BITCHES, I’M NOT DEAD AND HERE IS MY LATEST COLLECTION,” along with like Anna Wintour, Sarah Burton and Lady Gaga standing behind him being like, “GOT YA,” and then when we left the exhibit we would get our minds erased “Men In Black Style.” The thoughts of a crazy person who had been standing in a line for WAY too long.
  • No one left the line. No one. I was waiting and secretly praying to Jesus that people would get annoyed and drop like flies. Nope. These New Yorkers man, stam-in-a, let me tell you.
And When I Made It To The Promise Land:
  • I was tired and miserable. The cracked out giggles faded, I no longer wanted to make small talk with the people around me in fact they were all driving me MAD at this point. I just wanted to see EFFING MCQUEEN GOD DAMMIT.
  • When the guard lifted the velvet rope for my group to go into the exhibit, I kind of wanted to hug and make out with him all at the same time, THAT is how happy I was.
  • The minute I laid eyes on the first two McQueen dresses, it all melted away. The exhaustion, hunger, frustration, anger, hallucinations … they were all gone when I read on the wall “I’m a romantic schizophrenic.” -Alexander McQueen. I remembered why I was there.
  • It took my breath away, call me unoriginal all you want, it freaking did. Everything. The room aesthetic, the clothes, the music, the quotes … everything made my mind shut the eff up. Nothing mattered at that point.
  • Parts of it were a little scary, but it was the kind of fright you saw and immediately the beauty was there to comfort and ease you. One room was like going into a couture haunted house. You could feel Alexander McQueen alive within the exhibit.
  • I got choked up. Literally, I do not cry over A-N-Y-T-H-I-N-G. There was a section where it looked like someone had punched a huge hole in a wall, and when you looked through it there was a hologram of Kate Moss floating in the most beautiful white McQueen dress. It was overwhelming to say the least. I love Kate Moss, but it just made me realize what a huge talent is missing in the fashion industry. Congrats McQueen, you got my eyes to produce actual tears.
  • Yes, I saw the Gaga look from Bad Romance up close and personal. The armadillo shoes, I would probably sell my soul to try one on, but I doubt that will ever happen. Unless you can make it happen, then please, be my guest … HAVE MY SOUL.
I’m not going to go on and on because words do not do this thing justice. It was SO worth the 4 hour wait and SO worth the pain and agony. I walked out of that exhibit at peace and almost like a soldier returning from fashion war. It was glorious. It was genius and it was EVERYTHING I love about the fashion industry.
Thank you to The Costume Institute, Andrew Bolton, the curator and genius and everyone else involved in producing such a mind-blowing exhibition of work.
And most of all, rest in peace Alexander McQueen.
Ps. The picture above was the only one I got to take, and I literally felt like James Bond doing it because all the guards were evil and bitching about NO PHOTOGRAPHY. Really dude? Nothing else in life exists like this and you expect me not to document? Cue Bond music and me taking a sneaky picture. MWAHAHA.