From the recent Fashionista post about NYFW being over to WWD’s ode to LA as the next fashion mecca, I entered New York Fashion Week apprehensively. It was enough of a shock when my maids showed me the show schedule only to find a handful of well-known designers. Yet, I held my head and ears high in the hopes that the week might surprise moi.
While I knew I wouldn’t get to sit front row at Hood by Air, Rodarte or Proenza – since they are making the great fashion pilgrimage to Paris – I was eager to see newbs like Linder, Danielle Cathari, Asai, Atlein, Christopher Esber, Miaou, and RtA. It wasn’t until I saw Tiffany Trump tromping around and Paris Hilton walking in Christian Cowan that I knew for certain that NYFW was dead. Trump and Hilton were the nail on the once-revered fashion week coffin.
Poor NYFW. You were once so loved. Housed at Bryant Park with editrixes power walking in heels to shows. Now without a home your glitz is clouded by blogger XYZ from the middle of nowhere. We will miss you dear New York Fashion Week. Thank you for 75 years of memories. With a heavy heart I say, even the “Hot Felon” can’t save fashion week in the Big Apple.