Much has been made of New York Fashion Week becoming a “circus” these past few years, what with Lincoln Center resembling a gaudy convention center floor complete with “a brand new car !” parked inside the lobby, every square inch sponsored by corporate America buying their way in. And then there’s the bloggers and friends of bloggers, dripping in every trend to up their odds of getting snapped on there way to slither past security to enter the tents and make it harder for Suzy Menkes to sit down and perform actual journalism about what she just saw.
Just like most things in life, once something special becomes a “thing”, it grows and becomes populated by everyone wanting a piece, wanting to cash-in, wanting to #hashtag and retweet it, wanting it just because everyone else seems to want it, which leads to backlash, which leads to reflection, which leads to redirection, until “the thing” settles down and the droves move to the next special thing.
New York Fashion Week appeared to start to settle down a bit, at least from where we sit across the continent. That is, until the Marc Jacobs show.
And reality set in. I mean, reality really did set in, in the form of Kendall Jenner walking his show. A fucking Kardashian.
The irony is that I fell in love with his understated, fluid, neutral collection. No gimmicks, just restrained, soft, lovely pieces real women could wear.
But the only real thing here is the sad fact that Marc Jacobs put a reality star on his runway.
If Anna Wintour caves to Kanye’s cries to put Kim on the cover of Vogue, I am going to lose my shit.