10 CHICAGO READER | FEBRUARY 17, 2006 | …...10 CHICAGO READER | FEBRUARY 17, 2006 | SECTION ONE...

10 CHICAGO READER | FEBRUARY 17, 2006 | SECTION ONE

Chicago Antisocial

By Liz Armstrong

I t was last Thursday night,quarter to ten, when I hadfinally had it. I’d been waiting

half an hour on a New York Citysidewalk in the bitter cold for afashion show that had beenscheduled to start at nine o’clock.I overheard a twink whose tightjeans were tucked neatly into hisboots tell his companions, twofloppy-Mohawked guys also intight jeans and boots, “Say theeditor in chief of Vogue is at ashow. They want her to get hereand they’ll hold this show for her.They don’t care about you or me.We wait outside until she comes.”Well, I thought, maybe you do.

A week ago I thought I’d doanything for fashion. I am onlyslightly embarrassed to admitthat before leaving Chicago tocover New York Fashion Week I

ple more important than me toarrive. The upside of being anobody was that I was able to formopinions unbiased by a single per-son showing me any kindness.

But standing there freezing myass off, I had a moment of clarity.I realized that there are actuallysome things I won’t do, not evenfor an event as momentous asthe fall 2006 collections. I tookoff and met a friend for dinner.

That was my breaking point,but there were about 17 bazillionother disappointments in thecourse of the week. For example:

Friday, February 3: Todaystarted off with a UnitedBamboo show at the gallery ExitArt. I had a fourth-row seat—between Harper’s Bazaar andFashion Calendar. Not bad—cer-tainly better than either

Footwear News or the ToteReport got. I started to graspsomething of the byzantine rulesdetermining Fashion Week seat-ing: buyers, celebrities, editors inchief of big glossies, and hyper-wealthy clients in the front row,then the general press, ranked inorder of perceived importance, acalculus that changes accordingto the designer and the day—asthe week draws to a close theshows get bigger and moreexpensive, and good seats (or anyseats) are harder to come by.

I noticed tons of Marc Jacobsand Mulberry bags, purses soubiquitous on the streets and inthe pages of Us Weekly I thoughtno self-respecting style geekwould dare carry one. The dresscode was likewise confounding:Why was everyone in tight jeans

and boots? Rubber wellies?Hoodies? I assured myself that itwas only because it was 4 PM—far too early for anyone to carewhat they looked like.

The show started with a glitchylo-fi techno remix of “Girls JustWanna Have Fun” and girls withI-just-woke-up hair emergedwearing supersoft empire-waist-ed jersey dresses and tunics withballooning backs and hems thatgathered around the thighs. Onepair of men’s pants had slim zip-pers like tiny pleats at the waist.

Afterward I had time for aquick romp through Saks FifthAvenue, where I was addressedas “madam,” and a slice of pizzaat a deli, which I ate off a plastictray in a cavernous white roomfull of mirrored columns andfold-out tables. A dozen groupsof Latino workers laughed it upover six-packs of Corona.

The first thing I noticed at theGen Art Fresh Faces show, whichhighlights up-and-coming talent,was how the ass of a plastic-sur-gery victim in tight leather pantslooked exactly like her lips, allshiny and stretched out. Mymood lifted when I saw a dude ina polo shirt carrying a tray ofJohnnie Walkers on ice, thendarkened again when I realizedhe was serving only rows onethrough three. I was in row four.The Chicago Tribune was in two.

The models finally came out,and I had a hard time stayinginterested. Last year every design-er seemed newly obsessed withvolume: loose, air-filled shapesthat let the body do its thing sepa-rate from the clothing. Now every-one’s still doing it, and they’re alldoing the same shapes—the bell,the tulip, the trapeze, the tent.

I went to Chelsea for the Myselfby Kai Kuhne show, from a one-time member of the polyamorousdesign team As Four. A woman ina Mickey Mouse sweatshirt,Speedo stretch pants, one hugemirrored earring in the shape of ahandgun shooting a heart,braces, and a French braid waschatting it up with the people inthe front row. There were lots ofgood-looking, stylish peoplehere—I was kind of intimidated,which was satisfying.

As soon as the first beat ofFront 242’s “Quite Unusual”started blasting, the lights blaredand a striking model appearedfrom the wings in a short knitbathrobe-cum-trenchcoat-cum-dress. Fuck yeah! This was whatI came for: drama and goosebumps, a packed room, clothingI’d probably never have the gutsto wear, models who make mefeel like an inferior species.

Saturday, February 4: I’dwalked not 50 steps out the doorof my friend’s apartment when awhite limo pulled up next to me.A young guy with spiky hair gotout. “So my friends and I arekind of feeling you,” he said. “Andwe’re wondering if you’d like togo to Atlantic City with us.” Irealized that the outfit I thoughtlooked chic and interesting—atight dress and holy-shit-heeled

scoured the runway-show photosand backstage reports onHintmag.com and Style.com justin case I found myself in a con-versation with a member of the“fashion elite.” While packing Icataloged all the dresses, skirts,blouses, tunics, sweaters, jackets,pants, leggings, boots, pumps,and platforms I was bringingand made elaborate lists ofwhich items went together.While unpacking at my friend’splace in Brooklyn, I realized I’dforgotten all my tights. I had myroommate overnight them to me.

Thursday’s show, by Zaldy—who’s most famous for workingwith Gwen Stefani on herL.A.M.B. clothing line—wouldhave been my 12th in seven days,and by then I was accustomed tobeing forced to wait ages for peo-

At New York Fashion Week: Alice Roi models backstage, a collage inside the main tent in Bryant Park, models at a Vena Cava event on February 4, the well-dressed Mr. Toast

LIZ

ARM

STRO

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Fashion WeakThe retarded Chihuahua may have been the highlight of my trip.

antisocial@chicagoreader.com

boots—actually made me looklike a hooker. Still, any other dayI probably would’ve joined them.

Outside Jasmin Shokrian’sshow, a photographer for Janemagazine asked if she could takemy photo for their street-style sec-tion, and I felt vindicated (thoughI tried to act like I didn’t care).Inside an airy, eighth-floor hairsalon in the Meatpacking District,Chicago expat Shokrian presenteda collection called “PhasesAlighting,” which, to be honest,struck me as a little pretentious.But one jacket with material gath-ered and stitched down in theback, suggesting wings, made meexcuse the highfalutin premise.

Next was Alice Roi, my firststop at the tents in Bryant Park,site of the official OlympusFashion Week shows, which is tosay the ones by designers yourmother has heard of. Last time Iwas in Bryant Park, two summersago, a pack of cops were shovingtheir bicycles into about a hun-dred people who were protestingthe Republican NationalConvention. I was arrested andspent 50 hours in jail. Now, just ayear and a half later, I was stand-ing in line wearing six-hundred-dollar shoes. What had I become?But then British Elle took my pic-ture and I was happy again.

I’ve known Alice Roi’s creativedirector, Liv Wildz, for severalyears—I even modeled and sangin her first solo show when shemoved to New York from NewOrleans four years ago—so I gotto hang out backstage, sippingchampagne and watching silent,diligent, black-shirted styliststease teenage models’ hair underinsanely hot lights.

I met one of Liv’s other friends,Poppy King, a cosmetics entre-preneur who was named YoungAustralian of the Year in 1995.We were both given spots in the

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steins, yards of polished wood,and sepia-toned portraits of mus-tachioed men. Stemp’s claim tofame is her friendship with KateMoss, so I was expecting someserious glamour here. At first Ithought I’d found it: everyonewas older, was wearing all black,and had British accents. But thentheir coats came off and they alllooked a little too comfortable, insoft cashmere sweaters and easypants, like they were dressed foran overseas flight.

A few hundred people waitedaround the place—and waited,and waited—for the show tobegin. And once it did most of usdidn’t even know it had: themodels walked languidly down aflight of carpeted stairs into themain foyer wearing short flouncydresses, cozy hooded sweaterspaired with lacy tap pants, andabstract animal-print tunics withleggings. There was no runway:the models sort of gathered inthe middle of the ballroom andshrugged, looking lost. Then theystood and talked to each otherlike they were hanging out nextto a water cooler.

Monday, February 6: CathyHoryn called Stemp’s show “bril-liant” in today’s New York Times.

I guess compared with the stuffi-ness of the tents the disorganiza-tion must’ve seemed fresh, butI’ve seen too many confused littleindie shows in Chicago to becharmed by sloppiness anymore.

I could not motivate myself toget out to today’s shows. InsteadI slept all afternoon, ate Fritoswith hummus for a late lunch,and petted Mr. Toast, the men-tally retarded teacup Chihuahuathe friend I was staying with waspet-sitting, then ended the nightsnorting morphine with friendsin New Jersey. And I was stillthree days from hitting bottom.

Tuesday, February 7: I reallydid mean to make it to theHeatherette show tonight inhopes that club-kid mogulsRichie Rich and Traver Rainswould come up with somethingso gloriously frivolous that itwould pull me out of my funk.But I was having drinks atBeauty Bar and got to the sub-way too late. So I met a friend ata Brooklyn gallery and perform-ance space called the GlassHouse, where a few dozen hip-sters in tight jeans and boots saton scraps of shredded Orientalrugs, watching a lethargic, darklyfolksy Greek-goddess-by-the-

brook duo called CosmicWestern Mystery Tradition.

Wednesday, February 8: Oops,I missed Peter Som. But I madeit to Brian Reyes at the SonyRecording Studio in Midtown.More puff sleeves, more highwaists, more tulip skirts. Yawn.

I decided to cheer myself up bygoing shopping and came backwith a pair of tight jeans, which Ipromptly tucked into boots. Thiswould be my uniform for the restof my trip. What’s the point oftrying to stand out? All it getsyou is a tiny little picture in Janethat will end up embarrassingyou. If you’re lucky.

Thursday, February 9: Went tosee Araks, who showed supersoft,understated lingerie, mutedknitwear, and classically sweet tai-loring. Then I checked out JoannaMastroianni’s show in Bryant Park.

Mastroianni’s collection wasfull of magisterial silhouettesand ornate fabrics, which makessense because her program saidshe was influenced by Fabergéeggs. Here I also saw my firstcelebrity, if Fairuza Balk counts,which she probably doesn’t.

The standing-room area atthis show didn’t feel so cool.Women in Uggs carried nylon

LeSportsacs; everyone lookedready to shovel some snow thentake a nap. Can people not evendress up for freaking FashionWeek? I’m used to seeing peopledress for comfort—I live inChicago, for chrissakes—but atleast here people appreciate itwhen someone makes an effort.I’d figured New York, the fashioncapital of the country, would alsobe the style capital. But everyoneat the shows looked the same,like cookie-cutter versions ofKate Moss circa 2003, like beingdifferent meant being uncool,like we were all back in juniorhigh again and anyone not in anoversize I.O.U. sweatshirt andCavariccis couldn’t sit with thepopular girls at lunch.

Then there was that laststraw at Zaldy.

Friday, February 10: I’d alreadymade up my mind that I wasgoing home tonight, despite myinvitations to the Jeremy Scott andKarl Lagerfeld shows—I couldn’ttake one more disappointment,especially from designers whosework I covet insanely. Instead Ilooked at their collections online,where distance restored some ofthe illusion of glamour. It almostmade me want to be there. v

Chicago Antisocial

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standing-room-only area behindall the seats. I couldn’t figure outwhy we didn’t get seats, and thenI noticed another of Liv’s friendsalso standing and I figured outthat standing room is even coolerthan the front row because it’sfilled with die-hard fans andpeople who actually know thedesigner. But when Poppy and Ifound some vacant third-rowseats we snapped them up.

Roi pulls off a pretty subtle mix-ture of tough and sweet that whendone right makes a woman looklike Edie Sedgwick and whendone wrong makes her look like amallrat. My favorites included adistressed ivory jersey tent dressand ribbed knit leggings wornwith patent leather fingerlessgloves like hand spats; a charcoalcrushed-velvet dress delicatelyheld up with black patent leatherties that looked like garbage bagfasteners; and a sort of off-kilterdeconstructed baby-doll dresswith sleeves that were carvedopen to expose the armpits.

I capped off the night with SueStemp’s show in the Players Clubon Gramercy Park South, a stuffymembers-only establishmentfilled with beat-up old silver

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14 CHICAGO READER | FEBRUARY 17, 2006 | SECTION ONE

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