February 20th, 2010 by HFL Staff
Day 8 The Last Fashion Show… B’ Bye Bryant Park
Showman Isaac Mizrahi kicked off the bless last day of Fashion Week with a big slate floor, a live jazz combo, and, yes, snow machines. We witnessed belted orange ruffles, and purses with day-go orange fur, that looked like the model was carrying a brightly colored air dog (you know the society dogs that get carried around, so their paws never touch the floor). Isaac did sheer shirts, quilted black sleeves, and detachable fur hoods with the flair and style of walking fashion sketches. The fashionistas should re-anoint this living legend, rather than running off to find the latest sweet youth of promise.
Then, Marchella Lindberg launched her line Paris68 at Milk at 2:00 p.m. At 2:05, there were only like twenty people in the room, me, Justin Timberlake, Mr. Mickey from Paper, and about eighteen others. But in ten minutes the room was packed with happening insiders, Cynthia Rowley, Allison Sarofim, Terry Richardson.
Marchella’s first solo show had tons of innovative flourishes, beaded tights that matched wispy dresses, a long fur over an overcoat. The common thread was sexy, edgy dark beaded fabrics. JT had on a dark knit cap and was sitting with Johan Lindberg, Marchella’s husband and her little daughter. JT sometimes babysits for her. Johan and Marchella consult on JT’s William Rast line. It’s a family affair.
Arrivals at the Calvin Klein show, by comparison, were choreographed like ballet by an army of handlers in suit. Andre Leon Tally squired Whoopi Goldberg to their front row bench.
Backstage, Stella Tennant caught up with Helena Christensen.
Naomi Watts and Kate Bosworth, who said she thought she looked grown up, were doin’ the smoochfest with Calvin women’s designer, Francisco Costa. Costa brought back the minimalist old school Calvin touch, but gave it to today’s big coats. Midnight was his hot color. And everyone fell in love with Isabelle Lucas, the Swiss actress, also in the front row.
Brook Shields and Dan McCann, her right hand man, handled the mobs at J. Mendel deftly. JM is the furrier with an elegant side line of non fur fashion. Brooke looked sensational. The older society ladies all knew her grandfather who was a tennis pro. In fact, society babe Anne Slater once told me that he made the finals in Wimbledon long ago, went to go say goodbye to someone on a steamer ship, didn’t get off in time, the ship left the dock, and he MISSED THE FINALS! Brooke had me in stitches twenty minutes later, backstage at Naeem Khan, talking about changing in a handicapped bathroom that didn’t have a lock on the door at the Bryant Park Hotel. And Naeem, who had a kind of biker chic look going on with his sparkly ballgowns, did one of his best shows ever. The gowns have sensational old school workmanship. He loads them up in layers of gold and sequins, and braiding. Some of these dresses looked as if they might have been inherited from some fabulously stylish grandmother. Yes he Khan! And, sad indeed, Tommy Hilfiger was the very last show in the tents at Bryant Park . . .EVER! Next season the tents move to Lincoln Center. The lineup of stars in the front row, Penn Badgley, an Olsen twin (sorry, can’t tell them apart), and Rosario Dawson, was formidable.
But in a hallway nearby, hung Patrick McMullan’s images of the ghosts of Bryant Park tents past: Leo looking like a little boy; Ashton Kutcher when he was a model, standing in his undies; Chloe Sevigny, looking all of twelve, standing with Kate Moss who practically had her hoo hoo on view. Yes, the lines of porta potties provide a hint of stench backstage. But we have had 18 years of good times in this behemoth great white plastic temporary structure. Tommy’s show was one of his best (thank goodness), but, meanwhile, 18 years of memories flooded past the eyes of fashion’s front row crowd.
I recalled Giselle asking me to come with her mid-interview to a porta potty backstage. She then asked me to wait while she stepped inside, “I have to pee!” I recalled Naomi missing a bag of jewelry after, was it a Luca Luca show? She threw a full on meldown, until it turned out one of the stylists had “accidentally” taken it home. There were the mad Heatherette shows, romps on rollerskates, where people didn’t just cheer, they shrieked in glee afterward for twenty minutes. There were Peta attacks, when soy terrorists would throw yogurt at fur clad models at, the Oscar show, for one. Boy did he she get decked by security and carried out squirmin’. And there were Soy pies-Anna got one in the face. And the time Britney Spear’s bodyguard shoved Anna, who was racing out the door, and she socked him. Never underestimate AW. And the fashion editor who passed out and puked and had to be carried away on a stretcher. One time Cynthia Rowley had wanted to use red Polaroid cameras on the runway and the guards wouldn’t let her go on with her show, until she backed down, as Cannon, I believe, was been paying for the tents that year. Silver haired Polly Mellon standing, clapping thunderously after even minor shows. We had a hurricane, the roof of the tents had been convulsing before the whole season was shut down. And then, saddest of all, 9/11, when designers had to spend the night to watch their collections after fashion’s darkest moment. All shows were cancelled. The last show that season was Marc Jacobs in a tent on a Pier not so far from Wall Street. The show was far more than an hour late. And there was little air in the overheated structure. And, the next morning instead of racing off to shows, we woke to the news of planes hitting the towers. Later in the day, during a run on supermarkets, there was a civil war-like procession on the streets of gray dust covered Wallstreet suits trudging home, an ominous plume loomed up over the city from downtown. Though the economy has yet to quite recover, on my way out of Paris68, through the 14th street exit, I noticed that the McQueen store has now reopened. What do you say to consol your salesperson? Still, I so have to go snag one of his ties. The company is apparently freaking out about getting back samples, each now worth a fortune, back from mag hags the world over. That night, Calvin Klein, threw a bash in a raw open lofty space on Little West 12th. Thin, metal framed glass fireplaces decorated tables surrounded by white couches.
Ryan Philippe said he was digging his free Calvin suit. Naomi Watts and Kate Bosworth were on their second Calvin change du jour.
And Joey, from the Standard Hotel, invited me to afterparty with the tastefully tailored minimalists at The Penthouse at the Standard, aka the Boom Boom room, with its sweeping views directly into rarified Manhattan penthouses. It is the Rainbow Room of our age. But my muscles, my feet, even my brain ached, from all the throbbing music, and I could barely lumber to a taxi. For this scribe, Fashion’s last season in Bryant park had ended. Kudos Fern Mallis. And, to the great white tents, our former lovers, now, and forever lost, we offered you our youth and shared an era, an age, an unfolding ebullient pageant.
B’ bye Bryant Park . . . Xx’s and Oo’s.
