This year’s takeaways from New York Fashion Week? Bike shorts and tiered arms are happening, the garbage can on 14th and 1st makes for a swell desk, and you’re never as cool as the person wearing a bamboo rice paddy hat sitting next to you. Among the strategically-placed face jewellery and whispers of parasols, here were the highlights.
The week began with Eckhaus Latta, who held their show in an expansive loft space in Bushwick, rich in natural light and replete with a view of the city. The mood was industrial, compost-friendly, exclusive. Self-referential. CBD-infused. The shrill ring of a tambourine as sure a sign as any that the show was about to begin.
To the tune of a pack of toddlers banging haphazardly and gleefully on drums, maracas, triangles, and tambourines, Mike Eckhaus and Zoe Latta showed a collection that filled every corner of the sweeping space. Despite being consistently slotted as “up-and-comers,” they’re actually quite seasoned; indeed, among the standout pieces were a few that they can now comfortably call their “signatures.” Of course, there was the inevitable inclusion of some simply unwearable pieces — the cutout windowpane skirt and top set, the shredded dress that shrouded absolutely nothing. But, for the most part, the collection consisted of the sort of really fucking cute knits, jeans, and crop tops that leave me penniless every season. And because the designers have been at it for seven years, much of their pieces are far more complicated than first meets the eye. The knit pant-and-top set, for instance, colour blocked in grey and blue, was cleverly hand-painted. A beaded wine-hued crop top made of what appeared to be those net bags clementines come in was in fact made of an Italian raffia yarn.
Eckhaus Latta SS19
As always, the duo’s source of inspiration came buried in an indecipherable poem. Lines like, “THE ONLY POWER THAT IS HERE IS GIVEN AND TAKEN FREELY / IN THE SPIRAL / OF THE HUMMUS TOILET MANIFESTO,” while certainly giggle-worthy, clarified absolutely nothing with regards to the collection. Still, this writer maintains that it was a very good one.
Among the few collections that were truly and wholeheartedly gag-worthy was PRISCAvera’s, which showed later that same day. The clothes captured the precise sort of sexy that, if I were the type who went out, I would aspire to: slinky and angelic with a side order of naughty club kid. There was a shellacked baby blue sleeveless mini dress with a square neckline and subtle ruching along a princess seam. Shirt, skirt, and pants cut in neon green ribbed knit — and styled together — draped beautifully on the body in a way that only Phoebe Philo’s Céline knits could. There were oversized trousers in a deep, reflective, metallic red, and another pair in wool houndstooth coated in a layer of plastic that gave them a similarly reflective sheen. A cropped button-down in a satin-y pink that appeared to be cut from royalty. If I had to describe the overall vibe, I’d say it was Romy-and-Michele’s, iridescent, candy-coated, disco-meets-fembot-themed reunion. And I would like in.
Another collection that seemed to take cues from my going out pipe dreams was Area. Albeit in this scenario I’m less a carefree club girl as I am a Russian oligarch’s personal bottle girl. Did I say pipe dream? I meant pipe nightmare. In any case, dressed in Area’s SS19 collection, I would invariably be dripping in crystals. So there’s that.
For celebratory occasions on the oligarch’s yacht, I imagine pulling out the shiny metal-like bejewelled bikini top and matching mini skirt, or perhaps the black mini with a crystal-sprinkled, black mesh overlay. Chilly nights would undoubtedly call for the pearlescent peach floor-length trench. And on nights when the oligarch is schmoozing a potential client I imagine sporting the brown, short-sleeve, blazer-style mini dress, which comes with a convenient crystal mesh overlay at the shoulders that gives way to indulgent sheets of crystal fringe.
Telfar SS19
A day later, I found myself on the other side of the city at Blade Lounge East on the East River for the Telfar show. Written in the show notes was a bio, of sorts, of the designer Telfar Clemens. “Of sorts” because it’s written in the 2nd person, as if daring the reader to try and do what Clemens himself has done and achieved. It opens with, “Become a queer, Liberian-American eighteen year old, travel back to 2004 and establish a 100% unisex fashion line in New York City. Try to make clothes that do not exist on the market—just as you don’t exist in the world”. The bio closes with, “Keep your family close, ignore the bullshit”. It was a sentiment that seemed to take shape in the SS19 collection, in which Clemens took Americana iconography—as is his wont—deconstructed it and repurposed it in his vision, stitching these images into the very fabric of Telfar.
There were bell-bottom jeans with the bottom segments switched out for high-street t-shirts bearing the Budweiser logo. The top section of straight-leg, baggy jeans were replaced with “pant tops of Middle American sweat-pant” bearing the same logo, as if boxer shorts hanging out from underneath saggy pants. There were solid-coloured button-downs with spread collars and more bell-bottoms that conjured images of Jimi Hendrix and Miles Davis, all awash in, as he called it, an “immigrant palette.” Tank tops and t-shirts that also bore the Budweiser logo, as well as images of American flags and galloping horses, were marked indelibly with Telfar’s own recognisable logo—or else partly shrouded by images from last season’s lookbook.
The clothes themselves paid no heed to the white nationalist undertone and self-proclaimed ownership of these images. And they were all worn by a parade of models—beautifully diverse and inclusive—who walked the perimeter of the outdoor space to the tune of an original soundtrack, a collaboration between Telfar and South-African queer music and performance art duo FAKA, that was sung live by Ian Isiah, Moses Sumney, Oyinda, Selah Marley, Hirakish, and Butch Dawson, with Austin Williams of Onyx Collective on the drums.
It was a strong message—a strong reclaiming of a country that’s overrun and governed by those who represent everything America stands against—with an equally strong collection to match.
Maryam Nassir Zadeh SS19
On the last day of Fashion Week, I traipsed on over to Canal Street for the Maryam Nassir Zadeh show—and upon arriving outside the space, was promptly directed to the back of a line that wrapped around the block and grew, as I stood waiting with my comrades, a block’s length on Lispenard Street, and possibly (probably) further. The wait — which totalled well over 30 minutes, and during which I watched more recognisable faces get let inside — was certainly annoying, but it was also undeniably apt.
It set a distinctly MNZ tone—warm, all-embracing femininity, optimistic, and unassuming, yet cold, closed off, and viscerally unwelcoming—that anyone who’s been to the Norfolk Street store is, I’m sure, familiar with. The store’s expansive, open space and glass veneer is physically, architecturally welcoming. Yet it often stands in stark contrast to the disapproving gaze of the NYU student manning the till, watching you from the sidelines as you attempt to make sense of an upside-down pinafore, and how lace-up side hems could feasibly be incorporated into such a garment. It evokes the same sort of push-and-pull, warm hostility that defines her clothes. A diaphanous neon green blouse, a tight powder blue gingham mini dress, or a pair of wool ‘70s-style plaid trousers that appear to be designed explicitly for young, cool creatives like yourself, but which no such creative can reasonably afford.
It all makes for a wildly distorting, confusing mix of emotions: a deep yearning for something you feel a deep kinship with, mixed with the sort of kind and sympathetic, if pitying and cagey attitude of a basketball coach who’s letting you try out for the team when they know very well that your layup is shit.
And it also, interestingly, makes for terribly disarming collections—collections, like the one she showed last week, that radiate a sense of urgency, a mounting, acute need to own every piece now that belies the blissful Greek-island mood that permeates every last detail. I felt that feeling, swelling in my chest, when the soft seafoam and pale peach bike shorts sauntered past me, and when I first laid eyes on the new crop of ribbed knits that she does so well (this season’s took shape in knee-length, button-front skirts). I felt it upon seeing the tiered, Spanish-style maxi skirts—in red, a vision—and boy did I feel it when look 25 came marching past, a slinky, neon salmon, sheer slip worn underneath an equally slinky and sheer neon green tie-closured cardigan. There was a patchwork peasant-y blouse, made up of lace of four hues, white pinstripe cotton, what appeared to be pale yellow chiffon, a gorgeous tie-dye of pastels, and a wide ribbed knit hem that I swear I almost vomited when I saw—that’s how much I need it.
A chill start to Fashion Month, in other words, and a fleeting glimpse into my impending debt.