Live From Fashion Week - Michael Kors
Bryant Park, New York, NY: The show: Michael Kors. The time: 7:00 am. I arrive at the Volunteer Trailer and head to the Tent, largest of the show venues at Bryant Park. The show won't begin until 11:00 am, but we have a lot of work to do. The runway, which is in a U shape to accomodate two rows of "Front Row" seats in the center, is originally mirrored, but the lighting designer nixes that idea, so we cover the runway in white fabric. Next we get to do the seating cards. The PR girls are frantic. What if someone raises a shitstorm about their seat? I take a rare moment to peer around the Tent. Anna Wintour's seat tag is sandwhiched between Grace Coddington's and Andre Leon Talley's. Ah, Vogue. The editors in chief of Elle, Glamour, Harper's Bazaar and Women's Wear Daily also have Front Row. I spot several people from the New York Times. Every socialite worth her Manolos is also coming, along with Rachel Zoe, Patricia Field, and - oh, the media will really have a shitstorm now, assuming they show - Hilary Duff and Usher.
But back to the work at hand. I'm in the midst of distributing Michael Kors press kits when I hear a strangely familiar voice. I whip around, and... damn, that voice again, from Project Runway. Michael Kors is standing not half a dozen feet from me instructing the lighting crew. I don't get star struck easily, but that one gave me goose bumps.
Half an hour till we go over the top. Yes, I'm using WWI parlance to describe what happens when Security opens the doors and lets the guests in. The other girls and I receive our deployments, and I go to stand in the front row aisle between sections F & G.
It's Hurricane Katrina in here. I mean no offense to the victims of that storm, but it really gets insane when the crowd enters. Videographers are talking to Glenda Bailey, editor of Harper's Bazaar, who is among the first to arrive. A bunch of Social girls are milling about the center, and I see a crowd of buyers, and the CEOs of Saks and Macy's, who hold court for at least twenty minutes before taking their seats. Chicly attired people are everywhere. The air is thick with designer-clad humanity...
Anna Wintour and the other Vogue-ettes take a seat. From where I'm stationed, I can't see if Hilary or Usher have arrived, but the Tent is crawling with paparazzi, so they've probably gotten someone they wanted. (Although I don't see them, I later learn they both showed up, hence the paparazzi firestorm.) Anna Wintour talks animatedly with Grace Coddington, then she puts on her trademark sunglasses.
At last the brights come on and the music starts. I recognize, with a thrill, the intro music from A Chorus Line. (I'm such a music nerd!) Gemma Ward and Freja Beha are walking. And the clothes! Michael has nary a misstep. This stuff is what American sportswear is about. He does casual in shades of black, white, camel, and rose pink. Everything is pared down and sans ornamentation, occasionally cinched with a ribbon empire waist. The menswear, which he also shows, is very monochromatic. Even straight guys will be able to put this stuff together. A pink chiffon ball skirt with a train draws a gasp of admiration. There are some 62 looks in the collection. Finally, Mr. Kors comes out for his victory lap, and he gets, I swear, a standing ovation. Even Anna Wintour is clapping. Up close, she appears very human and solicitous of the designer. A second later, however, she is obscured by the crowd's departure, the honeymoon is over for us, and it's time to clean up.
But back to the work at hand. I'm in the midst of distributing Michael Kors press kits when I hear a strangely familiar voice. I whip around, and... damn, that voice again, from Project Runway. Michael Kors is standing not half a dozen feet from me instructing the lighting crew. I don't get star struck easily, but that one gave me goose bumps.
Half an hour till we go over the top. Yes, I'm using WWI parlance to describe what happens when Security opens the doors and lets the guests in. The other girls and I receive our deployments, and I go to stand in the front row aisle between sections F & G.
It's Hurricane Katrina in here. I mean no offense to the victims of that storm, but it really gets insane when the crowd enters. Videographers are talking to Glenda Bailey, editor of Harper's Bazaar, who is among the first to arrive. A bunch of Social girls are milling about the center, and I see a crowd of buyers, and the CEOs of Saks and Macy's, who hold court for at least twenty minutes before taking their seats. Chicly attired people are everywhere. The air is thick with designer-clad humanity...
Anna Wintour and the other Vogue-ettes take a seat. From where I'm stationed, I can't see if Hilary or Usher have arrived, but the Tent is crawling with paparazzi, so they've probably gotten someone they wanted. (Although I don't see them, I later learn they both showed up, hence the paparazzi firestorm.) Anna Wintour talks animatedly with Grace Coddington, then she puts on her trademark sunglasses.
At last the brights come on and the music starts. I recognize, with a thrill, the intro music from A Chorus Line. (I'm such a music nerd!) Gemma Ward and Freja Beha are walking. And the clothes! Michael has nary a misstep. This stuff is what American sportswear is about. He does casual in shades of black, white, camel, and rose pink. Everything is pared down and sans ornamentation, occasionally cinched with a ribbon empire waist. The menswear, which he also shows, is very monochromatic. Even straight guys will be able to put this stuff together. A pink chiffon ball skirt with a train draws a gasp of admiration. There are some 62 looks in the collection. Finally, Mr. Kors comes out for his victory lap, and he gets, I swear, a standing ovation. Even Anna Wintour is clapping. Up close, she appears very human and solicitous of the designer. A second later, however, she is obscured by the crowd's departure, the honeymoon is over for us, and it's time to clean up.