Showtime

I measure my time away from New York in various ways. Months. Seasons of Gossip Girl viewed. Number of hot dogs not consumed during numerous wanderings through SoHo. Glasses of Pinot Grigio not poured.

Fashion Weeks missed.

I draw inspiration, for what I write and how I dress, from observation. It shouldn’t surprise anyone who knows me that the notes I took throughout school never progressed far beyond a series of bullet points. I gained more from actively listening. Facts and figures stuck in my brain, and mindlessly scribbling them down never helped me retain them. In a similar way, seeing things in the flesh, drinking them in and spending time with them, has been one of the most important ways I’ve learned about clothes. About fashion and dressing and style and all of those words that seem to mean the same thing but are vastly different.

New York City proved its own source of inspiration on a fairly regular basis, but it wasn’t the same as being surrounded so fully as I was then. During those seasons where I got to attend very few or no shows at all, sitting in Bryant Park with an iced coffee was enough. Doing that thing where I stare at people’s shoes. Taking in the quirky and over the top and eccentric alongside the minimalist and reserved and subtle. Standing on a subway platform with my heels in hand and watching a model remove the makeup from her face. It gave me a chance to experiment with my own choices. To find new combinations for things that had been sitting in my closet for ages. I complained and griped and seriously considered throwing my eyeliner on an open flame much as I had contemplated burying my Calculus textbook years earlier, but it was all part of the learning experience. The complete and total breakdown that sometimes occurs before epiphany.

And so I miss it. I can sit in my leggings and eat snacks and watch shows with my computer on my lap, but it doesn’t compare to the energy that flows through a space as the lights dim and then rise again. I don’t smell the just applied coat of paint.

My ears don’t ring from the ferocity of the bass.