Almost exactly four years ago now, back when I thought a job in the industry was actually possible, back before I ran home licking the wounds that New York City and the economy had left all over me, I was interning for a small buying office and running around fashion week attending shows that my bosses and colleagues couldn't get to. It was Valentine's Day. I was wearing a black shift dress over a white shirt with black tights and my, at the time, fairly new equestrian-style boots. And lipstick. I never wear lipstick.
I walked around the space pre-show eating macarons being passed around on trays and drinking white wine even though it was 11 AM and I really should have known better. I watched girls teeter around in
YSL tributes avoiding the sweets, tried not to chuckle at them, and waited for us to be told to take our seats. Through some luck, my boss had a front row seat, and I got to sit in it. The lights went down. The runway lights came back up. The music began.
It was
the Ohne Titel show. Four years on, I looked at
the runway pictures in the comfort of my room from a still semi-snowed in Boston. The clothing touched on many of the trends emerging from New York fashion week as it enters its final days. The colors. The types of patterns. The textures.
And though the clothes were lovely, I think that I liked them for another reason.