A shoeless Suleman Anaya hoofs it to Marc Jacobs...
Okay, I almost missed the show. Expecting it to start on time after the transatlantic outcry over last season's two-hour delay, I was traveling well on schedule when the heel came off my beloved vintage Redwings. Horror of horrors! But passion overrode panic and I decide to brave it. After all, a Marc show can't be missed simply because of a dumb boot. So, mortified, I entered the Armory hoping the assembled beau-monde wouldn't notice my shuffling gait, only to be caught in a flurry of flashlights. Thankfully, the paps weren't trying to capture my mishap for the "What Was He Thinking?" section of The Star; they were going crazy over Victoria Beckham in a sequined burgundy sheath. Then, in what seemed to be an unspoken accord between us, Posh struck a few mechanical iterations of her freaky sexbot pose while I discreetly minced beside her, dangling sole in tow. She really is a doll.
Because of the contretemps, by the time I was finally inside, security guards weren't letting people to their assigned seats—Marc wanted the show to start. So I grabbed a spot at the bottom of the bleachers right by the comely feet of Julia Restoin-Roitfeld, who smiled and graciously made room for my little derriere. (Interesting that Mlle JRR wasn't sitting in one of the VIP booths with Maman.) At least I didn't get stuck behind the bleachers like so many others, who thus totally missed the show.
Seated inside, the first thing I noticed was that everything looked very different from previous seasons. For starters, there was no runway. Missing, too, was the Met-worthy staging we've become accustomed to. Instead, the place looked like a cross between a rock venue and an old-school nightclub, with a gargantuan stage, concert lighting and tall scaffolding. Flanking the stage were black leather booths filled with the usual suspects: the Bensimons, the Baileys and the Cunninghams of the world, Marc's buddies Debbie Harry and John Currin, the obligatory indie hollywood contingent (Selma, Vincent) and this season's specimen of pop detritus (remember Lil' Kim?): K-Fed!
The clothes. Well, yes, like everyone and her PA has told you, the show started on time. At about 7:20, Sonic Youth started playing and out came the models. You couldn't miss that in a complete reversal from last season's brainy sex theme, the models were all wrapped in cocoony silhouettes in what looked like pastels. Pastels? Yes, there actually was a baby blue cashmere coat. Also on parade were burka-like headscarves, funny triangular hats, mad puffy headbands (thanks to the genius of Stephen Jones) and incredible lamé pantsuits. It was all very covered-up and cut away from the body.
It wasn't even 7:40 when the show ended and discussion shifted to the merits of the collection. As usual the audience was split into two extreme groups: "loved it" and" hated it," with no room for measured opinions. Others debated whether or not to join Marc at his after-party, where M.I.A. was slated to DJ, or head to the Jeremy Scott shindig at Mansion. Alas, for me it was time to jump in a cab home with my sad broken boot, which, by the way, nobody seems to have noticed.
Labels: Marc Jacobs, New York Fashion Week, Suleman Anaya