Guest blogger Casey Spooner takes a break from Fischerspooner to take in the sights and sounds of Fashion Week...
I haven't been the most fashionable New Yorker this week. Maybe I'm jaded. Maybe I'm smarter. Maybe a little of both. I came off a challenging performance and last-minute whirlwind trip to Italy. It sounds glamourous (and it is), but it is also rather taxing. And of course I threw in a secret live show at Santos Party House the day after our return, to kick off Fashion Week.
That same evening I was planning on swinging by the Interview party at the new Standard Hotel. I was excited about seeing the amazing building and I'm a big fan of the new Interview. I love the redesign, and the editorial and fashion content is a vast improvement. Bravo! The current Kate Moss cover is great, and don't even get me started on the print job! The metallic paper is kicking my ass. (I'm a geek for good production value.) But, alas, the soundcheck ran late and I needed a meal, so I was not to attend. But we had fun at Santos doing a few songs and staying up way too late.
The next day I had to sleep in and later opted for a viewing of HAIR at the Delacorte Theater in Central Park. I highly suggest seeing anything in that amazing space. Saturday I had every intention of going to the Loden Dager and Threeasfour shows, but I just couldn't get out of bed until 3 pm, then I had to go to the studio to start a two-week recording/writing session. So I bailed on everything fashion, started composing a new song, grabbed a meal at the corner Japanese cafe and fell asleep in my clothes that night.
After sleeping for no fewer than ten hours, I woke up yesterday feeling refreshed and ready to try it all again. And this time I actually made it to something. First was the Y-3 show. I'm a major fan of Y-3 and I have a real weakness for freaky sportswear. One of my favorite shops in the world
is La Maison de Santé in Brussels. They have the best knee braces and weird therapeutic sports-related paraphernalia. Of course I'm a slut for Y-3 sneakers, always, and there was one black man-skirt with hightops that looked great.
Last night was all about Calvin Klein's 40th anniversary party at the Highline park. Talk about production values! It was incredible, like a spaceship of a Fire Island beach house had landed at the corner of 30th Street and 10th Avenue. The entrance was gigantic with a huge video billboard, and the spectacle continued every step of the way. Inside you're struck by a MoMA-esque interior filled with very modern-looking people and black-clad, perfectly sculpted muscle-boy waiters. Off to the right and down the hall was a James Turrell sculpture—and it was beautiful
, a luminous rectangle of blue in a darkened room. Initially I thought it was a video projection of blue light, but soon I realized we cast no shadows as we gathered around.
Up the giant staircase and out the back, the party spilled onto the renovated Highline railway—and my jaw remained dropped. Past the initial glut of fabulous people, a promenade was constructed that ran all the way from 10th to 11th Avenue, lined with thousands of long-stem white roses. The fragrance was intoxicating and the decadence was impressive. But wait, there's more. After hanging out with Mike Furey and Tom Napack from the band Dangerous Muse, I bumped into Martha Stewart and told her that she's our Warhol, upon which she wanted her picture taken with us
Labels: Calvin Klein, Casey Spooner, New York Fashion Week, Y-3