By guest writers Tatiana Wolkowitz and Amelie Boose
It’s midnight and you’re standing on a street corner off a bridge that leads to the quickest train station out of Paris, wondering how in the world no one knows who Steve Lacy is, why David Dobrik in his ~ petit ~ pink hat has been turned away from the biggest event of the night for the second time, and why “Tube Girl,” just two weeks into her digital fame, is allowed to skip the line.
With no runway invites, a full week of classes, and a single suitcase stuffed with quotidian attire, we were ready to tease any paparazzi that might stop us on the street and attempt to “I’m with the press” our way into celebrity events. Needless to say, we were sorely disappointed to discover that PFW might travel to Versailles, but seldom hit our student populated streets. So we did what any one-time bloggers would do: took to the backdoor of an afterparty to catch a glimpse of the clothes that had shut down the city all week.
So what is a fashion week afterparty like anyway? From the outside at least, it’s a beautiful mix of local fans and sunglass-bearing fashion students lined up to participate in the year’s most exciting people watching, and a strict, no-invite-no-entry game of celebrity politics and relevance power plays. We just had to wonder: Is exclusivity really the driving force of fashion after all?
And you might be wondering: What exactly is the fashion like in the supposed fashion capital of the world? Like the guest lists, it’s a mixed bag ranging from magically eclectic to heroin not-so-chic. But the most amazing part of fashion week was the inspiring style choices and burgeoning trends that lived and breathed on the streets of Paris, far more than the inside of private events. (Or so our invite-less selves prefer to believe).
Tati’s anecdote:
So, is fashion dead? After befriending an after-party employee who tried his very best to convince us to sneak in amongst the invitees, and spending the rest of the evening unpacking every unsettling celebrity dynamic I had witnessed up close and personal, I couldn’t help but wonder what this said about the fashion industry as a whole. I went home after a night of light loitering, thinking not about the faces I had seen live in living color, or the trends of the season I wanted to incorporate into my own wardrobe, but instead about how I should probably be feeling more inspired after an evening of such close proximity to supposed style-genius.
The next day, I walked down a slim Parisian one-way street and found myself swept up in a procession of black-out windowed SUVs, paparazzi, and fashion enthusiasts. The crowd was loud, colorful, playfully pushy, and dressed to express each of their own belonging here, now, this week, in this city. But what amazed me most was how not a single one of the hundreds of fashion week spectors climbing the street lights and resting on the balconies to get a better look at who could be in the cars seemed to be trying to conform to a single dress code, trend, or designer look. After a night of black lace, black suit coats, and black mesh everything, this kaleidoscope of colors and patterns and the chaos of the unbridled energy in one narrow passageway was utterly thrilling.
Maybe belonging to the thousands of invite-less people no less eager to participate in a week of fashion celebration was a blessing in disguise. No invite meant no rules after all, and no rules meant freedom from the style conformity we had witnessed A through Z list celebs try to replicate the night before. Perhaps the lack of streetwear rules was what inspired all of these people to dress to impress their fellow locals, and for me to remember that experimental fashion is alive and well and brighter than ever. After a month trying to grasp what makes Parisian style Parisian, a single walk down an un-walkable street was exactly what I needed to realize that Paris-style homogeneity is completely overrated, specifically during fashion week.
That afternoon, I met an upstarting model who had just walked her first show in Milan the week before as she asked me if the motorcycle jacket she was shrugging on was too small. She was shopping alone, she told me, and anxious to embrace the city of Paris despite fearing she had not booked any shows yet. Impeccably dressed in distressed denim and a tight leather jacket of her own, I wondered how she could ever be worried about looking right for the part. We talked about the lack of creativity she resigned to in the casting rooms and the regret she felt for not wearing what made her feel the most inspired. The sea of polychrome spectators still fresh in my mind, I recognized her as one of the many people I had encountered this week who were determined to make the most of Paris Fashion Weeks’s street. She, too, was inviteless, realizing there is so much more enjoyment in fashion week than the struggle for status camouflaged in black and white which barred entry to everyday people. As the days passed and designers threw their final farewell parties, I thought of her and hoped she was out there in her new colored jacket embracing Paris Fashion Week’s informal, and my new favorite, side.
Amelie’s turn:
The Yohji Yamamoto show was scheduled to take place at the Hotel de Ville. Given the usual discretion of show locations, in my fortunate knowledge of this one, I couldn’t not show up. Sans invite, as per usual, my goal was simply to observe the affairs of this top-tier event. In my all black, asymmetrical, layered ensemble, I attempted to channel my inner Yohji to the best of my ability. Because, why not?!
On my way to the show, I take the metro alongside two unmissable fashionistas. Each wearing a long coat and obnoxious shades, I am certain that they are en route to Yohji as well. Their fabulous essence and glamor has me convinced that they are lucky ones: avec invite. When I exit the train, I lose my Yohji accomplices somewhere in the rush hour crowd.
As I approach Hotel de Ville, I spot a crowd of people, mostly in black, (a common theme of this fashion week) amongst barricades, flocks of the familiar black SUVs, and intimidating securité. This is it. The show is scheduled to begin at 19:30 and it’s currently 19:27. I assume that this crowd is merely fashionably late and headed inside momentarily to experience the magic. As I grow closer to the crowd, I learn that I am mistaken. The show is about to begin, and everyone who was invited is already inside. So what are all of these people doing here? Everyone has on an outfit that is incredibly chic and intricate: Chains, mixed materials, draping fabrics, extravagant makeup and updos…. A neon orange trench coat stands out in the crowd. I wonder why this occasion – the exterior of a fashion show – calls for such elaborateness…and then I see why.
People begin dispersing from the crowd and performing stone-faced struts down the street, anticipating being captured by a photographer. I spot my metro friends, who I assumed to be inside watching the show, participating in this exact phenomenon. This is their moment; to display an outfit that encapsulates their ultimate expression of self. It seems to me that the lack of an invite will not discourage people from striving for the feeling of importance or relevance.
Dress-up is eternally childhood coded. As a kid I loved to cosplay as royalty, Hannah Montana, or whoever I was in the mood to emulate. It was my favorite game to play because it allowed me to insert myself into a life I could only dream of. Growing up meant leaving dress up behind, or at least in the same way it had formerly existed, and embracing adulthood. Getting dressed became a task confined to what was in the trend cycle, with clothes that couldn’t possibly capture the multitudes of my middle-school aged mind. Dress-up was for children, not for my incredibly mature 13 year old self.
Watching Yohji fans gather outside of his show, strutting in fantastically ridiculous outfits reminded me of the joy I found in playing dress up. Dress up is a form of play and expression; it is a healing of our inner child. It allows us to access the pleasure we had as children, unencumbered by the religion of trendiness.
So who is Paris fashion week really for? Is it for the actors, musicians, and influencers who attend the events, and whose outfits, for the most part, are up to the vision of their stylists? Or is it for the dare-I-say “nobodys” whose true form of expression derives from the clothes they wear and the way they present themselves to the streets of Paris? The bottom line is, it’s not about fashion shows, after parties, and exclusive events, but it’s an excuse for everyone to play dress-up.
@twolkowitz
@amelieboose
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