Louise Trotter Joins Lacoste

First stop was a Simone Perele lingerie event, where a very patient seamstress embroidered initials onto lace panties. Simone had original lingerie flown in from Paris; they were extremely pretty. When I walked into the event the PR girl had a photo sheet with pictures of all the influencers/attendees. This, of course, was tantalizing, a fleeting chance to see how the world views you. I had to know! There, smiling up from the dossier was my college ID, a goofy i-phone shot my mom took of my 17-year-old self, a photo I thought was only accessible on my personal phone and in a college database. I’ve been hacked! Those PR girls work hard!

Party starts when Ava Pearlman and Sasha Mutchnik arrive. Ava tells me she knows how the world is going to end but won’t say anymore. I love mysterious women. I invite myself on their next trip to the Banya. Hot girl schvitz. There were also experts fitting. The last time I had a bra fitting I was a senior in high school getting manhandled in a Victoria Secret. I still own that Bombshell bra. Anyway, I left without getting fitted. Sometimes you just don’t need to learn anything new about yourself! 

At the Puma gifting suite I had option paralysis and got a pair of white bondage, straightjacket, knee high mostros. Taylar Herman of Puma had the best bob I’ve seen in a while. Downstairs HG digital editor Olivia Ghantous and I spot Dylan Sprouse. I have secret nonsensical resentment towards the Sprouse twins because I grew up in a Hotel and I spent my childhood fending off, “Oh, like The Suite Life of Zac and Cody? Do you get room service?” from impertinent middle schoolers. It was NOT like The Suite Life of Zack and Cody. I did NOT get room service. I didn’t even get service! Until 7th grade I had to sit down in the lobby to get any wifi.

I go to Ava Pearlman jewel box of an apartment to pick up a sexy silk dress from her new brand All The Rage.

Puma’s return to the runway was a magic show all about the Amazing Mostro. A funky freak of a shoe, with spikes and knobs and velcros, and I am glad they’ve revamped it. Next they should remake the sporty ballet flats that those Depop motherfuckers are price gouging me on. The runway had an abandoned carnival with disembodied legs suspended from a carousel and Eartheater sang as people entered.

The standout for me were the bags. First, a shiny silver soccer ball bag that clearly took cues from the iconic Dirk Bikkembergs bag. A bag of the millennium for me, right up there with Maya Kotomori’s Richard Prince LV and my beloved Girbaud Pockachu bag. Another Puma standout was a clear gym-bag for when you really want people to see your preworkout. The clothes were an uncanny valley reversal: sportswear does serious fashion, instead of serious fashion doing sportswear. As I watched models in thong bodysuits and 3D puma harnesses it made me consider the current state of athleisure. We’ve reached a confusing standstill – in the economy of the hustle do we ever have time off? How do we dress for near constant on-ness? What is athleisure anymore, when nobody really has leisure? There was a brief moment of confusion when the show ended and no designer jogged out. 

Star photographer Sophia Wilson, Olivia, genius Liv and I decamped to Kikis for a carafe of white and some taramasalata. The hostess tells us that we can’t sit at the corner high-top because it’s actually for “two and a dog” and would be too small for four slender gorgeous ladies. This isn’t Kikis slander. My only Kikis slander is that I can never get a table.

Downtown at the Siren Basics Party at Le Dive softly hued mesh panties dangle from the ceiling and pretty girls danced while Miss Dylan mixed drinks upstairs.

The afterparty for Puma is hosted by ASAP Rocky at Nebula but ASAP is sick. There’s a rumor that Beyonce is coming (LOL). The parties this season have felt subdued. We walked through Time Square at night and there are no street Elmos out to play.

At Kim Shui, Maddy Crawford sported an excellent cabbage bag which reminds me of stuffed cabbage which reminds me of how hungry I am. It's an influencer bonanza and I can unfortunately identify every one of them. The only person with worse screen time than me is Adam Faze.

Gia Kuan, looking magnifique, runs around. There are Mac goodie bags for the primo guests. I sit next to the chicest woman in the country Taylore Scarabelli. Watching the editor’s outfits this season was often better than the shows. Taylore’s writing a FW diary. Matt Weinberger appears. What’s he working on? A FW diary. I admit it shamefully, I too am writing a diary. It’s a deluge of diarists. Nikole Naloy, the only person from my high school to get into Harvard, takes photographs. White fur boots and hoods at Kim Shui, white cloudlike coverings on the models, and teensy hot pants. 

I meet the Olivias at a Prada Beauty launch in the newly rebuilt Dominos Sugar Factory. I have been wanting to see this space since I slept through an Open House New York tour months ago. Seeing Manhattan up from the dome makes me feel like I’m in a Roald Dahl movie adaptation. Katie Holmes is in an argument on her phone outside the elevator. Charli D’Amelio tells me, “Prada 100%. I love Prada. I am only doing Prada this fashion week.” Reese convinces Annie Hamilton and I that there's a secret extra special smoking room in the back. This, of course, is not true. Security guards yell at us for smoking in the green room. We are quickly becoming persona non Prada. As we leave we get goodie bags of a silver clutch with their new refillable lipstick.

At the Vaquera x Pornhub party PR legend Kelly Cutrone manned the door. It was held at a strip club in Midtown. A resigned security guard told Liv when she showed him her camera “just… try not to get nipples.” Reader, I saw no nipples, not even my own! This was my first time in a strip club (blushing) and the leopard print interior extravaganza bore a striking resemblance to my own apartment. I did, though, see writer extraordinaire Ludwig Hurtado and writer extraordinaire Rachel Rabbit White and writer extraordinaire Nico Walker (who published a brilliant except from his forthcoming novel in Granta last week). Writer party at the strip club. A partygoer asked Liv and I if we were models. Unfortunately, this is the one week a year that line really doesn’t work. Nothing like partying with six foot gazelles to make you feel your height.

My former roommate’s boyfriend was at Eckhaus Latta which was great because he thought I was unemployed the entire time we lived together. Suck it Ian. Across the room actress Ruby McCollister wore skin colored eye patches.  

One of the best games to play during Fashion Week is “What’s in my bag?” My bag is from Aynie-Bsas. Clara, the designer, started an accessories label based out of the back of her father’s leather store in Buenos Aires. She makes these perfect pouches and leather bags inspired by Argentine Gauchos and professional polo players. When you visit her showroom, you pass by rows of bespoke riding boots and saddlery. My homage to the upcoming year of cowboy and country. “What’s in my bag?” is an Hourglass lipgloss in Slip, an Armani lipstick in a color I can’t remember because the label has rubbed off, a tiny photo of Messi and unfortunately not my keys!  

Eckhaus had party mules, covered in stubby glitter, a black tank with slashes at the rib that opened like an accordion as the wearer moved. Casting was typically fantastic — Bella Newman and Paloma killed with Alek Wek closing. Loren Kramar sang in the back. A live singer, while creating opportunity for mistakes, goes so much farther emotionally. Eckhaus, one of the remaining exciting NYC brands, held its line this season, with clothes that reminded me of both the joys and imperfections of having a voice. You go farther, you risk more.

At FFORME I took BTS of the models for Hommegirls (look over here hunny, to the left, to the right). Photographer Matt Weinberger, who I ran into, is looking for a Nice Jewish Girl. Natalie Miano’s client Anastasia Coope performed on a stage to the right.

I am an extremely biased party but Sandy Liang was my favorite show and I got to write the show notes for it! I saw the collection early, which gave me a head start at obsessing over the collection. Devon Lee wore my favorite, a tweed brown skirt set with a square neckline that reminded me of this one MNZ look I’ve been trolling TheRealReal for. Sandy is the most fun show of the season because there’s a real connection to the enjoyment of fashion, i.e. dressing up for the hell of it, because you can and because you want to and because it makes you feel good. Sandy feels like shopping with all your best friends. It feels like the nicest girl at your high school telling you she loves your outfit. The bows and ballet flats were out to stomp, yes, but so were perfect leather bags and structured boots and sweetly tailored skirt suiting. I went earlier in the week to the store to pick out an outfit — I know… The sweetest part of the show was watching the Sandy Liang team led by Sarah Brown poke their heads out over the crowd and watch the show. Sandy Girl Forever. 

Olivia and I sat behind Marc Jacobs at Ludovic de Saint Sernin. He hit an elf bar the entire time. I wasn’t quite close enough to sniff out what flavor. Anyway; the clothes! There was a freaking grommet dress. Silver knuckles. Corset bags that recalled Galliano Dior. Anne D. shoes. A saucy studded hankie tucked in too-tight pants. Gimp masks. My favorite by FAR were the cheeky bum bum pants. They were so serious to me. I’m not one for collaborations with the dead (the collection was in collaboration with Robert Maplethorpe’s estate) but it felt more ode to a moment in New York, creatively and sexually.

On the heels of Jessica Testa’s excellent NYT profile of Carly Marx where the designer announced her imminent move to London and pivot to accessories, the final Puppet’s runway was all people talked about. What would this show be like? Most striking to me were the shoes – Carly’s typically whimsical heels were subbed out for muted black Manolos. The styling was business haphazard, fur coats belted on at odd angles, pointless anklets hovering over stilettos. All in all, the show felt deliberately unfinished, as in unfinished business, as in a ghostly reminder of our failure to support new designers, of fissures in a cracked up industry. Read Danya Issawi in New York Mag PLEASE. Carly Marx will haunt NYC! And she will be back.

Back home I scrolled through TikTok and ate a weird almond flour tortilla situation. Between Mob Wife and Ballet core, it seems we’ve sartorially landed on Little Edie. A Grey Gardens revival is my prediction of the year.

Luar was at SAA in Bushwick. This means taking C to the L and then an 11 minute over an icy bridge over a train track in the dark. As Liv and I stumbled over the stairs I wondered if everybody else was doing this schlep. The answer: “no.” We arrived at a parade of black town cars. Inside Ariella Starkman commands a headset like no other, and in kitten heels no less. Vogue’s Hannah Jackson claimed she saw a glittery cowboy hat arriving… and it was BEYONCE! In BUSHWICK! Call your chiropractor, because the necks were craned. I had the pleasure of sitting next to the one woman show that is Liana Satenstein and her Stanley cup... 

Luar served luxury payes, “fat shoulders” (Liana), and skirts with modern bustles. I LOVED it!!! 80’s silhouettes met Brooklyn Hasidim to revamp the sexy metrosexual. There was a gasp so loud when Colin Jones walked I couldn’t tell if people were reacting to Col or Beyonce. What a walker! One thing I adored about Luar was the vocal appreciation from the crowd. Even before the after-party it was a party! As soon as the show was over Beyonce, a silver hat in a mob, evaporated.

A fashion show is a show and I felt brands wrestling with that this season (magic, live performances, etc), especially hard to reckon with at a moment where fashion can feel inconsequential relative to the suffering currently going on. Within media and fashion, the frantic reshuffling and layoffs generate nausea. Personally, it felt like with standouts (for me, Luar and Sandy) designers committed to not just creation of spectacle, but enjoyment of vision. And there should be enjoyment in creation.

Just like Beyonce, NYFW '24 came and went. See you next time!

Love,
Nicolaia