We began our journey at the Atlanta airport, notorious for delayed flights and horrifying security lines. Surprisingly, we breezed through security and our flight was on schedule. While waiting for our plane to board, I noticed a very fabulous-looking gentleman seated by our gate. Dior shades, fresh-out-of-the-box Nikes, a super-icy watch that temporarily blinded me, a Vuitton carry-on, and a badgering sidekick (manager?). So completely cliché, yet so undeniably fascinating. We snuck to the nearest Starbucks kiosk to figure out who this mystery man was over skinny soy lattes and out of earshot. I went through the Rolodex in my mind: hip-hop artist? Club owner? BET host? Footballer's son? Simply famous for being rich? Then it hit me like a Rolls-Royce Phantom: This was Aaron Reid, the kid from MTV's Super Sweet Sixteen and music mogul LA Reid's offspring! I randomly remembered him saying how much he loved well-groomed eyebrows. Shit, I should've gotten them waxed after all. We giddily head back to the terminal to introduce ourselves but, to our dismay, Mr. Reid is nowhere in sight. Actually, no one is in sight. It takes us a good thirty seconds to realize that our plane has already boarded, and we breathlessly race down the connector ramp to see that we barely made it. We made our way down the aisle to our seats, and I nearly maimed a passenger with the ten-pound September issue of Vogue I was lugging around trying to get my garment bag in the overhead compartment. I managed to scan the faces of the passengers even in our frantic, not-so-fabulous entrance and there he sat, just a few rows in front of us, his bling yet again searing my retinas before I could even make out the brand. We exchanged formalities with the friendly but over-Botoxed woman sitting at the end of our row and complimented her on her gorgeous pastel pink Goyard bag as we struggled past. I shamelessly admit that, aside from flipping through the glossy ten-pounder, I eavesdropped the entire flight. Needless to say, I had a crick for hours from craning my neck trying to hear what unreleased album Mr. Reid was describing to his cohort- did I hear a Kanye reference?! After we landed at LaGuardia, I assume he was whisked away in his bulletproof Escalade while we had to wait on a taxi (so pedestrian... you better believe I'm at least getting a town car next time).
After checking into our hotel, I called up a few of my NYC contacts. My friend Lauren, an intern for Cynthia Rowley, unfortunately had to work all weekend prepping for Cynthia's show. Luckily, Tyler, my cousin and a student at FIT, completely saved the day and rushed right over, despite the monsoon-esque weather, when I told him we were in town. He paraded us around the city in ankle-deep water and we occasionally sought shelter to wring out our dresses, readjust our faulty umbrellas, and lust after Chloé bags. When our retail euphoria died down, we trailed back into our hotel, weary and weathered, to change for dinner. We took a cab to a dimly-lit restaurant where the sangria tinted our lips with a berry flush and made us forget all about the rain.
Waking up to a beautiful, sunny day the next morning immediately put us in high spirits so we walked a few blocks to a quaint café for coffee and went over our schedule. The Tracy Reese show was at noon, and we soon realized we only had a couple of hours to get ready and arrive at the tents early. Our quiet, relaxing breakfast was quickly neglected and we high-tailed it to the shower (thankfully there were two). Hairdryers were frantically being tossed around, the steamer was impatiently spewing hot vapor in the corner, and our heels were flying through the air at alarming speeds. Finally, once we had sorted through the massive amount of dresses, shoes, and jewelry we’d brought, we decided on our ensembles (I chose a canary Lorick dress, a Vera Wang belt, Marc Jacobs necklaces, and a vintage clutch) and headed out the door at 11:30AM, the time at which we were supposed to arrive. Concierge hailed us a taxi and we hastily thrust a five dollar bill into his gloved hand as we dove into the backseat. Pulling up to the left side of the tents at Bryant Park, we jumped out and walked around to the main entrance. As we turned the corner, we saw a sea of security in black suits and headsets lined up outside, but our attention was soon focused on the barricaded protestors, teeming on 6th Avenue. An overwhelming crowd dressed in full-on white bunny costumes splattered with red paint held up signs with large, blown-up photos of bloody skinned animals. They shouted, “D-K-N-Y, how many animals have to die?” and something about vanity, but I was too taken aback to listen. “We’re vegan!” my friend yelled back, obviously annoyed at how violent their verbal attacks were becoming. I’m actually a vegetarian, but I wasn’t about to argue. We walked up the carpeted stairs, flashed our passes to security, and entered what I would imagine my personal oasis might look like.
Picture the most innovative, flawlessly chic people with the most brilliantly creative minds and avant-garde ideals congregated under one roof (or tarp, rather). I was at a loss for words and literally stopped dead in my tracks to breathe in this moment of awe. My eyes darted from person to person: the new lace Prada bag! Oh my god, is that a Thakoon skirt worn as a dress?! Wait, those Balenciaga booties don’t come out until next season! My mind was reeling with commentary and unanswered questions. The ratio of Chanel bags per square foot was ungodly, but footwear certainly stole the accessory spotlight. My attention remained focused on the floor: Louboutins, YSLs, Givenchys, studded Guccis, and anything with a platform and a sky-high stiletto were the clear winners. I didn’t have time to stop and gawk for long, though, because as we were standing stationary amidst the fabulous hustle and bustle, eyes wide and mouths hanging open, having a total “elevator door opening to the shoe salon at Saks” moment, a camera crew all but knocked us over.
Two frenzied assistants with headsets and indecent messenger bags, a cameraman, and a guy dangling a fish pole mic rushed up to us. I appropriately assumed that Lauren and Whitney from The Hills were working in the tents and that the MTV crew was just trying to get past us until the assistants thrust clipboards in our faces and told us to sign some type of waiver. We obliged, a little confused as to what was happening, and suddenly the sea of people parted and the light of heaven shone down upon a petite, blonde, impeccably-dressed man. Time froze, the angelic music was cued, and I gasped for air, clutching my chest and hoping my heart wouldn’t give out on me. “Y-You’re…” I stammered like an idiot. He extended his hand, “I’m Eric Daman,” he smiled, “the stylist of Gossip Girl.” I shook his dexterous hand with reverence; I knew his work extremely well and remembered that he had collaborated with Pat Field on Sex & the City. He is a visionary and one of my favorite stylists of all time. “Is that Lorick?“ he inquired, gesturing to my dress. “Yes! You made her famous!“ I eagerly replied. He explained that he had an online video series on the Gossip Girl website and asked if we minded if he interviewed us. I wanted to cry right then and there, but maintained my composure for the sake of my reputation and everyone who had suddenly assembled around us. His assistants took my clutch, the plethora of magazines and fashion bulletins we received upon entry, and my gum (yes, I literally spit my gum into her naked palm). Eric skillfully maneuvered through the interview, asking me what inspired my look (“You did! You put Abigail Lorick on the map with Gossip Girl, and I adore her pieces. I wanted to look feminine but edgy, so I added these shoes.”) and how I would describe my personal style (“Architectural and excessive. I love experimenting with unusual silhouettes and mixing high and low, while keeping an overall sense of luxury and modernism.”) I, in turn, was told to ask him a question, so I asked what he thought the hottest fall accessory was going to be. “Well, darling, you’re actually wearing it! Can we get a shot of this?” (camera pans down to my waist) “The skinny belt!” I nearly died. It was possibly the most fabulous moment I’ve ever had, being interviewed by Eric Daman while bystanders wondered who the hell I was, and I never wanted it to end. But all good things must come to a conclusion, and my time with Mr. Daman was cut short when he spotted another young, unassuming girl by the Judith Ripka booth. The assistant shoved my belongings back into my hands with a gracious smile and off they went, chasing behind him.
We wove our way through the crowd to the end of the Tracy Reese check-in line. I prepared myself for a long wait because I knew that shows rarely started on time so I was expecting the worst. To my amazement, we were assigned our seats fairly promptly but had to wait for all of the guests of the previous show to leave before we could enter. This wait provided ample opportunity to people-watch, especially as the attendees began filing out of the Promenade and descending the stairs. The Teen Vogue editors! Glenda Bailey! Irina Lazareanu! Bee Shaffer! No one seemed fazed by the presence of these fashion forces and I was desperately trying to retain my poise when I noticed every head swiveling to stare at the steps. I, too, turned my attention toward the wave of people coming down the stairs and honed in on the black Givenchy cut-out pumps, the bronzed legs, the ivory blazer, and the famously brassy hair. She emanated authority and status. It was Nina Garcia, the new fashion director of Marie Claire and renowned hard-hitting Project Runway judge! Like the unabashed fan that I am, I whipped out my camera and managed to capture a small portion of her as she briskly strode to the exit. Everyone returned to their conversations and after a fifteen-minute wait we were finally herded into the Promenade.
We found our seats and instantly scanned the opposite section’s front row. Brandy, Miri Bin Ari, Sanaa Lathan, Anna Ortiz, Bijou Phillips, Emma Roberts, and Malin Ackerman (whom I adore) were already seated and most of them were being interviewed or photographed. Miss Jay Alexander was also front row, a few seats down from the aforementioned ladies, and Fern Mallis, Andre Leon Talley, and Eva Longoria-Parker were sitting front row in our section. Not too shabby, Miss Reese! Long strings of white lights dangled vertically above the runway, Tracy’s signature chandelier was outlined on the wall, and everything was glaringly white. Nothing too extravagant as, per se, the Marc Jacobs smoke and mirrors funhouse setup later that week. Tracy’s blank canvas approach was severely effective once the clothes hit the runway; the vibrant palette breathing delicate energy into the once-lifeless stage. Gorgeous music filled the room, an upbeat mix of dainty, fun songs and the models strutted down the runway with fresh, dewy faces and loose, upswept buns. Tracy was unveiling her new high-end line, Tracy Reese Black Label, along with her original line so I was prepared to categorize each look into one or the other. It proved to be an effortless challenge, because the levels of craftsmanship were staggeringly stark in contrast; I could easily tell on which pieces the most time was spent. The fabrics were richer and looked more luxe on the Black Label looks and their aesthetic was simply dressier. The clothes weren’t editorial by any means, but they were stunning nonetheless. I instantaneously coveted several pieces, including a printed trench, a violet-hued brocade dress with embellishments spilling down the front, a kelly-green eyelet drop-waist dress, and a black floor-length shirred chiffon gown with rosettes. Come on spring, hurry up and get here already!
Tracy received a standing O, of course, and, while we had backstage access, our flight was departing soon and we still needed to pack and check out of the hotel. As we cautiously descended the stairs on which so many legends’ Manolo-clad feet had walked, we saw that a large procession of people had formed to take our seats at the next show. We took one last look at the interior of the tent and all its chic captives and despairingly crossed the threshold to reality, greeted once more by protestors. The PETA clowns had gone, their battle waged, with a single “DON’T WEAR FUR” poster left in their wake. In their place stood full-figured women in pink tee-shirts, holding signs that said “CURVES ON THE RUNWAY!” I silently laughed. Yeah, right. A mass of paparazzi were waiting as we teetered down yet another set of steps and, even though they probably take pictures of everyone exiting the tents, they allowed us to feel famous for a split second.
While we stood waiting for a cab, on the corner of 42nd and 6th, it occurred to me that we were positioned on the convergence of present and future fashion, and I didn’t know when I’d ever have the chance to be back there again. By giving me the tiniest taste of the industry, my trip had completely solidified the aspirations I hungered for. I was inspired and motivated to exceed the goals I’d set for myself, just so I could keep feeding from the sustenance of this fashion lifeline. My musings were soon interrupted, as a taxi responded to our raised arms and glided up next to us. I repositioned my sunglasses, glanced longingly at the tented sanctuary over my shoulder, and slid into the cab. I wanted to stay forever but, for now, I had a plane to catch.
An oasis in the urban jungle.
Wear your vote.
Inside the tents.
Tracy Reese S/S '09.
Making the descent.
Until next season, Bryant Park!
