At the Hammerstein ballroom, Everyone-Who-Is-Someone is dressed in the classic colour. Except for the hip-hop brigade which favours white. But me, I'm in grey. That's neither here nor there. The horror, the horror. The Cristal keeps pouring in the lobby as my little world shatters. Backstage, designer Tommy Hilfiger tells me grey is the new black. Ah, there's grace yet. Suddenly all seems well with the world. I can live to tell the tale.
They say life is what happens when you're busy making plans. But in New York, life could well happen when you're sitting in the rows at a fashion show, drumming fingers on the cue card listing the line up of Anja, Tyrone and Elsa and other perfect bodies. Watching the food chain, its pecking order gilt-edged. With its rock stars, actors and socialites in the front row. And the slightly important right behind. The theatre of life plays out in front, at the back and in the wings, all on cue, in perfectly fitting size-zero dresses.
And so the show goes on. The stars in the front row, the rest of us strategically behind. On the ramp the women come and go, talking not of Michelangelo, but whispering Fall 2007. Applause, applause. The designer soaks in the moment, takes a bow, flash bulbs pop, the chase for the sound bites begins anew. He leaves to party with Justin Timberlake and Lenny Kravitz, my paparazzi sources reveal, preparing for the hunt, the money shot. I head out into the night, I'd like to think, a changed human being, warmer, wiser. But does anything really change? The chase for fame, the lure of glamour -- same thing in another city, another time zone. Perhaps this is just a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Ah, Philosophy, you say.Just another cosmetic brand at Sephora.
About the AuthorVrushali Haldipur A mini-bite of the Big Apple, with fries to go....Read Morefirst published:February 22, 2007, 15:11 ISTlast updated:February 22, 2007, 15:11 IST
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It is a truth universally acknowledged in the realms of television that one must look good. At all costs. With perfect make up. In all kinds of weather. And if it's the New York fashion week, honey, you'd better pull out the little silver labels from the closet. The devil wears Prada, and with good reason. Anything less at the Fashion Week would invite glares that would make NY winters seem positively cozy. Life is short, buy the shoes, says the shop front on 6th avenue. I make a note and boldly go, how no one has gone before, into the NY Fashion Week, without a single designer outfit.
At the Hammerstein ballroom, Everyone-Who-Is-Someone is dressed in the classic colour. Except for the hip-hop brigade which favours white. But me, I'm in grey. That's neither here nor there. The horror, the horror. The Cristal keeps pouring in the lobby as my little world shatters. Backstage, designer Tommy Hilfiger tells me grey is the new black. Ah, there's grace yet. Suddenly all seems well with the world. I can live to tell the tale.
They say life is what happens when you're busy making plans. But in New York, life could well happen when you're sitting in the rows at a fashion show, drumming fingers on the cue card listing the line up of Anja, Tyrone and Elsa and other perfect bodies. Watching the food chain, its pecking order gilt-edged. With its rock stars, actors and socialites in the front row. And the slightly important right behind. The theatre of life plays out in front, at the back and in the wings, all on cue, in perfectly fitting size-zero dresses.
And so the show goes on. The stars in the front row, the rest of us strategically behind. On the ramp the women come and go, talking not of Michelangelo, but whispering Fall 2007. Applause, applause. The designer soaks in the moment, takes a bow, flash bulbs pop, the chase for the sound bites begins anew. He leaves to party with Justin Timberlake and Lenny Kravitz, my paparazzi sources reveal, preparing for the hunt, the money shot. I head out into the night, I'd like to think, a changed human being, warmer, wiser. But does anything really change? The chase for fame, the lure of glamour -- same thing in another city, another time zone. Perhaps this is just a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Ah, Philosophy, you say.Just another cosmetic brand at Sephora.
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