New York Fashion Not For the Weak

Navigating the first half of NYFW as a nobody, feat. fascist fetishization, the democratization of discomfort, and HUGE wins for good work.

Hi! Below is a fast-and-loose account of days one-three of my first New York Fashion Week since returning to the States from Argentina. I was surprised in both good and bad ways, affirmed both positively and negatively, and got a free T-shirt out of the deal. Big news!

If you like these posts, please let me know by liking and commenting here or on Esque’s Instagram, subbing to the Esque Substack (this) for free, getting bonus posts for five bucks a month, or for ZERO DOLLARS, share (tag me if on IG so I can see and thank you)! If you share with three friends (or enemies), you’ll automatically get a free month’s subscription to Esque’s paywalled posts.

If you cannot afford the $5/month, I totally understand—respond to any of my email sends and I will get you a $2 subscription or comp you, whatever you need. Esque is for everyone!

Thank you SO MUCH for your support, whatever you are able and willing to do to help is extremely valuable to me and I’m honored to be a small part of your life on the web.

My Day One outfit—I know Gauntlett Cheng to be a little nerdy, a little perverted with a mature dash of Weltschmerz (world-weariness), so I picked Argentine brand Low’s oceanic mesh pants as a centerpiece (so incredibly well-fitting on my extremely short frame that I’ve been distressed in my lack of luck trying to find a similar cut), paired it with a tank from another ARG brand, Calomel (recently, it’s been creeping onto the US scene via shops like Tumbao and makes virtually perfect Nu Swim dupes at a high quality and low price point), and topped all of the above off with a formless vintage trench coat I got for $10 at L Train Vintage.

For the non NY-bound, L Train is a chain that exists somewhere between consignment store and bargain warehouse—and DON’T EVER GO TO ITS EAST VILLAGE LOCATION. You will find a MUCH SMALLER (and worse, unless I’m tripping) inventory than any of its BK locales, and the price differentiation is so pointed it feels like an inside joke the lovely folks at L Train have with those of us lucky enough to know where not to go. A coat like this might run $45+ at the EV L train.

I wore the same shoes all week—the Arcopedico knit flats I boasted about finding a deal on in the other week’s post. They do look *so* good and aren’t the worst shoes I’ve found for my flimsy feet, by far—the fact that I’ve been able to wear them for days straight without literally rendering myself immobile is a testament to their arch support and comfy uppers. However, though the tides of footwear continue to lap upon the low-padding shores (especially now that

Liana Satenstein

is commandeering the Vibram FiveFinger ship), my nerve endings are worn to nubs and I continue to require a New Balance Fresh Foam’s worth of cushion in my regularly-worn footwear, à la the great

Emily Kirkpatrick

—crazy that we both came upon this heinous moc independently of one another, and for the love of antique ice picks go read her latest set of very serious recommendations that had me in tears as I pored over them while tucked in bed.

Anyway, the first show I attended was Gauntlett Cheng, held in an absolutely nondescript Williamsburg hotel ballroom with no cell service (an employee looked like they wanted to slap me across the face when I asked for a WiFi password, for some reason, and I was swiftly rejected, my phone relegated to a face-greasy brick in an anime-themed case). The vibes were genuinely foul by the time I got in line—they did have a press line, which is weirdly unusual for events that would benefit from courting press with a little more passion, but a) the humidity was suddenly and punishingly high b) within five seconds, I clocked the mug of Red Scare podcast’s Dasha.

It was bizarre—I’d seen maybe two photos of the known fascist in the years since her ascension, but I somehow knew the second I saw her side profile that I was in the presence of a real weirdo. This sighting immediately soured the entire show for me—what a low-hanging stunt invite. As I am not in a financial position to make any industry enemies, even just saying this much makes me uncomfortable, but the wise and brave (hope I never run out of epithets)

Emily Kirkpatrick

will, later this month, bestow upon us an article investigating the fashion world’s recently-waxing alt-right proclivities—go subscribe to I <3 Mess for someone much smarter (and funnier) than me’s takes on the stylings of the silliest people alive.

Though I entered the show with as much of an open mind as I could muster toward the clothing, the ridiculous personal gossip fallout of my ire was as such: a vaguely mole rat-looking man approached me in the corner I’d claimed (standing vs sitting class stratification was very emphasized at this show) and, smilingly, made a joke about my turf. I felt a twinge of recognition but couldn’t place the guy’s face, so I responded in kind, making a joke about the stuffy atmosphere and literal N*zis present in the crowd (for what it’s worth, I don’t believe Dasha was reserved a seat, either). After he tried to chat me up a bit more, I asked his name—it was really bugging me that I felt like I’d seen him before.

Once he gave it to me, I IMMEDIATELY clocked that he was the guy I’d met while a few drinks in at a bar near the beginning of summer who’d, within two hours of our introduction, told me verbatim that he thought I was “everything he’d ever wanted” and later blown up my phone while I was at an event—I was skeeved out by this behavior and did what I try not to do: I ghosted (or rather, didn’t respond to the multitude of missed calls). After our polite exchange at the show, I felt guilty for this personal failure and rooted through my unsaved numbers to send him a humble, apologetic message, which he responded to with explosive brattiness, including a bizarre rebuttal of my earlier assertion:

“There weren’t literal N*zis [at the show]

If anything…

Some of your tats are pretty interesting”

My friends and I have herniated laughing over this barbed comment—which tattoos could he POSSIBLY have meant? The manga panels? The HEBREW WORDS? Anyway, I always appreciate a slap upside the head when I deign to humble myself in front of a mole rat.

The clothes themselves were gamely wearable, minus the nippleage (but god knows that’s never scared me off), and I liked the brusqueness of the streamlined fringe and flapping knits. It all felt very “brat” to me, which I suppose was prescient at the time of design but now feels a little obvious. It’s a difficult job to be multiple steps ahead of the collective conscious, but it’s also what sets incredible designers apart from serviceable ones. The lace-paneled trousers above looked almost exactly like past seasons’ SC103 wares. I liked the cool-toned pinks.

There was one single model whose body was not Precisely Model Type, above, and it was covered up with a random-feeling…coat? sweater? I can’t tell looking at my photos because the room’s lighting (save for the VIP center aisle) was so bad all my pics look potato-taken. The casting was extremely boring to me. I liked a few of the models’ gamine pixie cuts paired with smutty club dresses and some updos ribbed with fuzzy strips of something like angora. Overall, I was disappointed in this showing—I’ve been talking with friends about how some brands, like Gauntlett Cheng and Sandy Liang, might make cute clothes that make sense commercially, but that doesn’t necessitate a runway production. I would wear a lot of these garments, but as showpieces, they didn’t shine.

Day two, I knew I was going to a strip club later, so I whipped out the leather: a wrestling-type belt and structured jacket, both of which I got from my favorite vintage store in Buenos Aires, Keak (I miss it), over Uniqlo trousers I have to roll at the waist to make fit my leg length and a dollar store bodysuit.

I met up with my pal of over a decade, Sarah Isenberg, who got papped out the wazoo (what a horrible phrase I’ve just reified) for her extremely cute cotton frock and gingham sailor cap. We got soaked by a burst of Times Square rain, then entered a very odd group show called something like “Global Collective”—the first show featured a cast of precisely zero Black or brown models, which took me aback given the aspirations of the collective’s title. Nothing was particularly of note save for a miserable-looking model dressed in an all-red velvet suit that extended into a tight hood over their hair and formed clumps up and down the body—Sarah aptly coined this “red blood cell core” and, after spotting the below the morning after (very similar save for material), I’m wondering if Osmosis Jones will be showing up on r/throwingfits inspo posts some day not too far in the future.

I have to note: I meet many “fashion people” who treat me like an absolute speck of dirt on their tabi’s sole almost every time I attend an event in this sphere, but after the weird Times Square experience, I enticed Sarah to a random, tiny East Village sake bar 20+ minutes away from our next stop because I prioritize deliciousness of drinks over pragmatism of location, and there we were lucky enough to run into Mandy Lee, alias oldloserinbrooklyn, of fashion social media fame, who along with her photographer/stylist friend Tavis was on her way to the same show we were. I emerged from a bathroom trip to the three of them chatting (Sarah and Mandy are friends), and again couldn’t place her face (ok, maybe I should get a brain scan?) until it was mentioned she did TikToks.

I assumed that anyone friends with my true-blue Sarah would be a kind, stand-up person, but I must report: Mandy is even more thoughtful and delightful than I could have guessed. She is straightforward, graceful, and generous, asking me about myself in a way that conveyed her genuine interest and finding legitimate common ground that made our chat feel like an actual connection (remember my skullcap obsession? Mandy, the blueprint for the professional trend forecaster, endorsed it and made me feel sharp for catching that wave years ago), not a weak bid at hollow professionalism. This lovely run-in was a much-needed reminder of the potential for good in this niche, and an indictment of all who don’t pursue it. I am excited to meet Mandy again in the future and maybe marry my skullcaps with her swim caps to create the ultimate scalp-serving trend prediction.

The Sam Finger show was fine—the clothes were pretty regurgitative of the label’s past seasons, and a lot of the frilly straps made me think of Michaela Stark, who did them better. I appreciated that there was *actual diversity in casting* for the show—it’s so blatantly obvious that having an array of body times and ethnicities represented isn’t just woke pandering, it’s genuinely, staggeringly, so much sexier—but was confused as to why it seemed no actual dancers were cast for a show predicated upon being on stage at a strip club. The models gyrated awkwardly in the fog that largely obscured the outfits—I think it really undermined the clothes themselves. Everyone looked hot as hell, though, both on stage and in the audience. The crime here was the fact that there were no gratis refreshments—to buy a single gin and tonic would run you $24 before tax and tip. Hello? I would have been much more willing to forgive the above gripes if I’d been plied with free bottom-shelf liquor.

Yesterday (Day three, I suppose) was the day I’d most been anticipating, so I put on something cute—a handmade top by an Argentine artisan purchased through Roomie plus three skirts either thrifted or purchased from Crop Buenos Aires (basically Argentine American Apparel), pinned hither and thither.

The JRat/Janelle Abbott show (the label’s first real runway!) was simply BURSTING with the best people: Sarah, my beloved Avery Trufelman from

Articles Of Interest

and her sister, Liisa Jokinen of Gem App fame, and more.

Avery and I were near tears from the instant the first look emerged, open-mouthed laughing at how sheerly amazing the clothes were.

The hair, c/o Kam Korderz, was spiky or curly and askew—perfection. Many pieces were hand-woven with a meticulousness that was the hydrogen bomb to the coughing baby of 90% of the rest of the brands showing this week with designers who’d likely never even touched some of the pieces. The BUTTONS! The button LOOPS! Oh, and essentially everything was upcycled (walking the walk much more gracefully than other purportedly “sustainable” brands that have leaned on the extremely non-sustainable technology of AI in past years…).

This cage dress!!!

THESE COLORS!!!

THIS BLUE (at this point, I was actually welling up with tears)!

THE MASC PIECES!! Oh, boy. I can’t say enough good about this show: the casting was flawless (dynamic, diverse, and genuinely interesting), the models understood the DAMN assignment, staggering a bit too close to the front row, circling around in a daze, unapologetically posing—just so fucking entertaining. After the many rounds of applause, not a SINGLE person moved from their seat for a good two minutes—we were all shell-shocked by the incredible display we’d witnessed. Bravo, Janelle—you deserve ALL the success that’s undoubtedly coming your way. I’m proud to have been championing your work for years, now, and I swear, some day I’ll be able to afford your (extremely generously priced, I’m just poor) work.

Lastly for this half of NYFW: the SC103 show, one of my favorite brands. In a cavernous warehouse near the Brooklyn Navy Yards, it was refreshing to see a show sans the usual, obsessively hierarchical seating arrangement—it was funny to see the usual suspects blithely skipping the line only to be corralled into much the same standing arrangement as us nobodies. The democratizing force of discomfort. I did wonder about accessibility, though—nary a chair in sight.

What wasn’t necessarily in sight, but was in sound, were at least three infants who had to be run out of the show THROUGH the catwalk as they screamed bloody murder. Childcare is expensive, and I would never want to exclude someone who couldn’t afford that from the show, but curiously, all the screams emanated from a section that, though unmarked, seemed to be filled with only VIPs. I’m still thinking through my feelings about bringing small children to a fashion show, but my instinct is that accessorizing with a baby is not the move. Open to other takes though! It was funny how the babies’ screams meshed with the shoe sponsor Vans’ LOUD squeaks across the concrete.

I liked the eye-smothering bangs and the carefully folded collars—the vans worked with some looks, but with some, like the above, they just looked lazy and boring.

I LOVED this model’s entire thing. This is how I want to look in a dress. I like the diamond-shaped bodice and the super-straight cut, and I’m literally taking this photo to the barber next time I get a haircut.

The above look was also beautiful—if you’ve been here long enough, you know about my journey with neons, and these pants (with an apron, which seem to be popping up everywhere) might get me back on the train.

On line outside the show, I’d been bitching to some nice ladies in front of me about how often brands miss out on easy free advertising by not offering some low-key but compelling merch at their shows—from my lips to SC103’s ears, as they handed out these (fairly well-cut, decent quality) T-shirts hand-printed with the show’s info in the brand’s signature gothic font that I think will prove very effective marketing tools (and, likely, Depop scams) down the line.

Ok, those were my first thoughts on the first half of my loserly little fashion week! Nasty people, nice people, boring clothes, brilliant clothes—I guess that’s life. See you later for more!

<3 Em