Alexander Herchovitch Fall Show

The fashion show we blagged our way into. Some thoughts…

Hot, sweaty, bright flashing lights. Demented cameramen popping incessantly, cannot miss the Next Big Thing. Flourescent pink, Barbie-themed foyer (it is her 50th anniversary you know…looking good), in stark contrast to the black and grey (leather/layered) palette of the fashion pack. An age waiting behind a barrier manned by non-plussed security guards. Finally its time to head in…arms and elbows everywhere, no decorum here, the best-dressed ladies in the thick of the skirmish. Inside, smaller then expected…a nervous, bitchy energy vibrating through the rows. Anyone famous? No celebrities, not from our side. Can’t rest, can’t relax, eyeing everyone in the room. Finally, it begins. Frail, otherworldly beings float down the runway. Shockingly thin in real life. Hush descends, other then rapid note-scribbly and the pop-pop-popping of flashbulbs. The clothes don’t register or make an impact. Is it the surreality of the situation – they can’t compete with the vague possibility of an Anna Wintour sighting, or a brief chat with Amanda from Ugly Betty, or the haggard complections of the models? Or that the look seems ‘done’…too Luella, too repetitive, too tired? In a whirl it is over, we are herded out , propelled forward by a sea of glittering, steely-eyed fashion insiders, waiting to hop on to the next ride of the Fashion Week Carousel.

 

Alexandre Herchcovitch

 

Alexander Herchovitch

 

 

Alexander Herchovitch

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