Last season during New York Fashion Week (NYFW), I was heading to the Coach show, and admittedly feeling myself. My outfit, I felt, was on point for the occasion: I paired a vintage red leather blazer with a bolo tie and heeled Cuban boots—a slightly-western vibe that perfectly encapsulated my personal style. Walking towards the venue, I could see the swarm of street style photographers and VIP guests from about a block away. It was a total zoo. Even so, I strutted towards the chaos confidently, feeling like I belonged and was part of the cool crowd.
Only, walking in, I was met with utter crickets. Not a single street style photographer even glanced in my direction. Some pointed their lenses towards far-cooler or more-famous show goers; others simple put their cameras down to rest at the sight of me. I was being totally street style shunned. But it’s okay—I’m used to it.
Every season, NYFW—which officially kicks off this week—has a cutting way of humbling you. For starters, the glitzy clothes on the runways can instantly make your day-to-day wardrobe feel dull. The front-row models and celebrities at the shows, all dressed impossibly-cool, cause you to feel just a little less interesting too, or not even worthy of being there at all. But my favorite aspect of attending NYFW, is the absolutely brutal way that street style photographers analyze your outfit going in and out of the presentations.
Heading into a show, your fashion week outfit—which usually represents your closets very best—is met by a jury of photographers who deem whether you are worth documenting or not. If you get a few snaps, it means that you are trendy, chic—on point. Yet, as someone who has attended shows for over a decade now, I am rarely ever part of said crowd. If street style stars like Chloe King and Eva Chan are fashion’s beloved maximalist darlings, I am simply the gum on their shoe—their homely sibling who never ends up making the family scrapbooks.
Not me during NYFW.
Video: Getty Images
At first, I took this refusal to peacock personally. Am I a terrible dresser? Am I ugly?! But I am not telling you this to give me a pity photograph this week. (Although, please do, because I simply live for the sound of a shutter going off.) I actually enjoy being sartorially shafted. Not because I’m a masochist, rather I love the drive that it gives me to do better.
