Pre and post the age of Mira Duma/Olivia Palermo/Julia Sarr Jamois permeating the walls of every single lust worthy Pinterest Board scattered across the web, I vaguely recall noticing signs – clandestine, if not purposely whispered intimations – that suggested that New York Fashion Week was lingering near and upon us in the same discreet manner that a dimly lit UFO might if were to make a brief appearance on a grassy plain somewhere in the Midwest.
But as quickly as those denim on leather on cashmere clad uber focused street style strutters could disappear back into wherever they came racing out of in the first place, the elusive production, in all of its unattainable grandeur, was dismantled in a manner that was as brisk as it was discouraging to the industry Outsider (“Outsider,” in this context, was decidedly meant to be written with a capital “O” and to be megaphoned if ever verbalized aloud) who couldn’t manage to comprehend that golden tickets were never going to become available via a magical chocolate factory…or even, like, on StubHub.
When I first attempted to onboard myself to the tenth planet [that is fashion], I was consistently advised that such a feat would be a task on par with assuming the position of a Greco Roman wrestling champ. Regaled with vague idioms about impenetrable walls and impossible growth beyond the retail sector alone, I lucidly recounted only two clear-cut facts in the frustratingly ambiguous haze that I perpetually encountered. Nepotism wouldn’t be an option because not only had I somehow failed to acquaint myself with a single soul in “corporate” (whatever that actually means, anyway) throughout the course of my life, but invariably, I wouldn’t be considered for anything without at least a Derek Lam internship (or six) listed somewhere immediately prior to tenth grade anyway. That said, I also knew that I had soaked up every element of clothing since my toddlerhood and that I was willing to work harder than I ever had before to prove my worth to anyone that would have me.
No one would have me.
When NoteBrooke was conceived, I had little to no idea that the blogosphere, save for, like, Sincerely Jules, worked so closely in tandem with the fashion industry. Shortly after the time in which I initially met my photographer, Alex, the Spring 2016 shows were closely upon us, and she casually questioned me about which ones I was scheduled to attend.
Go to a show? How? Why? And WHO would want me at their acclaimed, insider laden production? True, I’d experienced a mild degree of positive feedback in the way of sharing my personal style posts online, but I never really believed that my passion would equate to any measure of tangible success or liquidity. Alex, in her ever diplomatic but wholly practical manner, suggested that I merely reach out to the requisite PR departments of presenting designers and…ask.
So I did. And I heard back. And I got invitations and seating assignments. What’s more, immediately prior to the shows, street style photographers snapped my looks, and I realized, that I, too, had become one of those denim on leather on cashmere clad uber focused strutters outside of Moynihan Station.
But here’s the thing: as I’ve progressed, attending fittings, pulling items from showrooms, and Snap Chatting from my [sometimes] front row seats, I still find myself silently shrieking: “There’s been a huge mistake here, people! This seat is reserved for someone important, for someone who’s able to intellectualize every single garment that she sees on a passing model and to explain why it’s Fall 2016. I’m just a girl who lives for the way an outfit can change one’s whole demeanor, one’s whole outlook on any given day.” And don’t get me wrong — I still have a LONG way to go. Even now, for instance, I have no concept of how girls get backstage at DVF, snapping Kendall and Gigi in their wrap dresses before running back to Tresemme to get freshly milk braided.
But I do get to see my work equate to something that I’ve always desired, so in a sense, I guess those golden tickets really do exist.