New York's semi-annual fashion week is upon us once again. I'm a veritable kid, giddy as hell, in a giant designer candy store and it's all on account of the new Fall 2002 lines. Fashion is like a drug and as the week spins to a close I am beginning to go through withdrawal. Naturally, now that it's over, I feel filthy and used up like a cheap hooker. When former model and current Baby Phat designer Kimora Lee Simmons sashays by you in all her apparent beauty and celeb stylist Phillip Bloch asks you if he can "pretty please" go backstage to visit his model buddies, you just can't help but fall victim to the thinly-veiled fabulousness of it all. Yes, I, Alexa Camp, am a fashion victim—capital F, capital V.

After last season's abruptly curtailed shows, Fashion Week is back with a vengeance and taking over all of Manhattan with tents in Bryant Park, random select venues, smaller spaces at the Puck Building in Soho and even tinier private designer showrooms. It was a dark stormy Sunday night—or was that part of the brilliant French designer's plan? Catherine Malandrino's Wild Wild West-inspired show in the oh-so-raw meat-packing district was only missing the occasional tumbleweed. Twangy blues blared in the background as Madame Malandrino sent model after model down a dusty, winding runway wearing ruched, low-waisted, to-die-for pants, delicate dresses and a wide array of blouses and splendid appliqued coats. Big-up to Bobbi Brown who smudges eyes like no other make-up artist can. The tangled, up-swept hair (made possible by a plethora of multi-hued hair extensions) made these gals look like they'd been working on the ranch but had cleaned up just in time to make it to Sheriff Malandrino's glam ho-down. (Oh and we missed you Tara Reid! Was it the rain that kept you away? Your seat did not go to waste, however—a few wannabe somebodies from NYU were waiting and willing to be seat-fillers!)

The following day I made it to the 7th Avenue showroom event of the Queen of Elegance herself, Carolina Herrara. The elite audience (Andre Leon Talley, Ingrid Sischy, Hal Rubenstein, Robert Verdi and the ubiquitous Pat Fields, just to name a few) crowded in and out of the stiff cold air to behold the Venezuelan's timeless upscale collection. The designer's neatly tailored suits topped with gold sprinkles were as edible as your momma's homemade cupcakes. Ms. Herrara, obviously lovin' lame this season, sent silver pants, jackets and coats down the catwalk to liven things up. Though plaids mixed with floral prints scarred my retinas beyond repair, separately these pieces were exquisite. But nothing beats what Herrera does best: evening gowns. Her dresses epitomize sex, er, sexiness with plunging v-necklines and elegantly concealed red accents.

Judging from his dirgy, post-apocalyptic exhibition, it seems designer Rick Owens is aiming to bring back Seattle grunge. His earthtone knits are masterful works of art but when placed on lanky females who can barely hold down a saltine they simply resemble jumbled messes. Owens himself doesn't look like your "typical designer"—he's a cross between a rocker's stagehand and a CBGB amateur showcase hopeful (perhaps that explains A&R guru Guy Oseary's attendance). Mind you, Owens has been in the business for only half a decade and yet he drapes and deconstructs knits like no other. The all-too-brief event left me wanting more. Oh Ricky, word of advice: shorten the dresses or teach your models how to walk in your boots. One of the many blond waifs stumbled in one of your sinuous creations and broke out in an embarrassed smile. And I thought models only had one facial setting! (On a personal note, can I just lament for a moment on how cute hairdresser Eugene Souleiman was in his Charlie Brown t-shirt? Fashion week or not, he can Vidal my Sassoon any week of the year!)

Of course, your dear Alexa couldn't make it to every last show—I do have a clientele that must be kept looking their absolute best—but from what I hear, our dearest Alice in Fashionland, Ms. Alice Roi, traded in her pilgrim/Amish themes for doily hats this season! In a collection that reeked of dominant reality and Ferragamo flats, she continues to win the respect of her peers (not like she needs it, or cares). But personally, I yearn for an edgier Alice. Sean "Pappa Doodle-Doo" Combs's "Sean John" show, held at Cipriani's 42nd St., opened the door to a paparazzi's dream that included a slew of musicians (Anthony Kiedis, Kelis, Fabolous, Jermaine Dupri, Usher and Tyrese), Hollywood's, um, finest (Mark Consuelos and Kelly Ripa) and fashion's elite (including Vogue vixen Anna Wintour, with her two adorable children in tow). Even C-lister Tara Reid showed up for the men's collection. P. Diddy apparently spared no expense—a whopping one million dollars to stage the 30-minute event! Despite the fact that the multi-talented mogul did away with ghetto-chic and made way for the world of gentlemen, something was missing. Perhaps it was the fit of the suits, which seemed unbearably uncomfortable on what might just be the hottest hand-picked models in menswear.

The house that Hugo Boss built, headed by the Austrian czar Werner Baldessarini and the ever-so-talented creative director Lothar Reiff, brought a tear to my mascara'd eye with their sparkling, dramatically lit Valentine's Day showcase. In the Theater tent at Bryant Park, the Boss collection was a direct dedication to the quintessential cosmopolitan man and woman. With a stunning flow of texture and color, the line paid loving attention to the natural contours of the human body. A fantabulously long silk skirt with centered front and back pleats was upstaged only by a creepy Johnny Depp lookalike. Models strutted their stuff in lux leathers, wools, cashmeres and velveteens with a monochromatic theme that was both sexy and smart. And as always, it's good to see that this had no direct impact on Pat Field's sense of style, strolling in fashionably late dressed in a black turban with lime green pants and shoes. Somebody please give her a Crayola set!

The folks at Boss handed out white roses and chocolates with "Hugo Boss" inscribed in gold lettering to all the poor, poor souls who had to "work" on Valentine's Day. On my way to the fab afterparty, some guy in his sanitation truck (street-sweeping rules were in effect that day) asked me: "Where's your red?" Ba hum-bug! (I was wearing all black, which is the New Pink, a color that recently retired its honor of being the New Gray.) Who made up this holiday anyway? The card, flower and chocolate industries—not to mention the lingerie industry—all banded together in a major plot to take our money. Oh, and we can't forget the red industry. Yes, the color red, sick of sharing Christmas with green, decided it wanted its very own day. For Christ's sake, Valentine's Day is named after some schmuck, St. Valentine of Rome (not to be confused with St. Valentino of Rome), who was beheaded way too long ago to care because he refused to denounce his Christian faith. I ask you, what the hell does that have to do with sexy bras?

Bitter, party of one? Your table is ready.

Alexa Camp
© slant magazine, 2002.

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