at is never going to be the new black. The skinny from the Olympus Fashion Week Spring 2007 shows boils down to everyone being, well, ridiculously skinny. Blame my newly lasex-ed eyes, but the clear style movement spotted on and off the runway this season included a horde of sickly skeletal Betties, made uglier by a sea of black tights, skinny jeans, and three-inch patent leather platform pumps. Herman Munster, eat your heart out! (Note to Justin: Thank you for trying to bring sexy back, but it's not working. Help!) Just look at what's happening in Madrid. Their fashion week organizers have placed a ban on emaciated looking models. So, maybe the Spanish capital isn't home to one of the big four fashion events (that would be London, Paris, Milan, and, of course, New York), but at least someone is finally taking responsibility for how these skin-and-bone images affect teenage girls. Isn't admitting you have a problem the first step in any addiction program? (Personally, I wouldn't know. The only 12 steps I've ever taken are straight to the liquor store.) The good news is that another trend, volume, will help hide the abundant starvation. Say good-bye to heroin chic and hello to all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions, on a sesame seed bun.






Paying homage to Perry Ellis, newly appointed creative director John Crocco went the Nantucket prepster route with stark neutral shades that emanated an early '60s vibe. Despite the fact that the majority of the pieces were extremely elegant, I think it was the helium pants and short shorts that did me in. Cia.Maritima and Gottex, though, twisted the knife and sent me six feet under. Cia's Benny Rosset takes credit for demonstrating how even 90-pound models can have cellulite. While the Brazilian maillot maker's creations oozed buckets full o' sexiness, especially on Czech beauty Karolina Kurkova, it was too contrived. Leaving the Promenade tent, I spied a fabulous looking Courteney Cox-Arquette coolly posing for photogs. She HAWT! At Gottex, headed up by Gideon Oberson, I knew I was doomed upon first inspection of the run-of-show. There were over 70 tired looks listed and the inspiration read: "I experimented with details of men's tailoring such as shirt collars and ties…" Oy! The swimwear house is celebrating its 50th anniversary and, believe me, it showed. How could bathing suits and bikinis go sarong? Later, the excitement at Baby Phat (pictured above, 1) more than made up for the weak start to my week. It was usual hoochie-mama fare, grills and all, but everyone Sopranos and hip-hop was on tap for the ghetto opulence, including Lorraine Bracco, Jamie-Lynn Sigler, newly released jailbird Lil' Kim, Farnsworth Bentley (whose performance on Fashion Rocks was embarrassing), video vixen Melyssa Ford (a popular subject over in the Slant forum), and music journalist Touré. The notoriously late non-event got off to a shaky start when 50 Cent, entourage and bodyguard in tow, got into a scuffle over a seating assignment. Ring the alarm! The rapper, who had been arrested earlier in the day for traffic offenses, no doubt had some pent-up anger to unleash. Anywho, it bothers me that hip-hop lines like Baby Phat, Sean John, and J. Lo continue to be all hype and no substance, much like their company heads. Do you remember when hip-hop meant something more than beef and bootie? I don't either.




Welcome to Bollywood! For his first ever procession in the tents, albeit the very small UPS tent, Sabyasachi Mukherjee offered up naughty librarian-esque ladies clad in traditional Indian hues, rich in red and gold (2). (The loveliest of them all being Slant favorite Cintia Dicker.) The Calcutta-based designer's exquisite frocks were trapeze-like and oftentimes paired with manly loafers. Post-show, I threw myself at Nigel Barker, "noted fashion photographer" and America's Next Top Model judge. His beauty up close is enough to make any warm-blooded woman sweat like a whore in church, which I know a little something about. All swooning aside, I pulled myself together enough for an impromptu chat. "I came here to support Sabyasachi. We're finally cracking into the Western market and it's fantastic," the half Sri Lankan fine-piece-of-ass said, referring to the number of shows at fashion week by ethnic designers. "The collection was like Prada meets Indian culture with a touch of Victorian," he added. Shit, I'll touch his Victorian any day. I hosed myself down and readied myself for my first off-site show of the week. Over at the Dylan Hotel, Nicky Hilton and DJ AM were among the many that patiently waited outside for what was to be a dormant spectacle. Charlotte Ronson continues to underwhelm me. Her glorified casual wear need not appear in a staged presentation with check-in crew and arranged seating. Thank God they served beer because there is no way I could have sat through that sober. Caution: Don't Drink and Herchcovitch! Still feeling buzzed, Alexandre Herchcovitch's dizzying kaleidoscopic concepts (3) were certainly not what the doctor ordered. The Russian dared us to go on a colorful safari with geometric prints used from the South African Ndebele tribe, but the journey didn't end there: military and punk motifs fused their way into the expedition. Like myself, Herchcovitch is similarly concerned with the malnourished clones robed in his designs. Why else would he accouter them with large Styrofoam rings? I'm sure he meant them as flotation devices so the gaunt things won't accidentally slide down the shower drain.




Following the example set by Sabyasachi the day before, traces of Indian construction appeared at Naeem Khan. Seated in the front row was House actress Lisa Edelstein, who I could picture in one of Khan's rose print cocktail dresses. An hour went by and sheer boredom led to three UPS brownies, making me a tad sick to my stomach. I was also a little queasy from the killer buildup for Rosa Cha (4). I mean, a runway show is a runway show is a runway show, right? But when Naomi Campbell, in all her ferocity, steps on scene—let's face it, your heart beats a bit faster. Unfortunately, Brazilian designer Amir Slama failed to book the diva, who was probably preoccupied with throwing phones at assistants and whatnot. Metal adornment, like those seen on models Tiiu Kuik and Caroline Ribeiro, rendered some of these swimsuits useless. Fear of rusting aside, Amir has your back (just make sure you wax the front). Tyson Beckford's mega-watt smile flashed my way, begging me to steal a word or two. He too was expecting a smoldering show. "The anticipation was strong and the bar was set last spring, especially with Naomi," said the yummy model. "From a man's perspective, I wanted less clothes, more sexy, and a stronger model presence." Oh, well, at least Tyson's workin' his new mohawk. [Editor's note: Alexa only interviews men she'd like to fuck.]




Cynthia Steffe wants you to think of Catherine Deneuve and Brigitte Bardot strolling along the Mediterranean. Sure to turn heads, her coquettish '60s-style numbers kept with the voluminous proportions already seen at the tents. Other expected looks came in the form of playful rompers, flowy tunics, and leg-baring shorts. At the New York Public Library, Jill Stuart debuted her menswear line (ho-hum) in tandem with her womenswear collection, which was heavy on corsetry and lace. A bony Kate Bosworth peered vacantly from her seat at the lingerie posing as daywear. Rumor has it she let the proverbial cat out of the bag by stating she had been paid to attend Stuart's show that day. Duh! Somebody get this girl a publicist…and some carbs. Heading over to Show, a venue name befitting Andrew Buckler's theatrical antics, I was transported into the film The Cell. Men in zombie-like states took the stage in insect motif tops and two-tone denim, only to be interrupted by a gaggle of hotties in their undies running in slow motion to the Chariots of Fire theme song. A cab ride later, I was at the Altman building for Rachel Comey. In search of a seat, my tight, tardy ass was scolded by the sunglassed witch herself, Kelly Cutrone. Not happy with the way she spoke to me, I shot her dirties until she did what I have never seen anyone else ever do at fashion week: she lit a cigarette right there. Bitch is gangsta! Other distractions came in the form of models wearing ugly black lipstick and popping out in groups of two or three. Some of them even appeared to be visibly bickering with each other over the runway configuration. Back at the tents for Pamella Roland, lady-like looks and lace bookended my day.




The French have this saying, "il faut souffrir pour etre belle," which loosely translates to, "A little pain and suffering is okay if you look fucking hot!" And I guess since The Daily News and The New York Times (I Bill Cunningham!) kept snapping shots of my various shoes and dresses all week, I should feel honored, but, sadly, I don't. What I feel is ready for this horse and pony show to be over. Speaking of shows DDCLAB designers Roberto Crivello and Savania Davies Keiller took me away from the park to the Nokia Theatre with a promise of a "Shiny Pretty Thing," according to the creepy invite. Since I was in such close proximity to MTV, I had hoped for a naked, greased up Nick Zano but all I got was Nick Canon...fully clothed. In an atypical turn from the trends seen already, DDCLAB focused on slim silhouettes with an urban (are Lee Press-On Nails urban enough for ya?), and sometimes Victorian, edge. Making good on their SPT pledge, one of the looks on a female model revealed barely an A-cup with wads of double-sided tape. There's nothing like nip at 10 o'clock in the morning. Later, at the Atelier tent in Bryant Park, I spotted showgirl Elizabeth Berkley just as the lights went dim for Chaiken. Speaking of loose, the neon-infused collection by Julie Chaiken and Jeff Mahshie offered (double)wide-legged trousers and spacious floor-length dresses. Making my way over to the Tent, I chanced upon a Mad Hatter tea-party setting. As always, the eternally capricious Betsey Johnson razzle-dazzled us. Gals in platform Mary Janes sporting Shirley Temple curls (hi, Cintia!) playfully pranced by in Little Bo Peep multi-tiered dresses (5) and Pin-Up Girl high-waisted jumpers. For the finale of the predominantly baby-doll bonanza, a beaming Betsey took the stage with her granddaughter Layla. For one brief second, I wondered how she was going to pull off her signature cartwheel with child in tow. Alas, handing over the munchkin to daughter Lulu, Betsey somersaulted straight into Patricia Field's arms.




Carmen Marc Valvo continues to abide by his oath of glamour. Putting last season's abomination behind him, CMV found his Old Hollywood screen siren footing. Too bad VW wasn't anywhere to be found. Drawing inspiration from Georgia O'Keefe's floral paintings, models in delicate origami-like petal gowns bloomed before my eyes. (Nonetheless, a radiant Cintia was the only perennial for us.) A few hours later, Mrs. Jack White, Karen Elson, was the first to walk the plank at Anna Sui's swash-bucklin' affair. (Elson was lookin' damn good for having just given birth to baby Scarlett in early May.) Marie Antoinette director Sofia Coppola and Vincent Gallo were witnesses to Anna's pirate, rock, French Revolution macrocosm (6). Warning: Napoleanic straw hats are not to be worn on the streets. Savey? Skipping the last couple shows in favor of the Diesel afterparty held at the architectural magnum opus known as Gotham Hall, I found myself in a teenage girl's wet dream with Seann William Scott, Jay Hernandez, and Ryan Cabrera crowded into the VIP area. Guests were abuzz over a James Brown performance, which was enough to make me head home…after a few drinks. I love me some open bra, err, bar.




Catherine Malandrino was in a New York state of mind, turning the Roseland Ballroom into a two-story scaffolding art installation, complete with pulsating strobe lights and a city soundtrack of car horns and construction power drills. Dubbed "Metropolis," the authoritatively sexy collection is sure to garner more than its share of catcalls. But I didn't know what was more jarring, Hamish Bowles, Vogue's European editor at large, seated in such close proximity to small children (what can I say? The man seems weird) or the multi-inspired looks: futuristic, ultra-obvious '80s redux with a hint of Yves Saint Laurent and a pinch of '60s. In the end, I think Hamish and the kids took the prize for AWKWARD. In spite of a few broad shouldered numbers a la Working Girl, Madame Malandrino, a recent guest judge on Project Runway, got me off and made it work.




Closing my week with his figurative exclamation points was Jeremy Scott. Our patience wearing real thin thanks to, but not limited to, the torrential downpour, I nearly came to blows with some blond Aussie who lacked a clear sense of personal space and, later, two line cutters (three rungs below seat stealers in the fashion evolutionary ladder). Once inside, we were all warm and fuzzy, kinda like Care Bears with automatic rifles. Scott flaunted his patriotism with Jarhead-esque creations consisting of mouse-ear helmets (7), a bullet-casings scarf, and an oversized dog tag. The Mount Rushmore bustier dress is where I draw the line. Or was the line drawn at the airplane propeller gown? Well, whatever. After the show I caught up with JC Chasez, whose new album is set to drop at the beginning of the year and the first single, titled "Until Yesterday," is slated for October. When asked what he thought of the exhibition, JC exclaimed, "Great! Scott had a lot of fun with it. I was wondering about the direction of it all until I saw the artillery. Those Care Bears threw me off!" Well said.

Here's the point in the column where I would bid you a fond farewell 'til next season, but who knows where the shows will wind up. That's right. Bryant Park Corp. basically wants 7th on Sixth to find a new catwalk space. Due to complaints from crabby New Yawkers about lawn space, the park can't accommodate the event, which has been held there since 1993. Where to? No one knows. Rumored options include Lincoln Center (ugh), the Jacob Javits Center (double ugh), and the Chelsea Piers (athletes foot ugh). Does this signal the end of Fashion Week as we know it? Not over Anna Wintour's cold, dead body! Tune in next season to find out.

Alexa Camp
© slant magazine, 2006.

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