I Skipped NYFW

You never forget your first fashion week.

Mine was February 2009, back when NYFW was still at Bryant Park. I was working for Hearst and assigned to cover all the shows that people further up the ladder were too busy to attend. I remember thinking to myself, 'Thanks, but how could you possibly be too busy for this? What could be more important than attending the Prabal Gurung show?'

I stood in the freezing New York weather wearing three pairs of tights under $2,000 pants with the tag still in tact so I could return them to Intermix the next day. I waited in line for 50 minutes with 200 of the grumpiest people I'd ever encountered before I was finally allowed entry. From my second row seat, I spotted a sunglasses-clad Anna Wintour chatting with important people who back then I didn't recognize (I now know Kate White when I see her), while checking my pants every few minutes to make sure the tag hadn't popped out. I thought that I was the only person who was happy to be there until a New York Magazine editor I'd befriended assured me, "Trust me, everyone is happy to be here."

It was a miserable experience. The lines and crowds. The weather and traffic. The pushing and shoving. The seat stealing and swag bag swiping. I thought maybe it was only awful because I was so lowly. Seventeen NYFWs later, I promise you, the view is not any better from the front row. New York Fashion Week is not fun. It is work.

So why do we go?

A few years ago, the answer to that question was so simple: we were there for the love of fashion. Not love-- obsession, or even deeper than that. We went for the clothes, to have our souls fed by new art collections sweeping down the runways. Fashion week was about fashion then.

At least a dozen influencers I follow on Instagram went all the way to New York for fashion week and didn't post a photo of one singe show. Perhaps because the collections didn't match their feeds, perhaps because they weren't actually invited to any shows, perhaps because they're more concerned about promoting themselves than supporting a designer's creativity.

NYFW used to be Mecca. It used to be church. It was the greatest show on Earth. There were crowds and crashers, but they were students of fashion, disciples. We didn't go to spot a celeb or take photos for our blogs, or to be photographed at all. People where there because they were obsessed with fashion. We were all groupies.

The problem is social media. And selfies. And reality stars. NYFW has become inundated with pop culture that the actual culture has been drowned out, or in some cases, chased away. Some of the greatest American designers have moved their presentations and parties out of LA, and many front row fixtures no longer grace the event with their presence.

Here's the thing: I love pop culture. I'm an influencer; it's basically 80% of my life. But NYFW is not about selfies, OOTDs or Kylie Jenner. NYFW is about fashion. And fashion is not pop culture. Fashion is art, and art is not supposed to be cool or pretty or instagrammable (though it can be all those things). Art is supposed to make you feel something. It's supposed to make you think, to make you cry, even.

All I feel at fashion week now is the pain in my stiletto-clad feet.

The truth is, I skipped fashion week because with the snowstorm and all, it was impossible to get a flight out until later in the week, and by the time I got there, I was more interested in meeting new friends at Spring Place than standing in line downstairs at the studio. Because NYFW was meant to feed the soul with all that fashion embodies: art, history, culture and more. And while you won't find much of that at the cattle-calls that pass for fashion week parties these days, you can still find it on every street in Manhattan, no matter what week it is.