Gawker editor Emily Gould joined forces with Gawker photographer Nikola Tamindzic for the first time ever — that's right, that is just how good Emily is at getting out of doing the "hard part" of her job — for Sunday's Tracy Reese show. After the jump, Emily divulges the gory details of her virgin voyage into fashion's hellmouth (turns out, she has something in common with models after all: she trips and falls on the runway, too!)
I was very excited to go behind the scenes of Mercedes Benz Fashion Week (I think we are legally obligated to call it that?) because, as you may have guessed, my previous work experience (in order: lifeguard, hostess, shot girl, cocktail waitress, waitress, mermaid, movie extra, editorial assistant, assistant editor, associate editor) had not included any brushes with The Fashion Industry. Actually, wait. Once in between movie extra and editorial assistant, I was temping, and one of my temp placements was in a showroom of one of those fashion brands that make slut clothes for tweens. In my weeklong receptionisting stint there, I came to the conclusion that fashion people are pushy, dumb, judgmental bitches who drink far too much Diet Coke. Was this just a vicious and dated stereotype? The Tracy Reese show was my chance to find out.
I began my investigation by asking random questions of whoever was standing around me in the clusterfucky horde waiting to get into the show. When I told Elizabeth Wellington, who writes about fashion for the Philadelphia Inquirer, where I worked, she immediately became very concerned that I would write about something I'd "overheard" her saying. Lucky for Elizabeth, while she had been saying whatever scandalous thing she'd been saying I had been distracted by these thoughts: " I can't believe I was photographed by Japanese people on my way into the tents. They even asked me what I was wearing! They probably do that to everyone. But still! I hope I wasn't doing the weird pained smile I always do. Hmm, probably was. Maybe this will somehow lead to me becoming enormously famous in Japan, like Tinsley Mortimer! Hi Mom!" Anyway, Elizabeth, your secrets are safe. I asked Elizabeth what I should be expecting from Tracy Reese. She started to tell me about clothes (I believe the words "feminine and pretty" were involved) but I made it clear that I really only cared about what "celebrities" would be at the show. I did actually make air quotes, because that is the kind of celebrity I am interested in. Elizabeth squinched up her face and thought about it. "The audience for Tracy Reese tends to be, like, the black glitterati of New York," she eventually concluded.
"Like . . . Russell Simmons and Kimora Lee?"
"No . . ."
"Like Damon Dash and Rachel Roy?"
"Hmm . . no, probably not."
"Like . . . Spike Lee's wife?" I felt myself becoming perilously close to running out of black glitterati whose names I know.
"Nahh . . . more like socialites. Like that really tall black woman who's on the cover of Town and Country."
I nodded sagely, and contemplated asking Elizabeth about whether or not Genevieve Jones still existed. Luckily, that was when the herd began moving. The doors had opened! The high-heeled masses began clippety-clopping in towards their seats. Even though I had never before penetrated this inner sanctum of fashioniness, I felt completely in my element — the surroundings were familiar to me from watching every episode of Project Runway ever. I strode purposefully toward my seat in row F. I was doing really well so far! Unfortunately, I strode so purposefully that I tripped over my own feet and did a spectacular almost-faceplant onto the runway. My heart filled with sympathy for models and I got up as quickly as possible, playing it off like it was something I'd meant to do (falling = the new hotness!). Then I tried to walk away from the scene of the fall speedily so that no one would notice. This was tough because I was surrounded on all sides by a really slow-moving crowd. A tall, expensively dressed black woman (a member of the glitterati?) patted my shoulder reassuringly. "That was really impressive, how fast you got up." She seemed to be being sincere. I smiled gratefully and limped off to take my seat.
I guess there were some clothes. Everyone seemed to pretty much like them. There was a funny moment when everyone was whispering about whether a bald, very dark-skinned model was or was not Alek Wek (conclusion: Fauxlek). I spent most of my time ogling the people seated in the front row, who included Proj Run's Angela Keslar and Tim Gunn (not near each other at all), and Alicia Keys, who was flanked by bodyguards and didn't remove her sunglasses for the duration of the show. Also in the front row I saw that ruddy guy with painted-on eyebrows (he's a fashion critic or maybe he's on a lot of talking heads shows?) nodding out from time to time, which was funny to watch. On my way out I also saw Michelle from Destiny's Child. I didn't fall again, but I have a nasty scrape on my right knee. I would say something cute like "that and the goody bag are my only souvenirs of the experience," but I actually forgot the goody bag in my eagerness to depart. Too bad, because I was really looking forward to affixing some 'bling' to my phone (there was a kit).