Fashion Week in New York City used to be the shit. As a New Yorker who was torturously close to the scene of gathered opulence, there was always the deep-seeded envy that was harbored for the decked-out elite, that comprised of the usual suspects, converging at Bryant Park, before it was switched to Lincoln Center.
But lately, the annual runway extravaganza has become a roving circus act for restless designers, who are desperate to explore ways to restore the glory of a wilted tradition.
Needless to say, the fashion and beauty industry have become caricatures of what they used to represent to avid consumers, who paid close attention to the forecast by trendsetters, relying on the genius of masterminds to assist in maintaining a sense of reverence around distributed products that earned the right to cost a fortune.
Back in the day, thick fashion magazines didn’t just contain provoking editorials that took readers on a trip around the world, there was also the collage of models, modeling accessories and attractively assembled pieces that served as the compass for the future.
The appetizing platter made a splash and then disappeared until the battle of the runways commenced months later.
