I hate it because I’m too cool not to. Back when living in New York meant something — my editorial dream was to conquer the fashion world through my words.
I stupidly believed that I could actually work at Vogue — by slithering my flexibly thin frame into designer gems — while probing for the scoop that only lucky ingenues can garner.
I soon realized that those high brow assignments are stylized for Candice Bergen’s daughter — and the elite few who are probably dying of laughter when they peep how the lower rate folks like me — dream the unimaginable.
No worries — luckily my radar’s malfunction isn’t unsalvageable.
Once I came back to earth — I realized that I was in fact not out of the loop. I had been trying too hard to be a part of something that really isn’t worth shit. It stinks like shit so why would you want to get all up in it?
I did for a bit but not enough to need a shower. I actually did attend fashion week for the first time in 2012.
It was being staged by the global offshoot that was suppose to be Africa’s version to Vogue Magazine.
Arise Magazine Fashion Week was the first of its kind. It was supposed to be the launching pad for hidden talents in the Diaspora who needed a pathway to global recognition.
I attended while working under the banner of a much younger and more successful colleague who didn’t like the fact that I was obviously more intuitive with literary banter.
I escorted her to the preliminary staging the day before the big event. I was required to hold her iPad in strategic ways so she could flawlessly cover the backstage excitement.
Later on as we poured over the notes — it was clear that I would not be utilizing my version because her’s needed all the space she provided.
I said fuck that and fuck you and basically transformed my space into the playground that she discovered not by accident and promptly fired from a job that paid me nothing.
Yeah, it was that good.
The lessons learned in that time was that Black women are definitely threatened by other Black women who are just as good or better.
Also, fashion week is an overblown ride that takes us through incremental streams of potent snobbery that is seeped in blatant disregard for basic human adherence.
I mean, this institution was supposed to showcase the industry’s most revered rebels who relish the language of the deprived — by coding in the maps that can only lead to where very few dare to fathom.
The runways were supposed to overflow with bionic bodies — encased in coverings that can only be described by those who are tasked with such an empowered assignment of dutiful surrender.
The secretive habitat of workers behind the scenes — plotting, measuring and gasping with each ploy of the needle and thread — as the beads of the future encrust yet another garment of life and memory.
The mystery has been replaced with social media whores dressed for traffic.
Figurines with bloated lips and breasts that disorganize the message. A slew of offsprings that were born for greatness and are now reclaiming the birthright that may or may not need their assistance.
But, never mind — numbers and unforgivable allowances zero out the debt that accumulates when you fail to prove your worth.
Gone are the days of excited discovery. The girl with the twirl who is happy to be cashing her check from the diner across the street. The line is long enough to catch her in the gaze of a scout who almost gave up until…
Those stories are as old as my graying temples.
The numbers never lie but they should because the truth is way more devastating. The industry at large is decaying under the virus of infested bloggers who care nothing at all about fashion except the part where they get to look like they do.
The over bloated celebs who have been tricked into believing that their bland and uninspiring contribution earns them an audience that is too wired to reject their mismatched fare.
The models who don’t look the part but are paid enough to think that they do.
The editors who accept the bullshit because they have to.
And the designers who loath what they’ve become but pretend to love it because they refuse to get stuck in traffic — indefinitely.
Fashion week is the biggest and most expensive joke ever implemented.
From New York to Milan — the parade of robots posing for the flashlights of chaos and mayhem replicate the mess from prior years so astutely — it’s almost creepily coherent.
This isn’t a bitter cry for justice. This is the absolute translation of how something so dope became the manifestation of everything I swore against — before I understood and witnessed the inevitable ruins.
I hate fashion week with a passion. Can you tell?