Marc’s show begins at 7, which usually means it begins at 9.
Still, I have a weird suspicion that after the spectacle of last season’s lateness, Mr. Jacobs might actually start on his dot, so I rush with Quinn Asteak to the Armory at 6:45.
We did this last year – arriving fifteen minutes early – and last year, KCD’s Adam Shapiro gave us a sweet grin and said, “Why don’t you go get dinner and come back?” We went to Pax Whole Foods, saw Courtney Love, freaked out, ate yogurt, went back to the Armory, waited for another two hours.
This time, I wave to Adam at 6:50.
“You can come inside in five minutes,” he smiles, and I’m like, “Oh shit.” Quinn’s cab hasn’t even hit midtown yet. I run across the street; I buy Kit Kats. They help the anxiety.
Inside, it’s a rock arena – everyone’s wearing Sonic Youth t-shirts, passing out mini Moet bottles, m&ms, popcorn. Selma Blair is getting interviewed outside. Her haircut is… well, okay, it’s awful. She seems to have shaved the back of it but kept the bangs in front, a combo of Katie Holmes and Britney Spears. Thank goodness she’s such a good actress.
Victoria Beckham walks inside. Her skin is the color of a chemical peel; she is actually thinner than Lily Donaldson. I love her; I wave. She actually smiles. Whoa.
It is now 7:05 and Marc himself is doing a lap onstage, screaming “The show’s gonna start! It’s starting on time! Are you ready?”
The Armory is maybe half full.
At 7:15 the lights go down. The Armory is now 70% full. I have a seat but surrender it, perching instead on the staircase railing next to Scott Schuman. Kim Gordon sways through in a dress that maybe Sienna Miller bought from French Connection two years ago. She looks like Carine Roitfeld, but with a guitar. The audience screams – half for Kim, half because they’re stuck behind the bleachers, come too late, with security guards fending them off on every side. The only one allowed through is K-Fed.
I’m weirdly glued to the clothes: These outfits are like little mysteries – the girls are swathed in whites and creams, with braided silk sweatbands across their foreheads like marathon babes from Star Wars. Paul Revere hats cap some girls, Freja is mohawked.
One model has a see-through white bag over her face – it’s jarring, beautiful, annoying.
Kim Gordon is singing about surrendering money and materialism. $2000 purses whiz by on Vlada and Lily. We’re all in a champagne haze. “I’m either totally underwhelmed,” I start, “Or I think it’s America… I think this show is Marc’s America, like a Jasper John’s painting that’s really angry and seething, but still a merit of art.”
“I think,” answers Scott, “You have to be really tall to wear all of those pants.”
He’s sooo right. Anyone but Karen Elson might be totally hapless with some of this stuff, but Karen Elson is totally hapless in another way – she’s one of the people behind the bleachers, someone who came too late and totally missed the show.
We pass more of them on the way out: Sarah Sophie Flicker. The fashion editors at the Post. Socialites.
Outside, I find Quinn. “What did you think?” she asks.
“I don’t know yet,” I smile. “Right now, I don’t think I liked it, but tomorrow, I think it’ll catch light.”
We eat sushi, debate the possibilities of the Jeremy Scott party at Mansion. We finish dinner at 9:07.
You say you wanna revolution…