I Died at Marchesa. Literally.
On Wednesday afternoon on a quiet Chelsea block, a bunch of people who don’t wait in line waited in line. As they inwardly pondered life’s biggest question, “am I important enough to cut to the front?,” (Elle‘s Robbie Myers had her answer: yes) they outwardly declared war on waiting. Finally, editors, buyers, and stylists found neutral territory on one topic: standing outside Marchesa’s presentation on a sun-soaked early fall day was, indeed, the apocalypse.
To their credit, it was actually a very long line–thirty minutes, which can create some very annoying problems for those on tight show schedules. But those who exhausted their emotional reserves complaining might’ve regretted it soon after. Immediately upon entrance, onlookers were confronted by a gown whose diameter measured no less than 12 feet, and which drew audible gasps from a very crowded crowd. From then on, Marchesa’s spring collection was a true tour de force, a voyage through the Orient that at times seemed to require as much energy to absorb as a real expedition does to travel.
