Guy Trebay writes about fashion, but really about much more. Here he is describing the hippest fashion party of the week at Rem Koolhas’s Prada Epicenter in New York.
The party attracted the usual mobs of glamorous young women who spend five hours getting ready for an evening with their boyfriends, who look like they just rolled out of bed.
It has often been pointed out that women dress not for men but for other women, and there is no better laboratory for testing out this theory than Fashion Week. “It’s so amazing what people will do for free booze,” remarked one young partygoer, as she brand-checked all the gorgeous leggy and waxed and manicured and Fekkai-coiffed and Louboutin-shod women sipping negronis while avoiding the waiters carrying lobster with cocktail sauce served on individual spoons.
As these lovelies picked their way down Rem Koolhaas’s vertiginous stairs, they called to mind some herd of incredibly rare equines navigating a rocky pass in the Hindu Kush. Sloping behind came their dates in Prps jeans and Rogan T-shirts, unshaved and scruffy, as dopey-looking as pack horses and with the droopy-eyed stoner expression that the photographer Terry Richardson has helped make a fashionable cliché.