Gild or Guile: new york fashion week part ii
I am writing this long after it should have been written, but sometimes looking at things in retrospect, after the experience has had time to simmer, gifts a perspective you wouldn't otherwise be in a position to share.
Nostalgia is no joke. Nostalgia spares nothing and no one. Despite the cold, the hunger, the bitter bouts of disappointment, I find myself looking back on those days in early February with a certain fondness that circles back on hotel moments, such as frantically washing down a complementary chocolate chip muffin with black coffee, or attempting to console nerves with creamy oatmeal, the stuff of my breakfast dreams. I recall the elevator trips downstairs to fetch hot water for tea. Walking past people and mirrors in my Times Square hotel, and being reminded of the space I occupied...this, the city I constantly miss, and there I was, inside it.
What I found in my brief experience of traveling, is that my memory favors the moments in translation: navigating airports, trains, hotel spaces, streets... In such moments, I often become conscious that a combination of awareness and contentment settles in my bones, and I walk through crowds feeling heightened and alive. I am present. At last, time, the same construct which routinely haunts, evades, and elicits the insomnia out of me, appears on my side. And it is precisely these blank, arbitrary, pendulum moments which linger in my mind. Perhaps, because I think about them as they occur. Maybe a thought is all it takes to commit that moment to memory.
Those few fashion week days, distinctly separated from the now with a sequence of events weighing more heavily than the space it occupies on the calendar might otherwise suggest, have crystallized into something to cherish.
I hope you will forgive me for not elaborating on Soho, Laduree, and the Dominique Ansel Bakery (an example of when time was not on my side, for the infamous cronut sold out the day I paid its birthplace a visit...although the Nutella brioche I had in its place certainly eased the crush of disappointment). For not telling you in greater detail about star, moon, and sun dresses on display at the FIT Museum's Fairy Tale fashion exhibition, or about the Rodarte mermaid gown that I swear emerged from within my deep sea dreams. Or about too much else, really, but I am under sleep's spell, and I hope that this silence on my part will let the photos speak for themselves.