Anti-Social Diaries, No. 1: NYFW

Roughly three years ago, I received an assignment to cover New York Fashion Week. I was excited to perform a new literary duty, but I quickly learned the limitations of that outlet’s prowess when sourcing credentials for autonomous designer shows. The only show for which I received a pass was a queer collaborative annual at The Brooklyn Museum. There is a photo of me, front row, in my sock garter and heeled brogues era, wondering how the hell I was going to get it up for my subject. When the editor doubled down on expectations that reality under-championed, I ghosted.

Now, now. Don’t look at me like that.

After editing The New Lesbian Pulp, I know a thing or two about writers and ghosting. With time, one gets better at being self-serving.

I am writing about fashion today because the things that touch our skin matter -- people, fabrics, weaves, patterns, styles, tastes. Previously, things got in the way of attesting to the existence of aesthetic intimacy.

New York City has been snowed under for pushing a month. New York Fashion Week has never been more irrelevant to the city’s actual fabric. During this stretch, I have spent the bulk of my time trying to figure out how to get my dog, who endures most weather with aplomb, outside. (I also spent a lot of time, like Hellgate, wondering why people have “given up” on picking up after their dogs. I have a theory that this erosion started much earlier: when people “gave up” on tying their dog’s poop bags, inconveniencing many a super sifting through the day’s refuse).

Before I knew it, I’d regressed into the workwear that has always weaseled into my wardrobe even when I’m lusting after a designer investment. I am country and this is my fatal flaw: an insistence on femme inclusion in the utilitarian, at all costs.

The only NYFW staple I’ve paid much attention to lands in my inbox the day after the runway presentation, anyway: Kallmeyer. Daniella really and truly understands the assignment when it comes to suiting. It is thrilling to be living through an era where film noir is a bonafide aesthetic option again. Not Dynasty glam. Femme fatale opulence. Bacall dominated the 1940s; Stone, the 1990s.

There is a photo of her at an indie film festival from this time. I recall running across it in my early twenties and feeling jipped that I’d missed that sartorial moment. The Armani oligarchy of it all.

Then Kallmeyer came along and I snapped up a skirt suit, a blouse that can do everything, a tie (!!!), and whatever else was going for peanuts on the Japanese consignment sites. Kallmeyer is very big in Japan.

There’s another woman designer I am into for similar reasons, unrelated to NYFW happenings: the late, great Liz Claiborne. She’s practically Zara for sixtysomethings now, but the broad behind the brand was a damned good designer and snappy innovator: women’s separates exist because of this petite immigrant genius. Some of her designs from the 1970s, 80s, and 90s are still going strong on consignment: especially the Liz Sport line. Rayons, cottons, silks, wools. Good materials to boot.

Claiborne also donated her wealth to preserving ecological systems, including those on Fire Island.

We’re due another blizzard this weekend and I’m still schlepping about in my Dickie’s coveralls and antique sherpa coat like some sort of Tibetan field hand. But under it all is a pair of underwear by Kallmeyer that is preserving my dignity through this choice I made years ago -- living and working in New York City. They are back in stock in both black and white. If you or a beloved ice queen needs a proper hug, these are a good place to start. Alternatively, demand that a person with generational wealth buy you a pair.