…three years ago, my own ghost came in the form of a bearded, tatted up man with stick legs and Prada boots. A fashion dude. He was a handsome nobody—anonymous and available, occupying but a few short rows of a Google image search query. He traveled the circuit—Milan, Paris, London, New York—sitting side-by-side with those famous fashion bloggers, the It Girls, buyers from Bergdorfs, but nobody cared about him yet. He, like most normal people, slipped under the radar. He emailed me from London the first time he was shot for the Sartorialist, looking solemn and gray in front of a stone wall, blue coat belling around his narrow frame, hands crossed politely in front of him. “Don’t make fun of me,” he begged, as I sent him the choicer of the comments already swiftly developing beneath the image, delighting in the panty-dropping hysteria my sort-of-boyfriend was capable of causing.Click here to read more.
The following is my piece “A Suicidal Single Fashion Girl Valentine’s Day!” as seen on The Style Con:
Valentine’s Day. I hate it just as much as you do. You, that lonely dejected person reading this sentence through tears, staring at the glowing surface of your MacBook Pro while a damp film blurs your vision, your whole world a runny painting of absolute sadness. You, that depressed sack who sobs at the sight of heart-shaped boxes filled with cheap American chocolate wrapped in waxed paper. You, who cringe at the sight of hand-holders, bristle at love songs, long for an end. Singular. Lonely. You.
The girl standing outside can’t figure out how to work the intercom. I come in quickly, overriding her ineptitude for the sake of time, efficiency, and the fact it feels like 10 degrees in New York right now. Having easily seen the name of the client marked clearly on a button, I press with a gloved finger. Someone on the eighth floor lets us in, the door unlocking with a buzz. “You’re better at this than I am,” she says. Heaven help me.
Four tiny girls share a tiny elevator and disembark into a room already filled with so many models I force myself to not turn on my heel and leave immediately. After all, you can’t book work if don’t stick around. That’s part of the job. But fashion week castings are especially tedious, with lines not dissimilar to the ones you’ll find outside Apple before a product launch. Only the difference is that the people at the front of an iPhone 7 line, who have demonstrated patience and fortitude and motivation, will walk away with something. You could be the first one at a casting, wait for three hours, and still go home empty handed. Every casting is like a lottery ticket. Sometimes you win, most times you don’t.
The following is an excerpt from my piece “NYFW: A Guide for Creepy Pervs” as seen on The Style Con:
It’s New York Fashion Week casting season and you know what that means! Time to break up with that girl you’ve been dating! There’s no place quite like New York to live in the perpetual quest of the Bigger Better Deal, and no better time to capitalize on that dick-driven delusion quite like NYFW. Yes, this is a magical time in a magical place. On any given Sunday there is always someone richer, hotter, and younger than what you’ve currently got welded onto your ankle, chaffing your skin and annoying the shit out of you. NYFW, with its parade of 100-pound baby aliens, will make you regret every vaguely old, not entirely pretty chick you’ve liked over the last ten years, sending you weeping into your pillow at night over years of low standards. Love really is a beast of burden, especially when you’re trying to prove to all your dude friends that you’re the man in the Bang Department. That’s right. Bang Department.
The following is an excerpt from my piece “Gracie Van Gastel: From Nada to Prada” as seen on The Style Con:
In modeling, there are some girls who just start out getting it. Even in the most horribly lit,over-styled, makeup-caked test shoot taken in the bowels of some photo studio in the middle of anti-fashion hell, they manage to shine through against all odds, communicate their, I don’t know, model aura or something. I’ve seen these girls operate in real-time, and, say what you will about the talent required to model, it’s something to behold. These girls are the unicorns, the girls who, at ages as young as 14 years old, when most acne-riddled twerps are just freaking out about whether or not the shoes they wore to school were Popular Kid Approved, possess a transparency that took myself, as a model, over eight years to get, which, given the brevity of most modeling careers, is about seven years, eleven months, and thirteen days too long. But the unicorns… they’re the lucky ones. They’re like Harvard-bound dorks born understanding calculus. Only, you know, these are fashion babes destined for Vogue.
There’s no sign-in sheet. Which is bad, you know, because there’s already about forty-five girls here, all in roughly the same make and model: thin, tall, mostly blonde and usually Russian. A familiar hum of all-too-familiar conversations buzzes in between walls the color of radioactive tangerines. “It’s from Miami,” someone says. “What did you do last night?” asks another. “We’re not that young anymore!” quips a blonde on the couch, at least six years younger than myself. All the girls around her laugh in dumb chorus.
So many field trips as of late! I feel like the middleman for other websites now. Guess that’s a good thing? Head on over to Lady Clever, where I’ll be delivering two articles per week on various topics. We’ve got some backlog to work through, all of which you can find below.
We’ve got my predictions for Oscar hits and misses up right now. Click here to read.
Or you can read my piece “On the Sidelines: New York Fashion Week” by clicking here.
Or read this piece, “The $3000 Question,” where I lament not wanting to spend a month’s rent on a handbag.
Follow me on The Inside Source, a fashion and lifestyle blog, for trend updates, NYFW coverage, and other tasty little treats. Check out my fashion favorites on Instagram by clicking through the image above. And if you’re on Tumblr, remember to follows us. As always, I’ll still be running personal stories on Jenny B Loves you and Flip Collective.
A light rain falls on my new shirt, a silver leather thing with black lapels and a zipper up the back. I look like the inside of a very fashionable lunchbox. I change out of a pair of black horsehair loafers and into my new Balenciaga heels. They’ve been sitting in a box for the last month and a half since purchasing them, and if it weren’t for Lief supporting the idea of me being 6’4 and fancy tonight, it’d probably have been another year before they saw the outside of my closet.
“It’s a shit show,” he texts.
I walk down the street attempting a grace that I am strangely capable of in showrooms, modeling pants for international buyers who don’t give a shit about me. In real life it’s harder; no one’s paying me to look elegant or capable. The fact that I don’t fall over all night is a success story in itself.
A hovering mass of people wearing black encroaches upon the entrance, attacking from all angles. Everyone who’s anyone and everyone who’s no one is here, myself included. I’m freely willing to admit I have absolutely no business trying to get in. If it weren’t for Lief, I’d be at home, likely writing about the underground boxing match we went to last night and watching The Daily Show.
Lief’s standing outside, wearing a shredded denim Acne jacket and a baseball hat. He drank a 32-ounce margarita before he got here and I can tell he’s feeling rowdy already.
“What’s it looking like?”
Apparently the five people who were supposed to get us in tonight have all but vanished. So-and-so and this person and that person who does this and said that. Lief keeps looking at the shattered surface of his iPhone. “This is so annoying,” he says.
“I might have to get grimy to make this happen. I don’t want to get grimy,” he says.
“We’re here,” I insist. “Get fucking grimy.”
Fashion week after parties are designed to make you feel like a loser unless you’re actually supposed to be there. The whole act of trying to get into one seems sort of strange. For instance, I don’t try to crash random people’s birthday parties or weddings. And if anyone took issue with it and told me to fuck off, I’d totally understand. But at fashion week, you take your inflated sense of self-worth and imagine that’s currency. That and a pair of really expensive shoes and some good hair. Yes, you think, I might not have a ticket, and I might not be on the guest list, but I am list transcendental.
Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.
Lief and I stand in between two parked cars and assume the affectations of people who think they’re important but clearly are not. If you’re important, you’re inside. Lief groans. I cross my arms. We’re like personified eye-rolls and ho-hums. Lief starts launching into mini tirades about hookups and favors and “Don’t ask me for anything anymores.” I’ve never seen him this annoyed. I think it’s the margarita.
“If you’re on the list, get in the line,” some guy in a black suit repeats from the door. There’s a stronghold of resisters standing on the sidewalk. To get in the line, to barricade oneself between the venue and those horrible silver bars is an admission of defeat, a sacrifice of the little crumbs of ego we have left. On the sidewalk, we are still humans. In between parked cars, we still have power.
I can’t imagine what this whole scene looks like to the security detail. To them, it’s all very black and white: you’re on the list or you’re not, you have a ticket or you don’t. Still, they’re surrounded by cool kids with glittery pants and half-shaved heads, praying to the party gods for a sign of the gray, a glimmer of hope, a breaking of resistance.
The creative director of J.Crew walks past and per the dictates of their corporate culture – the way they interacted with the models like they were human beings, asked our names, looked us in the eyes when they spoke to us when we worked together last week – I say hello and kiss her on both cheeks. She’s with Garance Dore. They both disappear soon after because, well, they’re supposed to be here.
I feel like I’m on Titanic and someone keeps shouting “Women and children first! Women and children first!” and I’m the 75 year old man left to perish on the listing promenade.
Models come up and out of nowhere and slide straight through the crowd like eels, all bones and thin wisps of hair.
“They’ve got a ticket for us,” Lief says, still looking at his phone.
One ticket means one entrance. Lief instructs me to pretend I’m his girlfriend and we’ll probably be okay. Twenty minutes later, our ticket is delivered by Jake. And just as we move off of the sidewalk and into the line for hard tickets, they close down admission. Everything grinds to a halt.
We stand. And wait. And feel a little less loser-y, but we’re still not inside. We’ve been waiting for over an hour.
I’m standing next to some emaciated, French male model version of Robert Pattison and his entourage of cigarette-smoking hip kids when a bass line thuds from inside.
“Is that…” Lief’s ears perk up. White light flickers from the windows of the building onto the façade of the one across the street. “Is that Die Antwoord?”
Now I’m starting to get annoyed. I can hear Yolandi rap on the mic, her voice screeching through the air like a rat caught in a trap. This is just salt in the wound. Everything about this is getting embarrassing – this need to get into a party and dance around strangers, this need to get dressed up and wear shoes that are now making my calves numb. The problem is that when it works, it’s fun. You’ve won some sweet, stupid, superficial victory based on nothing.
The line starts moving again, two by two. They’re only taking hard tickets now, no guest list. Finally Lief and I arrive at a man in a gray suit. “One ticket, one entrance,” he reminds us. We tell him we’ve got a name on the guest list, one we’d been given along with the hard ticket so we could get in. “Sorry,” he says, “we’re not taking the guest list anymore.”
Only one of us is getting in right now. This is like Guest List Gladiator. The man watches on, his eyes relaying zero sympathy or heartfelt desire to keep the team together. Rules are rules. Hard tickets only.
Lief says he’ll wait.
I push the ticket in his hand.
“Don’t do this to me,” he says. “I’m not going to go in.”
“I’m not going to go in either.”
The man continues to watch us argue over who is going to sacrifice the last hour and a half of their life for zero reward and lots of wasted dignity. This is like Sophie’s Fucking Choice right now.
I push the ticket into Lief’s jean jacket. “I’m leaving. You stay.”
And then I walk away, down the street in my Balenciaga heels and my silver shirt, the rain falling lightly again but not enough for an umbrella. There I am, alone in the Financial District: Jenny Bahn, party martyr.