I Ate My Heart Out at Brandon Maxwell

I had my first NYFW date with Brandon Maxwell yesterday, and I think things are getting serious.

I’ll tell you the whole story.

I step out of my painfully expensive Uber (the train was not an option with the shoes I was wearing) from Brooklyn into a crowd of completely uninterested photographers. They do not care if I live or die, and that is correct because I do not look good. The only good thing about the way I look is the Brandon Maxwell dress I was loaned, but it’s covered by my jacket because I’m cold. My hair is abysmal—I didn’t bring any hair tools with me to New York, so it’s flat but somehow also chaotic. I convince myself that this is actually chic and something a model would do. I’m lying to myself. I am genuinely relieved that I am completely invisible to the photographers as I waddle up the stairs and step into the world of Brandon Maxwell.

When I arrive at my seat, I stand there nervously for about five minutes trying to figure out how to swing my legs over to the other side of the bench, to face towards the fashion show. Remind you, I’m wearing a gorgeous floor-length body-con Brandon Maxwell dress and giant high heels, so there was no way this was going to go down elegantly. It blew my tiny Front Row Virgin mind to realize that I’m actually supposed to simply sit down and face the other direction, because the runway goes all the way around. It’s less of a stage, more of a runway. Learning this actually created a new neutral pathway in my brain.

As I go to sit down with my big juicy mind, I notice that there’s a decorative silver heart-shaped package on the seat, which I interpret as a bizarre, small, and uncomfortable seat cushion. It’s fashion after all; if you’re comfortable, you’re doing it wrong, sweetie. I sit on the heart for a good amount of time before I hear the person next to me talking to her friend across the runway about what a cute touch the Valentine’s Day chocolates are. It dawns on me. This is not a bad seat cushion. This is a Valentine’s Day gift from the designer to his guests. And I’m the mayor of Clown Town.

Knowing that I had to write this article had me feeling less like a fashionista and more like a journalist. I was desperate for the story. I take it all in—I’m in a carpeted warehouse (“cold on top, warm on the bottom” is a real note I took on my phone) surrounded by insanely good-looking, well-dressed people. I expected people to look good, but damn, this was next-level! I was shopping with my eyes. I need to buy 1,000 new things to be a woman operating in the fashion world. And the show hasn’t even started yet!

The lights dim. Arcade Fire plays. The girls come out. And one by one, they take my breath away.

I need every single one of these looks in my closet yesterday. Each one would have me looking like the coolest girl in New York. I would never have to take them off! They would take you from day to night and back to day again. The classic neutral colors and fresh takes on timeless silhouettes and lines had my heart. The through line of the silver sparkly clusters added such a fun and exciting touch to the endlessly chic pieces.

Is there a word for when the models all come out and walk together at the end? I loved that part. Seeing them all smiling and laughing together put me at ease. It can be frightening to see a model in real life…

When the atelier workers walked at the very end, I got emotional, and that is something I need to sit with. I think it was because I remembered how much work and heart goes into a production like this, and how lucky I am to just fly in, sit on my chocolate, and enjoy the final product in the blink of an eye.

And just like that, the show was over. I head back outside, past the photographers, and back into an Uber. On my way home, I ordered a hair drier brush and ate my box of chocolates. Best Valentine’s Day ever.