Images by Jenni Avins

When my friend Alistair asked me if the last show I attended was “fierce,” I was fairly certain he was making fun of me. But actually, it was, combining Old-World expertise, indulgent materials, outstanding taste and sheer gall into ferocious furs and gowns like only J. Mendel can.

Silver fox fur was sewn strip-by-strip onto a hooded vest with 24-carat gold thread. A glistening gunmetal cuff, with facets that might have been cut by a glacier, rendered a model’s delicate wrist a weapon. Yards and yards of storm-blue silk organza gathered in the front of a strapless gown like a static cloud of smoke.

So actually, Alistair, I’m so glad you asked, because J. Mendel’s F/W10 was indeed unabashedly fierce.

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Silver slippered, fur-coated and still rocking a Goyard at New York Fashion Week.

A lone gold stud bounced onto the runway, but the pirates never noticed. It could have come off any of their garments; they wore far too many riches to bother with a bullet-sized bit of bling. Byzantine scarves wrapped round their heads; their silk sleeves swung with heavy gems; and their torsos dripped with chains and charms. Beneath their buckle-laden boots, the gold stud rolled to a stop, but the pirates paraded on.

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If Jeremy Scott’s collections are like mad dance-party sets and Rachel Comey’s are free-form sonic landscapes, then Philip Lim’s 3.1 designs compose reliable hit albums. F/W10 was another crowd-pleaser with something for everyone—so long as you like disco. A purple sequined long sleeve dress looked perfect for dancing à la Diana Ross. Soft grey layers (like the merino poncho and drawstring track pants) would be luscious for curling up the next day with a love hangover, and a little black wild shearling jacket was a hit single with staying power to last through the seasons, come what may, acid wash and all.

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Images by Martin Machado

A Moroccan wind whispered across Sophie Theallet’s runway. A palm-green silk hood slipped off a model’s head to reveal a dusty rose-colored lining. Clover-shaped cutouts in shades of paprika, sand and black-on-black danced around models’ knees on skirts, tunics and a shearling coat. When the final look, a periwinkle gown with a peasant skirt emerged, the camera shutters clicked faster and faster until their sounds became a single patter. It sounded like a welcome rain beginning to fall in the desert.

Afterwards, Loulou de la Falaise, who famously influenced another French designer’s North African-tinged collections, listed her favorite elements: the brown and navy “froufy” dress, the tonal beiges, the wide red hems, the “kind of drapey” necks, the boots. She paused… “That’s quite a lot, isn’t it?”

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Loulou de la Falaise

Bibhu Mohapatra was having a Mussolini moment. Haunted music piped through a gallery where models, pale-faced and red-lipped, presided like glamorous ghosts from 1930s Europe. A chocolate leather harness fastened across a masculine loden green shirt; silver fox fur lined the hood of a coated canvas parka. The gowns—shimmering, structured bodices that emerged from columns of cascading chiffon––evoked Art Deco architecture, and the print on a long-sleeved dress resembled Futurist facets of a gleaming cube. It’s clear that Mohapatra, former design director at J. Mendel, is a master of the art and science of fashion, but this season—his strongest yet—was all about control.

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Images by Jenni Avins and Seana Cavanagh

I’ll be honest. Sometimes I find myself a little flummoxed by menswear. I have a sort of limited gauge of its success, where items generally fall into one of two categories—those that make me want the wearer (dapper dark grey suit), and those that make me want the item (soft rib-knit heather grey beanie). Simon Spurr showed both, but I wasn’t sure what to do with the in-between.

Adoul Diallo from Fader, on the other hand, who was seated beside me, had a plan. Take the double-breasted wine-colored wool suit, but don’t wear it together. Snap up the Common Projects sneakers, and don’t leave without the duffel coat.

It’s good to have a guy around when you need him.

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Image by Hatnim Lee

It’s getting to that point in Fashion Week when it’s getting harder to get dressed: It’s cold. It’s damp. It’s February.

These are the days Mona Kowalska might have had in mind when she sent out models in mushroom-colored sweaters that grazed the tops of their over-the-knee socks. These layers that would make dressing prettily easy, even on the least inspiring of days: Start with a helping of Japanese minimalism (cocoon-shaped cardigans), add some nostalgia for American grunge (maybe a skinniest-strapped slipdress in a tiny print), and add just the slightest bit of constructed design (Marni-ish volume at the neckline). A dash of turquoise across the models’ eyelids was reminiscent of clearer days, but right around the time the lights came up on the runway at A Détacher, outside, it began to snow.

Last night, just as my energy was beginning to flag, Wool and the Gang and Inven.tory came through with some of my favorite creature comforts: knitting, shopping, and, well, vodka.

Images by Hatnim Lee

The ladies at Lorick looked as if they had inherited a great aunt’s opulent outfits, then altered them to their liking: a kelly green sash fastened a mustard and black tweed dress, rhinestone chains were tangled and fastened with heavy brooches and pop orange nails contrasted nicely with the citrine and jet black feathers in their hair. A putty-colored party dress was suspended from a strap at one shoulder, an angular short sleeve at the other. With little gathers down the front and black sparkly tights beneath, it looked just right for cocktails at the Carlyle.

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