I Snuck Into Fendi’s Show at Fashion Week

:A Behind the Scenes Look From Someone Who Was Not Supposed to Be There

Equipped with nothing but a borrowed camera and a thrifted dress, I infiltrated the season’s most anticipated show as Fendi celebrates the 25th anniversary of the ‘baguette’ bag. 

How does someone with absolutely no credentials end up in the same room as Anna Wintour, Kim Kardashian, Linda Evangelista, and other fashion royalty? 

Well you just walk right in apparently. 

This isn't exactly true as I spent the week prior to fashion week preparing and collecting information from my rolodex of techie friends. In a bygone era of my life I was a carpenter and electrician for theater as well as commercial events and worked previous fashion weeks.

These connections become increasingly fruitful around this time of year as fashion week venues are no piece of cake to uncover. NYFW’s website will tell you the main hub of the week is their studio on Varick Street. However, anyone in fashion knows the hard hitters, the shows you really want to see, have started moving offsite to find venues more directly tailored to their taste and/or facilitates the story their collection is trying to tell. 

A techie friend of mine, who wishes to go unnamed, led me to the tiniest crumb of information that 34th street between 8th and 9th would be a pretty optimal place to be on Friday.  Now please note what this information is not. This information is not the address or name of a venue. It is not the start time of the show. It doesn't even tell me the name of the brand. This was an incredibly vague lead, but I ran with it. I rushed to hand in my timesheet at my costume shop in Queens and fled to the F train just hoping whatever show this was, I hadn't already missed it.

Fresh off the subway, I saw right where [redacted] said something would be, a gaggle of men dressed in all black gathered rather impatiently outside the Hammerstein Ballroom. As well as a slew of crew members in headsets at every point of entrance. 

I'm wearing a many years old black velvet dress with a white chemise that has dramatically gathered sleeves. On my legs I have my signature black tights and platform docs. 

I stand outside the Manhattan Center for a moment pretending to go through my camera's settings, which I have no idea how to use by the way. 

The day prior, I traveled to the far land of Bushwick to retrieve a favor from my sister. She is the only person I knew with a professional Canon camera and I really wanted to look the part. 

And so I stand, perfectly content to wait outside and simply photograph the celebrities as they entered and exited the show. This blog post was originally supposed to be a piece on fashion week street wear: from the ground. Oh how I have strayed from that plan. 

This party of men in black begin to be funneled inside to the lobby. There is security checking each bag. I hop right on the tail end of the line; get my bag checked like everybody else. My heart is rushing as I give security a warm smile. There is a table, presumably a check in that the men have begun to crowd around. 

I know my name isn't on any list so I push through the men to a door labeled “set”. It opens to a stark white expanse. Luxurious curtains that climb 40, 50 feet up. There are fancy lights and people on headsets, and really chic haircuts, and so many people that look like they know what they're doing. There’s a whole row of security. They look at me… and then away. They assume I've walked through this door because check in approved me. 

I'm in. And yet I still have no idea what show this is. 

I hang like a wallflower to the back railing trying to call as little attention to myself as possible. I look to my left and it feels like God shone down on this one spot of earth to reveal the photo op backdrop with silver shining letters F E N D I. My heart just about burst out of my chest. 

Some of the models are already in hair and makeup, taking photos onstage. Everyone is forced to wear covers over their shoes so as not to scuff the pristine white carpet. I take great joy in watching the elite humble themselves as they cover their impractical Fendi heels in what is essentially a lunch lady’s hairnet. 

I spot [redacted] who is incredibly shocked to see me there and informs me she unfortunately has no idea what the most covert place for me to hide would be, as it is now 5 pm and the show doesn't start until 8pm. 

Oh God, I have to pretend to belong here for 3 whole hours. 

Deafening music begins to thunder throughout the space as rehearsal begins. I am on the pristine carpet, taking photos of Bella Hadid and soaking in all the glorious accessories Fendi does so well, like over-exaggerated furry bucket hats and utilitarian bags. 

It was very interesting to watch the models work through the kinks in production and figure out spacing like its a 5th grade graduation.

In between the rehearsal and the show I was actually kicked out. An older gentleman came up to me asking to see my wristband. I respond

“Oh I’m photographing for teeces peonys”.

Hoping the sheer confidence in my voice when I bring up my blog no one has ever heard of would be enough to confuse him and believe me. He tells me again I need a wristband. I choose to play dumb and light-heartedly exclaim

“Oh I’m so sorry I just walked in I didnt realize I needed one.”

He looks absolutely flabbergasted.

“You can’t just walk in here and start taking photos.” He stammers. (Which by the way, apparently you can)

I tell him “I'll go sort it out with the front desk and be right back.”

Instead, I do what any sane person would do, and hide out in the bathroom for an appropriately long amount of time, change my top, and go back to set! I felt my white dramatic sleeves were probably the most memorable part of my outfit; without them I’m just a bitch in a little black dress. And I think that's to my advantage here. 

Back on stage, It is now booming with life and celebrity. We are 30 minutes from showtime now. I've almost made it all the way though.

I choose to stay by the photo op area as there are many photographers here and I feel it is easy to blend in. Here I photograph the likes of Karlie Kloss, Winnie Harlow, Kate Moss, Chloe Bailey, Shay Mitchell and more. Others in attendance include Marc Jacobs, Sarah Jessica Parker, and Grace Jones.

I feel incresingly more out of place with these celebrities who look just as preened and perfect as their photos. I'm looking everywhere for the old man who confronted me earlier. Is he watching me? Do I look like I belong? Can people smell the poor on me? 

The lights dim and again raucous music fills the room. This time the beat the models pound their feet too is interspersed with a woman nervously exclaiming “excuse me” and “ yes I’m on the list!”. It felt like I had taken 10 hits of acid and paranoia was setting in.

The models come out for the second time that day and I feel like a complete idiot. I remember thinking during rehearsal, the collection showed a lot of black robes. It felt boring and underwhelming. 

I now see the Fendi collection in its proper glory. Sparkling and draped and flowing and bright. The black robes were simply what the models were wearing backstage to stay covered and comfortable. I have so much to learn about how this industry functions. 

The colors are bright neon greens and tiffany blues. Fendi does an amazing job of mixing elegance and utilitarian streetwear. The references to the ‘baguette’ bag are evident. As homages are plastered all over the collection in pockets, hats, socks, and gloves.

The collection is extravagant yet wearable. It is very New York. I actually almost started to cry. It felt like I was in a space that didn't want to welcome me but I made them anyway. 

Sometimes New York wins. Sometimes you miss the train and there isn't another one for 27 minutes. Sometimes a homeless person spits on your lap. Sometimes your landlord raises your rent 9 percent. Sometimes New York just wins.

But I won this time, New York. I fucking won!

I love when I do this city right. And this is how you do this city right. No one is going to make space for you. You have to make it yourself.