If you speak with anyone who has worked in fashion long enough, Malan Breton will come up. The street style photographers will tell you that they can spot a suit by him a mile away. The editors and stylists will tell you that he is the "nicest man you could ever hope to work with" and the models will all tell you about his appearances on Bravo.You start to think that you've got a good handle on who Malan Breton is.
But then... But then you're seated in the second row, and the lights dim and the music starts, and you've got Frankie Grande pulling off a motorcycle helmet for the opening. And..Not gonna lie, you're kinda stoked for the show. A fleeting thought passes through your mind and you wonder what came first: the hair or the suit. There's no time for contemplation because you realize that while you thought Malan Breton was a menswear designer, there are in fact women in dresses walking in the show. A show that ends with a beautifully braided, ethereal orange goddess and a champagne toast. The lights come on and you try to make eye contact with someone - anyone, because you need to ask questions: "did you see that?" "we saw the same show right?"
My favorite part of the Malan Breton show was in fact, Malan Breton himself. His designs were stunning, his fabrics were full of life and sheen, and his models were gorgeous. But it was his face and his humility that struck a cord. When he received a standing ovation, he didn't greet it with a simple wave - he teared up. He walked to the end of the runway, and actually hugged and personally thanked those seated at his show.
Before the Malan Breton show began, I had a very surreal experience: disenchantment. It was 9:05 am, and I was standing in line waiting for the security to let all the guests into the venue. I was exhausted. I don't remember what time I had gone to bed, but I couldn't have gotten much sleep. In a city that never slept, I too was behaving like a local. I even fell asleep on the R train - twice.
Once seated for the show I contemplated eating my breakfast/Larabar. During the entirety of fashion week, I never once saw someone eat. Was there some unspoken rule? Does one simply not consume anything other than coffee during fashion week? Even the cafe inside the tents never seemed to have patrons nibbling on anything more than...well, anything more than the free water. I had to break the cycle. The moment the lights went dim, I made my move. Larabar in hand, I ripped the package open. One bite. Two bites...
And that was as far as I got. Truth be told I barely had time to eat while in New York. Blame the excitement, caffeine, or the extreme cold that numbed all senses, but the hunger pangs weren't felt until my very last day. My surreal moment of disenchantment was a strange mingling of fatigue while experiencing and living a very real dream; attending MBFW with an invitation in hand. It's a very strange phenomena, I think. Of course once Mr. Grande walked down the runway, all disenchantment disappeared. It was back to the magic that is fashion week: the lights, the models, the music, the art. It was once again me behind my camera, snapping away, enjoying every second of being in the present: experiencing Mercedes Benz Fashion Week first hand!