Jagger van Vliet

There was no way of knowing who among the morning commuters were headed for the New York Renaissance Faire. The Port Authority Bus Terminal is the kind of place where an adult man in a velvet cape doesn’t exactly warrant a second glance. Still, there were definite clues: pointed elf ears, rainbow pantaloons, and a suspicious number of historically accurate bodices. I figured my best bet was to follow the crowd wearing the most chainmail.

New York Fashion Week is here, and it’s not the same, or so I’ve been told. This is my first Fashion Week in the city. No one is reserving me a seat at the Ralph Lauren runway. There’s no black SUV waiting to usher me to my next event. I belong to a feral legion of upstarts and arrivistes who have nothing better to do but orbit every possible runway, pop-up store, and influencer event this side of the Hudson. Why should that be any less glamorous?

New York Fashion Week is here and it’s not the same, or so I’ve been told. This is my first Fashion Week in the city. No one is reserving me a seat at the Ralph Lauren runway. There’s no black SUV waiting to usher me to my next event. I belong to a feral legion of upstarts and arrivistes who have nothing better to do but orbit every possible runway, pop-up store, and influencer event this side of the Hudson. Why should that be any less glamorous?