fashion review by Chance Goode
Photo credit: Alberto Valle Gutierrez, courtesy of And Such NYC
NYFW FW26: AN AGE OF INDIENESS
New York City has been extra cold this winter. I can’t remember the last time I saw so much snow. Luckily for me and every other fashion-crazed attendee of New York Fashion Week, the snow had subsided just in time to be seen in our favorite outfits. I couldn’t risk my archival pieces getting ruined; there is nothing waterproof about vintage Gucci. Unfortunately, I was still having to hop over piles of shit and piss-covered ice in my Saint Laurent boots just to make it to the fashion shows on time. It was worth it to let you know what you missed this season at New York Fashion Week.
Photo credit: Alberto Valle Gutierrez, courtesy of And Such NYC
FANG
The first show of the season was FANG NYC. It was New York-based designer Fang Guo’s sophomore runway show for the label. Over the last three years, Guo has single-handedly turned his brand from ultra-tight knitwear worn by gays at the Cock to a fully fledged fashion house. It’s miraculous. When I arrived at the show, I did my routine air kisses and hellos to all the fabulous fashionites that I hadn’t seen since September during the spring season. As I shuffled through the sea of eccentric queer personalities, I noticed the AstroTurf beneath my boots and the runway painted with sandy track-and-field lines. This would probably be the closest I would ever get to being on a football field.
Black and blue dresses with grommet detailing opened the show. Models’ slicked back ponies bounced behind them to the beat of techno music as they pumped down the catwalk. Leather shirts and jackets were paired with denim with zippers that ran all the way down the center of the crotch. Guo’s designs may have grown beyond the club, but his sexually charged nuances aren’t going anywhere. Thank goodness! Checkered print jackets and dresses were inspired by the Berlin club-goers from the 1990s pictured in Christian Stemmler’s photo series, Anfang/Beginning: Berlin 1994-99. The chalk-white and baby-blue racing stripes down the black leather dress morphed into spaghetti straps. It was such a simple yet innovative design. My favorite look was the striped lederhosen styled with Tom of Finland-style boots. The collection had all the provocative winking and nudging that I look for in fashion.
CD1974
The next night, I took an Uber to Cole Dallas’s show for his brand CD1974. I try to avoid using ride-share apps during fashion week because no one wants to be photographed with wrinkles. Still, my suede Tom Ford jacket wasn’t going to keep me warm enough, and anyone who knows me knows I will always choose style over functionality. The mise en scène of New York and LA’s finest were lined up outside wearing deranged fur coats, rock n’ roll hair, and smudged black eyeliner. They were all huddled together, smoking cigarettes and sharing details about which fashion week after-parties were worth going to. Mark Hunter, aka The Cobrasnake, shot photos as we pushed to get inside. We were led underground by the internet’s grungiest cool girl, Jordan Hubert, who was running around in her beat-up Isabel Marant sneaker wedges, yelling, “I hope everyone is on the list!” I found what I believed to be my name, scribbled in chicken scratch, in a front-row seat and sat down next to a photographer who was fawning over how good I smelled. I pulled out my travel bottle of Bleu de Chanel and sprayed our corner of the room.
The lights flickered, and a drugged-out score by Yves Tumor blasted through the underground space. The first model to emerge down the corridor was young director Jaxon Ray. He wore a leather jacket that showed off his bare, tattooed chest, along with boxers with “Baby” printed on the waistband and beat-to-hell jeans. A couple wearing midriff-exposed jackets and low-slung denim stopped in the middle of the runway for a show-stopping kiss. There was a nonchalance and intentional messiness that harkened back to the stylings of Pete Doherty and Kate Moss during the early aughts. Later on, I saw a model with an Amy Winehouse teased updo, and I couldn’t stop myself from shouting, “They tried to make her go to rehab!” She was wearing heelless, fur-adorned platforms designed in collaboration with Yves Tumor. At the end of the show, Dallas grabbed his partner, Alexandria Rose, and screamed with a cigarette falling from his mouth, “Fuck Fashion Week!” In an age of indieness, this was exactly where I was supposed to be.
Photo credit: Simran Kaur
After the show, I traded my turtleneck for a baby tee and hit up Paul’s Casablanca. As I sat on the couch, spilling secrets and champagne, I couldn’t stop thinking about the CD1974 show. So much so that the next morning, I traveled to the LES to Retail Pharmacy, where CD1974 is sold, and copped a tank top from their SS26 collection.
ANDREW CURWEN
Andrew Curwen was the final course this season, closing out the NYFW calendar. I was more than eager to see his latest collection because I missed his last show, which debuted during the off-season in the middle of summer. The show was held in Brooklyn, which was rare for a fashion show but perfect for me as I was already there for a pre-fashion-show hookup. It was the day after Valentine’s Day, so I had to seize the moment. I ran my fingers through my bed head, threw on my Perfecto, and made it to the show in time to smoke and assess the vibe. Curwen is known for his dark Victorian glamour, and it looked like everyone attending the show wanted to match his aesthetic. The front row was a long line of pointed black boots and kitten heels. It was very Nancy Downs from the Craft.
Once the show started, it became clear that Curwen was more than just a fashion designer; he is a storyteller. His runway characters had wild hair and corpse-like makeup, and they all seemed to have their own twisted backstories. He created wicked silhouettes with corsets and shredded fabric that mimicked shearling. Curwen designs for the 18th-century woman who is riddled with nightmares about being drowned to death and paces her hallways holding a candelabra in lingerie. One of those haunted women stopped in the middle of the runway and let out a blood-curdling scream. She wore a tattered, cinched skin-colored ensemble that made her look like a banshee. This haunting beauty is rare for New York. New York fashion is usually more minimalist, wearable, and subdued, and not nearly as exciting as this!
Photo credit: Andrew Curwen, courtesy of Lindsey Media
I chose to skip the afters at Le Bain because my Brooklyn babe wanted me to go to some hole-in-the-wall alt-gay bar. So not my scene, but sex sells. Sitting at the bar, I noticed that the hot bartender across from me looked as if he stepped off the CD1974 runway. There were also at least two twinks wearing FANG-inspired knitwear. The rise of young designers with rock-and-roll energy and subversive storytelling has a stronger impact on how New Yorkers dress when compared to the larger luxury brands, which are simply peddling overpriced, regurgitated copies of The Row.