Fashion Week and senioritis, future and present

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Fashion Week and senioritis, future and present

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This is the future. Voices are louder and tomatoes are redder. It’s my special ability, you see. I’m like The Giver, but the other way around. My mind drifts off to 2033.

Steve Aoki strokes his long, grey beard. He googles one of his old performances in Tomorrowland. His fat rolls jiggle when the image of his younger self holding a massive cake pops on the screen. Ha. The sea of colorful people bring a smile to his round, sweaty face.

Somewhere else on the globe, Steve’s producer is getting out of bed, squinting at the glaring lights shining through the turret glass. It’s 4 p.m. His neighbour, Karl Lagerfeld, just suffered a mental breakdown (again) and is spending his 100th birthday at the hospital. Even in a hospital gown, he insists on wearing his dark shades. “Too bright,” he says.

The nurses don’t mind, Karl always does that. This is his second stay just in September. His (adoptive) great great grandchildren flock into his room, showing him the newest iPhone 33, whose paper-thin design is a result of the collaboration between Apple and Karl himself. It was launched today, celebrating a century of Karl.

In New York, models strut down the catwalk in Marc Jacobs latest collection. After his tragic death, his brand has become a major fashion house. His flagship store is located in Islamabad, Pakistan, the fashion capital of the world. This year’s theme is a throwback to the 2014 Spring RTW collection. The lights flicker and the ground begins to shake uncontrollably. The skinny models become pencils and pens, the people in the crowd morph into furry stuffed animals. It’s me, back in the slightly duller, softer world of September 2014. Eh. I sit in front of my computer, I have 13 tabs open on style.com. It’s Fashion Week. I scroll around the shows for a bit.

The first tab takes me to Thom Browne. Gasp. Are those sun(flower)glasses?! This is art. I sniffle. This is beauty. A tear glistens down my cheek. The rest of my fashion week experience goes downhill after that. Marc Jacob’s smallpox motif is “fun,” but nothing new as far as Yayoi Kusama (and many, many others) is concerned. Snore. Everyone has seen this before, Ralph.

After an hour of binge scrolling through the New York designers, I return to my small, cluttered room. It’s hot. Too hot. I tug at the rags I call a t-shirt and consider removing my pants. Sigh. Time to work on my essays. Time to be that diverse, well-rounded candidate colleges want. What’s left to say? I thrust my head against the chair.

The fluorescent light makes me wince. My mind wanders off again. Have I contracted senioritis? No. After May 2015, I’ll still have four more years to go. I clench my fists. It’s OK, MC. It’s OK. Look, look at the computer screen. I look. Ah, yes. It’s all OK. I just witnessed Thom Browne revolutionizing the art of face-wear. Sort of. Forget the IB, being a fashion designer today is one of the greatest challenges a person can face.

What is the modern day equivalent of the 19th century corset? Hot pink, Mondrian, Photoshop, and all the other ideas you can think of have already been claimed. Paul Poiret, Elsa Schiaparelli, and Coco Chanel are hailed as geniuses in fashion history, but what can a 21st century genius do? I fetch a cup of cold water and face the living room mirror, a hot spot for my occasional narcissistic posing sessions. “You’re probably PMSing, MC. Quit whining and go do something useful,” the image commands. I obey.

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