Being at Storm King Art Center on Tuesday for the Collina Strada runway show was like being on acid. The Goldenrod was just starting to bloom. The dragonflies were zooming. The sun was shining. The bees were buzzing. All of it was enough to produce a zenlike, childlike state that is usually hard to find at New York Fashion Week. As one attendee remarked, “This is the first time some of these motherfuckers have touched grass.”
But first, we had to get there. Which required, for me, showing up on Lispenard Street as close as possible to 9 a.m. (I panic-ordered an Uber and arrived closer to 9:15). A line had already formed next to two enormous Coach buses. It was full of people in whimsical outfits: a brocade mini-dress patterned in cats; a red chiffon carnation pinned over white lace. A wide-brimmed blue felt hat with a mauve velour top and plaid Collina skirt-pants. I admired each of these people, my kin, my compatriots in arms. My compatriots in a two-hour trip upstate toward Beacon. “I was just given the opportunity to do the first-ever runway show at Storm King,” Collina creative director Hillary Taymour told my colleague Kayla Curtis-Evans, “and how can you say no to that?”
We each got wristbands and were loaded onto the buses in single file during a red light. Luck of the draw who we sat next to. My seatmate, wearing one of those famous Chopova Lowena skirts, had packed snacks in her Louis Vuitton tote that included an apple turnover, a cellophane-wrapped sandwich, and a bag of Cheetos.
Some people napped and some people chatted. To complete the field trip vibe, a representative from Bleecker Trading stood up near the front of the bus and announced that, due to Taymour’s obsession with Pokémon, he would hand out a card pack to anyone who wanted one. Everyone did, and we took turns “breaking” them and comparing cards (one person’s special, shiny gold card was worth approximately $300).
By this time we were more than halfway there, and my seat companion was starting to get nervous. “Oh my god,” she said looking out the window, “we’re actually in the middle of the woods.”
To be honest? Thank god. By the time we disembarked at Storm King — again, a fantastical costume parade — most of the crowd seemed to feel more or less removed from their element. We crunched down gravel paths lined with flourishing native plants as though we were in a Barbie Riding Club computer game dream. Even the sinks outside the Storm King bathrooms were beautiful. Everything looks glamorous in a perfect tilt of sunlight.
By this time it was almost 11:30, and most people lined up for the Blank Street coffee stand that had appeared in the middle of a field like a mirage. It was the longest coffee line I’ve ever been part of and also the most languid. There wasn’t much to do except kill time before the show. I met the owner of Prism boutique in Seattle, as well as a buyer who works there. (The buyer wore a black pillbox hat and big silver Collina earrings — two things that seemed meant to go together.) I ran into the photographer Taryn Segal, and Nordstrom Men’s Fashion Director Jian DeLeon, and we shot the shit.
Eventually, we wandered over to what must have been one of the longest front-rows ever: a collection of white wooden benches stretched along another bank of Goldenrod. It must have been at least 100 yards, with a scattered few benches making up a sparse second row. The runway — a curve of mowed grass — was enormous. Naturally, I thought about ticks.
There was a slow trickle toward the seats, then a faster one, then we were all arrayed and waiting. From speakers placed at intervals, a high-pitched voice wailed, “COLLIIIIIIIIIIIINA STRAAAADA,” and the first model appeared in a beautifully flouncy light-pink look that was all top and no pants. The catwalk was open, and the looks were a perfect fit for their surroundings: dreamy, transparent, iridescent, sequined and gathered and flounced. There was a full-length spangled silver gown that was artfully folded under so that the wearer could hold both sides like a princess while walking. There was plenty of Taymour’s signature plaid, in shiny leggings and stacked skirts. There was an edge of punk-rock running through the show; each model had their own version of a mohawk and a smoky eye, and one black T-shirt with the arms cut out was lined in a tight row of safety pins. A few wore Collina’s newest collaboration with Converse: a split-sole Capezio-like creation covered in black or pale chartreuse ruffled ribbon.
They all looked good. Beautiful, even. Each one disappeared around the grassy bend. And as the last model strode out of sight, an ethereal voice floated over the crowd. Soon, a woman with long auburn waves became apparent walking back down the runway, holding a microphone. And as she sang, it began to compute among the crowd that this was Carly Rae Jepsen. A sheer pink Collina cape caught the breeze behind her. The crowd rose into a state of euphoria as she broke into 2016’s “Cut to the Feeling” and every single model raced back through the grass toward her, some jogging and some sprinting, some holding hands, all of them leaping around Jepsen as she sang in a glorious whirlwind.
Maybe I’m just not jaded yet, but listen — I really felt something. A tug on the heartstrings and a flash of pure joy to be there, to be outside on this perfect day, to be surrounded by so many forms of beauty. If this was a cult, I would join. If it was a summer camp, I was never coming home. I saw my friend Mi-Anne Chan, Teen Vogue’s creative editorial director, dash by, dragging a colleague into the mob. She started jumping around, too.
But nothing gold can stay, and everyone pulled out their phones to capture the moment. After all, we were at work. (Did I mention there were drones overhead, mingling with the dragonflies? We were at work!) All too soon it was over, and I had to get back on the fashion bus. I missed the afterparty picnic, which had, according to our social director, Trey Dickenson, a margarita fountain, a candy bar, and tarot readings. I had pressing obligations at home.
The ride back is always longer than the ride there; lots of people fell asleep, exhausted by the sun. I had a burn on my back the color of ripe watermelon. The bus spat us out onto the dirty sidewalk — the ultimate fashion week comedown. But for one afternoon, fairyland was real.
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