It’s been several weeks since I touched down in Los Angeles from Paris, and the post-fashion season quiet has settled — maybe a little too deeply.
How do I explain this feeling to someone who doesn’t put themselves through the ups and downs of this biannual happening? Maybe the metaphor is baked into the name of this platform (although this wasn’t the initial meaning assigned to the blog). Fashion season ends like a merry-go-round slowing to a halt. The music fades. The fairy lights dim. The carousel’s metal joints creak and groan, and you’re left swaying on steady ground — wondering what all that flying was good for and when you’ll get back on the ride for another round.
Certain aspects of fashion week are cyclical, even repetitive. Getting stuck in hopeless traffic jams, stressing out over almost missing a show, fussing with blisters, running backstage for interviews, and repeat. As an independent writer, without a big team working the chaos behind the scenes, it can feel like too much at times. And yet — the work itself keeps me coming back. What I get to witness is a kind of creative nourishment, a reminder of why I do this in the first place. When I count my blessings, I never skip over the privilege of meeting burgeoning talents and of standing close enough to feel the beauty of what they make.