Kanye West is fashion’s smallpox. He’s highly contagious. He leads to blindness. (I assume editors have supported him for this long because some desperate obsession with fame and relevance has impared their vision.) His clothes are like lumpy, bumpy, fabric rashes that plague the body. (Speaking of which, there were clothes at this “fashion show,” kind of, but they’re really not worth mentioning, unless you want to go into the poor fit, the tired, too tight or uninventively oversized silhouettes, or the fact that the shoes were so poorly made that they broke, and about a third of West’s street-cast models couldn’t walk down the runway. One had to be scooped up by Bergdorf Goodman men’s style director Bruce Pask to avoid a tumble.) He’s a veritable pandemic. (Damn you, social media!) And you know what? He’s also easily stopped by the vaccination that is integrity, common sense, and reality.
Come on, fashion. This pseudo performance piece (models stood still, and then sat down, and then stood up again) was embarrassing. The clothes were objectively unremarkable, if not cheap-looking and ill-conceived, and the whole two-and-a-half-hour affair was a fantastic waste of time, unless, of course, you live to catch an IRL glimpse of the Kardashian clan. Can everyone please, please crawl out of this man’s ass? The fact that Anna Wintour hit up Yeezy’s masturbatory disaster and took no interest in what Parsons’ students—the future of New York fashion—had to offer is incredibly disappointing. For the love of god, just stop the madness!
