In a second-floor walk-up in Chinatown, the tulle had been hung, the confetti bagged and ready on each seat. The wedding could begin.
Hillary Taymour, the designer of Collina Strada, had laid the scene. The time had come, she said, to turn away from anger and toward love.
One of the questions hanging over this New York Fashion Week has been how the presence of Time’s Up, #MeToo and the new wave of women’s empowerment would make its presence known.
It would have been hard to predict that Ms. Taymour, whose label has been enthusiastically taken up by a fringe of the young, restless and digital, would answer the call with a white wedding — albeit one in which the bride wore cargo pants, a “chap skirt” train affixed with a buckle at the waist and a T-shirt pierced by nipple rings, connected with a chain. It was an appeal to love, Ms. Taymour said, in an age of anger (however well justified). No groom or second bride appeared. She was marrying her “higher self.” “Sologamy,” Ms. Taymour called it: To thine own self be true!
Ms. Taymour’s presentation was the bridal procession: the flower girls (ringers for “The Shining” twins), the club-kid friends, the family elders, a squirming baby (whose crushed-velvet-covered diaper matched the crushed-velvet suit of the model toting him down the runway). The ceremony was performed by Bunny Michael, a musician and self-proclaimed higher-self healer whose prescriptions include a fair number of New Age memes.
“I vow to love myself, every day, and never fear that this may be misconstrued as vanity,” said the bride, Sasha Frolova, a young actress with a modified Dorothy Hamill bob, reading from a page fetched from her cargo pocket. “I vow to do so that I may give back love and support those around me, and provide and inspire for those within reach, tangibly and intangibly through my honesty. This will only work if we truly believe it.”
The room whooped, believing it. And why not? Ms. Taymour’s clothes have a bit of vintage funk about them, but stay well within the realm of everyday possibility: a slip dress (worn by a young man, but just as fetching on a woman), a zip-front corduroy jacket and trousers, a plaid minidress with its own shining nipple rings (maybe a little much for the office, but won’t those go the way of the dinosaur in the WeWork economy soon enough, anyway?).
Bless the designer whose show notes proudly proclaim that her collection offers a wide range of possibilities, “from sexy to frumpy.” It made for a sweet scene, and one left it, as one would a wedding, a little moody, a little happy, a touch touched.
Ms. Taymour was exultant: The bride was a friend, many of the models friends, the healer a new friend. “We’re working on a soul healing,” she confided. “But I have a soul healer, too.”
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