What’s Cunty About a Compound Fracture?
On The Marc Jacobs 2026 Show & Beyond
As a perpetual victim of imposter syndrome, I need proof that I’ve “made it” in fashion– tangible morsels of validation that anchor me to reality. This has manifested in a handful of very niche signifiers, all of which are vapid and material. But also… deeply affirming:
1.) My first Chanel bag sent as a holiday gift from the brand. (Sidebar: my spot on this list feels tenuous at best so I should probably play it cool and slide under the radar... but I’m not above begging when the time comes. The newly launched 25 bag landed on my desk this summer and it is—objectively—the best all-rounder in my closet. Watch this space. Deep dive forthcoming. I’d risk it all for her.)
2.) Custom Cartier stationery embossed with my government name–the kind sent exclusively to bonafide editors each year, paired with 750ml of champagne from their caves, bottled in–you guessed it—Cartier-cut crystal.
3.) And most sacred of all: the invitation to the Marc Jacobs show, bestowed upon me by his right-hand man and resident fashion industry hardbody, Michael Ariano.
At VOGUE the internal brawl for a Marc ticket was gladiatorial. Before that, at Garage Magazine, the Fashion Features editor cried when I had received the invitation and she had not. We had to have a mediation session by our Editor-in-Chief.
The Marc show is A BIG DEAL.
And for good reason because here’s the thing: Marc Jacobs is all we have left of a certain golden age of New York fashion. When international editors travelled here and spent long full days watching models debut at Bryant Park and up at Lincoln Center, who would then go on to dominate Europe and most of the major editorials that followed. When our designers set the stage for the season—and the trends– and energized stylists, and clients, and critics before the month-long marathon ahead.
Now, it is mostly a nuisance. The designers we look forward to like Diotima and Luar now are small, and independent, and almost entirely unsupported by the industrial establishment despite winning every award under the sun. And the even new artists, with no way to show unless they can find the 10th of a million dollars it takes, are forced to make the choice between conflicting time slots off calendar, late night shows, or succumbing to the system and showing in the worst venue known to man. So, New York feels bleak, and old if you looked at the CFDA’s “official” calendar. And even Marc, our crown jewel, has abandoned it.
Now, he shows a month before everyone else and ping-pongs between the Armory uptown, and the New York Public Library on 42nd and 5th.
This season, I totally forgot about the show due to it being off-schedule, out of sight and out of mind and miraculously remembered day of, on set of a Stuart Weitzman campaign I was styling. Luckily for me, I subscribe to the philosophy that anything is occasion wear if you wear it with a heel and I knew justttt the people to ask.
I threw on the D’orsay pump in red patent leather and booked it downtown.
Shout out Uncle Stew for making comfortable high heels, in half sizes,--I’m an 11.5 but wear a 12 in heels for width and comfort and equal distribution of my 220 pounds!-- and keeping the big-footed baddies sexy and built for speed. I was feeling myself on the way up those giant limestone steps, stunting just a wee bit for the photographers and realizing that a good pair of heels can make me feel capable of punching through a brick wall.
I feel like at this point this is common knowledge, but due to a number of record breaking delays and unspeakably late start times in his hey day, Marc now starts his show on the dot whether the most important guest is in their seat or not. He is so precise that the invitation asks guests to arrive 15 minutes early, accounting for the fashion world’s pathological lateness.
I try to split the difference because small-talking with fashion folk can be… painful.
Less social grace than you’d expect. More posturing. It’s a whole lot of attempting to hold eye contact with someone who is clearly scanning the room for a more important conversation.
At 7:20, I found my gaggle of weirdos, and run into the brilliant Amy Sherald who reminds me that you can be smart, and powerful, and have a voice, and make important work, and still really want a pair of silly little shoes.
The pre-show vibe is very first day of school. Everyone tries to look cute. Some folks have a tan, others are wearing too many layers for the season and are sweating profusely (I am others) and, on this 1st Monday after pride, in 100 degrees fahrenheit we, collectively, didn’t smell great as a group.
By 7:26 I’m seated with show notes in hand. I try not to read them but it gave me a great excuse to avoid human interaction. On page 1, Marc offered a definition of beauty:
Okay, now we’re cooking with gas.
Page 2 reveals that the show only has 19 looks. God, I love a tight edit. Inject it directly into my veins. For his Fall 2023 collection, Marc showed 16 looks, and the models– in 80’s style pointy flats and ankle socks– raced down the length of the Atrium at the NYPL in 3 minutes exactly– somehow that 140 dollars worth of ubers to and from midtown manhattan were worth it.
This season, the show was considerably longer as models walked at the glacial speed of a sedated sloth. It felt dreamy and intentional until the first model made it to my section, just half way down the length of the runway, and started trepidatiously looking down at her feet, only a tiny whisper of fear in her slightly furrowed brow, but it was there…
This is where I wonder if I should stop complaining and just be happy with the capital “B” beauty of it all… and because we’ve essentially only got Cathy Horyn and Vanessa Friedman for a fair shot at any real criticism these days, I’m a teeny bit scared to write anything other than what is essentially a glowing and flowery description of what we saw on Monday, without prying too much into the why it was shown.
LOL JK can you imagine? Here’s my take: