Out of Depth

I’ll say it plainly: I don’t understand fashion. Ask me about a collection, a cut, a color trend, and I’m useless. Genuinely embarrassed. I know enough to move through those spaces without looking like a complete outsider, but the moment it turns technical, I’m out.

Which doesn’t stop me from being at every fashion event worth attending. Somehow we’ve built enough of a reputation that the invitations keep coming—agencies, designers, labels calling regularly. Shows, parties, backstage meetings. I love it. The energy. The beautiful people. The visual spectacle. But I’m operating on instinct and observation, not actual knowledge of what’s happening.

There’s something honest about not pretending otherwise. I’m useful for other things—noticing the weird dynamics in a room, how power moves at parties, the small moments that reveal how the industry actually works versus how it presents itself. I can watch and write about the system, the energy, the people. Just not the clothes themselves.

I’ve made peace with being an outsider in rooms I get to be inside. Maybe that’s the best position anyway. You see things that people too close to the machinery miss. You don’t have a stake in defending the system. You’re just watching, writing, and trying to describe what’s really going on beneath the surface.