Last Friday, I got sick.
Like – can’t get out of bed, moaning and groaning, Viber my mom* sick.

Great, no? Especially the day after – it was the beginning of Fashion Week.

I canceled everything that night, telling myself that the next day, I’d surely be back to normal, alive and kicking, and better dressed than Anna Dello Russo – you know, like usual.

Blah. After spending a very glamorous night figuring out that I definitely had the stomach flu**, I realized the next few days were not going to go like I had imagined – starting with champagne at 10AM and ending with dance parties with my best friend, Alexander Wang ***

So I went back to bed.

Pffff, what could I do? It’s not like I could really work at home. I tried working on my book, but as you know, when you’re sick, you’re not just physically out of it, you’re also completely wiped out intellectually, and the only three words I managed to write after two hours in front of my computer were Pepto and Bismol****.

That was even one of my Google searches – that’s how slow-mo my brain was.
(Ok, I also wanted to know how many gallons of Pepto Bismol I could ingest without overdosing. Answer: NO)

The situation was getting serious. With my cloudy head and an increasing FOMO, I told myself there was only one thing left to do: live the passion of fashion through the Internet.

So I poured myself a champagne glass full of Pepto and opened up my computer.

It was time for the Altuzarra show.


I typed #altuzarra on Twitter and Instagram, and suddenly, I found myself propelled backstage.
Make up – check, a little glitter on the eyes, cool! Ok, I see, I see, casting, ok great.

Altuzarra Makeup Backstage Photo

A few minutes later, I checked out one of my favorite things – the front row. No, seriously, because it’s actually one of the important things when you go to a show. You want to see what’s happening in the front row.

Who’s there? Who are they with? How are they dressed? Are they thinking of me?

And once again, with the Internet, all you have to do is ask, and there it is. Which outfits do I always want to check out? Jenna Lyons, of course. Well, kids, all you have to do is ask our friend Marina Larroude (big air kiss to you, darling):


And then the show. I don’t need to describe it for you – you already know. It’s a storm of blurry photos, one-legged models, everybody loves everything, and hashtags all over the place, but even so, I’d rather be there to judge for myself. The music is missing, the atmosphere is missing, and a crappy little Insta video isn’t going to change that.


So I’m left hungry for more – um, so to speak, since, let me remind you in case you might have forgotten already, I have the STOMACH FLU.

Since that’s just the way it is tonight, I decide to test out Alexander Wang’s live stream.


Night has fallen. I’m still a mess, but less mobile, I’ve got dark circles from my eyes down to my neck, my hair is flat, and I’m just as stylish as a streetstyle photographer in New York in February*****, but nobody cares – I’m all alone at home and in two seconds, I’ll be in the fucking front row of the ALEXANDER WANG show, bitches! (I sound like Kanye, right? What? Should I not be doing that?)

Even Scott abandoned me, the bastard. It was no use trying to convince him to stay with my whimpering and little episodes of hyperventilation ( = I’m about to die right this minute! Help!) You don’t miss Alexander Wang unless you’re at death’s door, ladies and gentlemen.

So back to Champa-Bismol!

It’s 8:30, and the live stream is starting.

Oh, gawd.

As soon as it starts, a strange feeling comes over me – I feel like a major, major voyeur. If Instagram gives us a window into other people’s lives, live stream seriously feels like teleporting into the room with them, like…


I start to feel dizzy. I can see who’s sitting with whom, what they’re wearing, and when.
At one point, the camera zooms in on Kate Davidson Hudson texting on her phone, and frankly, if the cameraman hadn’t zoomed out right then, I could have read her text.
It’s amazing, I’m fascinated. I love it.

Ok, obviously there’s some kind of annoying music playing over everything, because if we could hear people talking, I think it would be fashion Armageddon. You can imagine what kinds of things people say, right – it’s not for everybody’s ears… like in school!!!

Absolutely no one at the show is aware of the camera’s presence, by the way.

I see a guy yawn out of boredom three times in a row (it really wasn’t necessary to film those moments, dear livestream cameraman); I see Bryan Boy arrive in pajamas; I see Caroline de Maigret sit down next to Karen Elson, and I admit, just telling you this freaks me out, I even recognized Fabien Baron FROM BEHIND. Fabien, if you’re reading this – don’t worry, I’m not stalking you. I don’t know what happened; I just knew it was you all of the sudden.

And that’s when Alex, who had also decided to watch the show on livestream, sends me a text. Here are a few highlights from our conversation.


“What? Karen Elson has a Blackberry?”

[Our text converstions are always profound, politically relevant, and bolstered by our encyclopedic knowledge of fashion, as you can imagine.]

“Oh, look, Scott just arrived. What is he doing? OMG, wouldn’t it be so great if I always had a little camera following him around?
“Ok, no, that would be horrible.”

“Oh, shit, it’s starting.”

“Is that the real music?”

“Yep, I heard it 23 times when I was backstage this afternoon”
“Oh, my dad would love that! Cargo pockets and cartridge belts for when he goes hunting”
“I love the boots”

[The camera zooms out, showing panoramic views, then zooms in so close that you can see the texture of the clothes perfectly. Honestly, the view is better than in any front row.]

“Wait, what are those boots?!”

“Well, they’re…um, they look like shin guards”
“OMG BaCKleSS???”

“OOH!!! They’re mules!!! Mule-boots!!! Boots in front, mules in the back!”
“Bootles? Myoots?”
“Those colors are interesting, what is that material?”

“It’s a material that reacts to heat, I heard.”
“I’m looking for Caroline Trentini, I saw her listed backstage, she’s in the show!!! #flashback2008.”

“You’ll see – she’ll come out at the end. It’ll be the big finale, with all the blow-your-mind, killer top models”

“Ah yeah you’re so right!!! But what..
“They all painted their hair black, wait, who’s that?”

“Joan Smalls”

“Nope, not here. Those bleached brows are impossible…”

“Ok, well, it’s over?”

Et voilà, the show finished and I re-teleported back to my place. Frankly, it was a pretty hallucinatory experience and I would do it again no problem.
The next day, I talk to people about the show as though I had been there, then suddenly remembered that I hadn’t been there in fact – except when they told me about how long it took to get to Brooklyn (yes, this year the Wang show was in Brooklyn, and Scott got home, exhausted at 11pm, that is to say, about 2 hours after the show ended because of the bad weather and traffic jams*****).

It’s really something to think about, this livestream thing, even if I will always be delighted, enchanted, amazed to go to an Alexander Wang show, even if it was in New Jersey, hein, hein, hein ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) (the girl who doesn’t want to be disinvited) (“Yes, we saw that you appreciated our Livestream so this season here’s a ticket to see our show… From your couch bitch!!!) Argh.

Ah, but before leaving, let me send a personal message to my fash packitude fellows.
Friends, watch out. THE WORLD IS WATCHING. No yawning, no bitching, no texting stupid pictures, no pretending to be busy when you’re actually playing Flappy Birds, and use some moderation on the air kisses. Ok?

Big kiss!!!




PS: The next day, I was a little more alive and kicking (not exactly) (and had gained back my kilo) and started out for real life.
Mais bon, from where I’m sitting next time, maybe I could watch the livestream from my seat AT the show? If I’m sitting beside the door in an area where you can only see the back of the model by craning from my seat?

Ah shit, modern life.


*Yes, my mom and I speak on Viber. And she sends me tons of emojis!!! I’m going to send her the Bazaar Emojis, hang on.
**No, to answer the question that everyone asks when I say that, I didn’t lose three kilos “thanks” to my stomach flu, just one. Pfffff, the flu, it’s like How I Met Your Mother: not what it once was.
***And by that I mean coffee so as not to freeze your fingers taking pictures and parties head to head with my computer, my true best friend.
****A slimy type of American medicine that tastes like cherry tagada that helps, ummmmm, what I had, which, I’m not going to make you a drawing oooohhhhh.
***** = Not Stylish at all, it’s too cold.
******Bon, ok, between the time I had asked him to buy me some rice and bananas at the deli to do my BRAT diet recommended for stomach issues, (IN CASE I COULD FINALLY LEAVE YOU IN PEACE WITH THIS STOMACH FLU THING, I TOLD MYSELF THAT I WOULD ADD A LITTLE EXTRA AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE) (Banana Rice Apple sauce Toast.)

This illustration first appeared in Vogue Paris and has been modified.

Translated by Andrea Perdue.