The Flack Files, Vol. 8: Confidential to All You Designers Showing at NYFW

Nothing riles up our favorite Flack quite like the advent of #NYFW. Surely some of you can relate? 

Dearest designer,

I was ultra excited to receive three voicemails from you over the weekend—and all before 9 a.m., how inspiring! So you had a change of heart and do, in fact, want to present at NYFW. When I brought this up three months ago, you were dead-set against it for a lot of very valid reasons, but sure, I can make magic happen in three weeks. Isn’t that what we publicists were made for?

That’s awesome you could speak to your dad—sorry, your investor—and score a budget of $5,000. That will absolutely compete in terms of production value and front row chicsters with Marc and Rodarte. Am I concerned that at this point you have yet to sketch an entire collection, much less produce it overseas (read: China)? Nah, you’ve got this. Chinese New Year isn’t that big of a deal. Now let’s dare to dream that I’m able to pull this off—can we head off a few token designer behaviors at the pass? Starting today, you may NOT:

• Email me on a half-hour basis asking for updated RSVPs. Yes, your judgmental older sister is coming. SJP? Not so much, but I like that positive attitude.
• Accuse the entire design community of preemptively knocking you off. Sorry, girl—you did not invent the gladiator sandal.
• Decide to change your show date five days before the event because Susan Miller hinted that a later date “could” be fortuitous.
• Distribute my cell phone to all of your personal contacts, so they can ring me for their seat assignment. And yes, your sister is front-row.
• Meet a single person for your usual round (or six) of John the Baptists at The Dead Rabbit until you have actually finished your collection.

If you promise to comply, I promise to not go out on a bender until 7 a.m. the night before we send out your printed invites. I promise I won’t come into the office before it opens, without having slept, to “get ahead” and impress my boss. I promise I’ll do my best not to put the stamp on the wrong side of 1,500 gorgeously printed, embossed envelopes because I am still drunk, and not even realize it until my bitchy manager points it out to me whilst waving his hand in his face to signal that I still smell like the basement of Up and Down. I promise none of this ever happened in my past—you needn’t be concerned. Regardless, I’m over-the-moon we get to work so closely together on this project! Let the games begin.

With warmest regards,

Your Fashion Week Flack