- Lucy Geldziler
- Mar 17, 2025
To many, New York Fashion Week is the best week of the year…unless you live in New York and don’t work in fashion—that is. The casting call girls, guys, and everyone in between flood the streets, demanding that their $8 matchas be made faster, their jeans be lower rise, and their names be on every list for every afters. Don’t get me wrong—I have many model and designer friends who are lovely and talented, but it’s safe to say NYFW isn’t what it used to be. It’s become a week with less emphasis on art, fashion, and talent, and more emphasis on lists, afters, follower count, content creation, and exclusivity. It’s become clouded by the clouted (and worse—by those wishing they were).
At the forefront of its social-climbing is an amalgamation of influencers, socialites, and fauxialites (clout-chasing, aspiring socialites that have not yet made it high enough on the ladder as a social climber to earn the label “socialite”). To the aforementioned, nothing is exciting if it’s all-inviting; Exclusivity is hotter than it’s ever been. Every party (even at clubs you frequent every other week of the year) is only as tempting as it is elite—letting spiritually-vapid fauxialites masquerade as the beau monde. Fashion week is an invitation for everything to be pricier, streets to be more crowded, and lines to be longer (I’m referring to two types of lines—those that are stood in and those that are snorted). I’m no stranger to chaos and I’m certainly not averse to it, but this was different from the type of chaos I’m familiar with, but then again “familiar chaos” is somewhat of an oxymoron in itself.
Most NYFW events I went out of my way to avoid (apologies for my unconcealed misanthropy), but the event I was looking forward to most was the Alt NY Fashion Gala at Le Bain. I was hosting another party at Home Sweet Home on Chrystie Street, and my hosting duties required me to stay there until 2:30 AM, but once I was off the clock, I rushed over to catch the end of the party at Le Bain.
ALT NY Fashion Gala at Le Bain
I know it was a good party when I walk in late and immediately see my friends straddling and locking lips with the very men who broke their hearts that they vowed to never speak to again. I play the ostrich momentarily and pretend to turn a blind eye because now is not the time for confrontation; Now is the time for partying. I’ll knock some sense into them later, but right now we dance.
I’ve been to Le Bain—a nightclub inside The Standard Hotel in the Meatpacking District—many times, but I believe this is the first time I've been there when it was snowing. You’d think that would be insignificant, as nightclubs are inside after all, right? However, anyone who’s ever been to Le Bain is familiar with not only the picturesque view of the Manhattan skyline that its presence on the top floor of the hotel invites, but also with the entrance to the rooftop. I don’t typically like the snow. I was born and raised in the Northeast, so it never excited me. The first snow of the season only made me sad—knowing it would only end up gray on the sidewalk in a day or two and was a sign of a long, dreary Winter that was to come, but there was something about stepping out onto this rooftop and seeing the ground covered with pillowy snow that just felt so calming.
It was so serene—one of those moments that you can already anticipate missing in the future.
The party was produced by Matt Weinberger (photographer) and Orson (DJ)—two names to keep at the center of your NYC nightlife Rolodex. It had an impressive lineup of DJs including Guillaume Berg, Picture Plane, Wave.89, Quiet Girls, and Orson himself, and featured the work of various indie fashion designers including but not limited to Bella Pietro, Emerson Isa, By Liv Handmade, and Drink More Water.
When I arrived at the door, it helped that I was able to cut the entire line and tell the bouncer I was on the VIP list. The regular line wrapped around the door, as this party had over thirteen hundred RSVPs, and in this freezing cold, there was no way I was waiting in it.
“Are you one of the models?” The bouncer asked me at the door. I told him I was not and that I was probably listed under either “press” or “close friends”, but this was one of several times that night I would be asked this, which was probably enough sustenance for my ego until the next NYFW. He found my name on the list and I headed up the elevator to the top floor of The Standard.
Immediately I was welcomed by the very chaos I anticipated. So much smoke clouded the inside of the club that I could barely see who it was that was hugging me and greeting me with enthusiasm upon my entry. There was club music so loud that I could not just hear it but almost feel it moving through my veins, and of course—bright flashes in a dark room of photographers taking photos of influencers, socialites, and fauxialites—with a percentage of well-respected artists among them. I looked around the room and one thing was for certain — ‘heroin chic’ is back (but this time it’s less chic—it’s almost ‘heroin sleaze’).
I found Matt and greeted him, let him snap a few photos of me, and then joined the rest of the crowd to dance.
Only Ali RQ of DJ duo Quiet Girls could make a platform above a pool shake with Katy Perry’s classic “Teenage Dream”—the DJ duo’s DJ set was far from eponymous, as it was anything but quiet when they were behind the decks.
After a while of dancing, all the cocktails I’d previously consumed caught up with me and begrudgingly, I left to use the bathroom. While in line for the bathroom, I saw myself in the corner on one of the posters on the wall from a different party I had attended there months prior and was pleasantly surprised.
After going to the bathroom, I danced some more, socialized some more, and eventually, the music came to an end and we were all herded out of the club. This was maybe the first time the 4 am end time actually meant 4 am. I headed up to the roof once more before heading out. I was shocked to see what were probably influencers posing for pictures wearing chapless pants in February outside in the snow.
I stopped in a donut shop on the way out because it was the only thing that was open while I waited for my train and it was freezing. A random man, who flirted with me relentlessly, bought me two donuts of my choice and one coffee of his. I ate one of the donuts and gave the second to a homeless person, along with the coffee—as it may have been coffee time for the random man in the donut shop who bought it for me and wished me a good morning, but I still had glitter on my eyes, my dead grandmother’s Manolo Blahniks on my feet, and a blood alcohol content even higher than my heels. The party itself was fun, but I’m glad this week is in the rear. As I waited for my train and reflected on the party and New York Fashion Week in all its glory, I decided I was petitioning to reclaim the word “socialite” and abolish the resurgence of methadone clinic chic.
Written by Lucy Geldziler
