The Streetwear of NYC is decadent & Depressing

Reflections on new york Street style

We were on the way to New York Fashion Week, weaving our way through the streets of Lower Manhattan, when the rain began to fall. It started as a slow graying of the skies, then—a few fat droplets, then—a storm. We stood, stilled, watching as the crowd broke into chaos. Here, a chorus of ecstasy and panic; there, a scrambling of stiletto heels and loafers. The tourists clad in “I ❤ NYC” merch skipped towards cover, laughing with a jubilance that only visitors to a city could muster. The purse vendors who lined the streets began shouting, scrambling over one another to pack their counterfeit Louis Vuittons away from the downpour. When the crowd forming beneath the McDonald’s awning started to spill onto the street, we pulled out our umbrellas, feeling smug—until the wind whipped the rain straight into our faces. I had come to New York City with the hopes of writing about fashion week. But now, runway attendees began to flood the streets, looking wet, limp, and listless. The air smelled like petrichor and Chanel No. 5, and counterfeit purses were strewn across the pavement. I let my umbrella fall to the sidewalk. I had come to New York City with the hopes of writing about fashion week, but now – just two buildings from the runway – I watched it wash away.

***

I have been in love with New York since the third grade. From fashion to music to poetry, the city stands at the forefront of everything that I care most about. It is home to the New Yorker, the birthplace of the New York School, and - of course - it is the site of Fashion Week. But more than that, it is the backdrop of a life I have always wanted for myself. A life where I write in ambient bars, and converse with stylish strangers, and wear only the coolest clothes. Where I thrive in a crucible of artists, work among the best and brightest, and – one day – where I’ve shaped the future of my craft. Just earlier that day, I walked through the SoHo streets, and watched these dreams affirm themselves to me. Outside of the Frankie’s Bikini store, I complimented a girl on her Strawberry Shortcake t-shirt and matching strawberry hat. She hands me a kit-kat in thanks, and her friend – dressed in a top hat with combat boots – nods at my shoes approvingly. I was wearing a silk corset, a leather trench coat, a long pleated skirt, and a pair of studded ballet flats. But around me, people streamed by in skirt-pants, brightly colored suit sets, Lolita dresses, and crimson red boots.

While the Bay Area uniform is defined by comfort, cost, and utility, the New York street style is as loud and expressive as the city itself. Here, the Califorian monotony of white sneakers is replaced by thigh high boots, stiletto heels, ribbon-ed Salomans and ballet flats. The convenience of the ‘groutfit’ is replaced by a crude attention to detail, where even the simplest outfits are styled with a subtle twist or pop of color. Over the years, I’ve been warned many times that New York is “overhyped”; that it is too fast, too harsh, too chaotic. But being there, pushing through the SoHo crowds, what I felt was not intimidation or unease, but excitement. Perhaps, it was some cosmic sign of destiny, Or perhaps I too, looked upon the city with the fervor that only a tourist could muster. From my spot on the corner of some SoHo block, the grimy streets of New York seemed surreal and strangely peaceful. Next to me, a lady wearing a white wig and 10 inch heels twerks on a telephone pole while her friend films her. Outside of the coffee shop we just exited, finance bros hover with their custom suits and $8 lattes. Across the street, hundreds of people line up outside an art gallery, many of them wearing Mary Janes, and most of them holding copies of the Sofia Coppola Archives. As we inched closer, we glimpsed – from a crack in the doorway – some lady (presumably Sofia Coppola) signing copies of the book. Outside, a young man holding a large canvas and wearing baggy clothes debated with a gallery employee. As he was still desperately pointing to his work, the employee walked back inside.

In the 1960’s and 70’s, SoHo was once home to the struggling painters, sculptors, and musicians of New York City. They flocked to its loft spaces, turning abandoned industrial buildings into studios. But today, the remnants of the city’s artistic counterculture have been erased, and transformed into events like the Coppola singing. Events populated by participants holding $70 books and wearing over-priced-thrifted-couture; events held next door to luxury retailers and below multi-million dollar apartments. To write that I love New York street style is all at once a summary of my feelings, and a gross underestimation of reality. In SoHo, we wandered into a random 2nd Street, and found racks of vintage designer goods. I thrifted a $300 jacket for $30. In SoHo, I walked into trendy boutiques and promptly walked back out because I couldn’t afford a thing. In SoHo, stylish strangers complimented my outfit. In SoHo, I felt, all at once, saddened and strangely at ease.

***

We only hovered outside of New York Fashion Week for a moment, before ducking into a nearby doorway. I hover, watching the runway attendees soaked, and running to the subway –

To write Lunch Poems, Frank O’Hara penned his observations of Midtown Manhattan during his daily lunch break. The collection, filled with overheard conversations, fleeting glances at strangers, and brief encounters in cafés, is largely a love letter to the city’s grit, humor, and chaotic vibrance –

Outside of a nearby cafe, a beautiful women stands in the rain, wearing a cobalt blue suit –

Yesterday, I wandered into a random bookstore and found spoken word poetry blasting from its speakers. When I asked Alex, the guy working, who he was playing, we began a conversation about our own artistic pursuits. He mentions Frank O’Hara –

If New York is the heart of art, then art is the heart of New York –

The rain is still pouring, and I purchase a $9 strawberry milk, noting that it doesn’t quite taste as good as the ones I make at home –

Alex shakes my hand and invites me to return if I ever needed someone to talk about poetry with, On our way out, I stop to pet Pablo – the bookstore cat. “Like Neruda?” I ask. Alex laughs, winking at me –

The rain ends –

Words: Emily Peng

Photos: Montserrat Urbina, Waverly Choy

Design: Jessalyn Yepez