Gatekeepers, Influencers, Writers and Snobs.

Gang's all here, must be Fashion Month!

One nice thing about living in New York this week is that everybody comes to you. There’s been a little pop of out-of-towners trickling in, and I’ve been spoiled by seeing a lot of internet friends in a short time. Some are TikTokkers, some are Editors or Substackers, some are down-the-line influencers, and some are on TV. The conversation at the center of things is the Fashion Week of it all — how it can make you feel, who should participate and why, and how we simultaneously question our participation while wanting to be a part of it.

I get it. Even the most mentally fit have to shore up during a calendar month that quantifies you by appearances. Hearing other people’s perspectives on that familiar FOMO has been interesting. It burns you out and draws you in at the same time. I’ve read more than one winding account in the last week from someone who has decisively stepped away from the fray and feels the need to justify their absence. At the same time, I’ve talked to people attending their first show ever, transmuting a mix of breathless excitement and sheer terror.

And then, of course, there are the people bitching about how “New York Fashion Week has changed”. How it isn’t what it used to be, how it was better, more credible/exciting/glamorous/pure in another era. How these young whipper snappers just don’t “get it”.

At the Khaite show last weekend, there was a little scuffle between two women, one of whom thought the other had cut her in (the non-existent) line. “You’re clearly new here,” one snarked in a nasty tone. “I’ve worked in this industry for ten years. I know how this works. There’s a line.” The other woman, an influencer, calm and polite, replied. “I believe we all have a seat assignment.” Other people jumped in and took sides, creating a mini kerfuffle that edged on the unintentional comic border of an SNL skit. And so I silently watched the silly spectacle of people jockeying for non-existent power, as Emma Roberts and Derek Blasberg silently looked on.

Real influence, to me, is the publicist at the door whispering into her walkie-talkie, “Lynn Yaeger Lynn Yaeger”. It’s the woman from Alabama who is such a power customer that the brand invited her to the show based on her spend alone. It’s Emma Roberts, who smiled at me as I walked in, looking as genuinely happy to be there as I was. It was the writer and illustrator

Jenny Walton

or Influencer Hannah Bronfman who were doing the brand a favor simply by showing up in their clothes — and tagging on Instagram.

Two days ago, legendary Publicist Kelly Cutrone was asked what’s in and out on Tiktok — in? “The truth.” She replied. Out? “Influencers.” The fact she snarked this standing next to a still-under-house-arrest Anna Delvey, whom she was co-hosting an NYFW event with, is hilarious.

I occupy a strange space between journalist and influencer. I am still very careful to note that The Love List is not a fashion newsletter, but a shopping newsletter because I don’t have any intention of providing 360-degree coverage of an industry I merely dabble in. This isn’t my full-time job. My value is presenting a certain edit and point of view to serve an established set of readers. At most, I am a consumer, a fan. But what I consume dictates what others consume, and I have the data to prove it. So if the “truth” is in, the truth is that influencers aren’t “out” — and never will be, if they continue to drive sales.

I love how punk rock Kelly Cutrone is, how she remains fearless and disruptive and I hope she never changes. But being the loudest voice in the room doesn’t make you correct. Are we really going to argue Anna Delvey is a better addition to the fabric of Fashion Week than someone who can convert thousands of followers into customers? Of course not, it’s a cheap stunt. Did it generate sales for the brand Cutrone represented? I hope so. But it’s PR at the end of the day, peddling in the same legal tender as every single influencer — attention.

It flashed me back to my first fashion weeks over ten years ago as a blogger. I remember the collective groan when my generation (before there was even a term for it) was suddenly seated front row. Never mind that trailblazers like Garance Dorè or Leandra Medine had a real point of view that made a meaningful contribution to the industry. If it meant a buyer had to scooch over a little, outrage!

It’s the same thing now, but with TikTokkers. Folks grumble and roll their eyes at the arrival of starry-eyed newbies touting massive social followings. But the truth is, the industry needs them. Don’t get me wrong, we still very much need prestige journalism, and I hate seeing print going the way of the dinosaur. But fewer people than ever are reading Vogue. And that’s not an opinion, it’s a sheer matter of fact.

Whether you like it or not, people are getting at least some of their information elsewhere, and every industry has to meet its consumers where they’re at — even if that place is TikTok, Substack, Sofia Richie’s arm, or yes, Anna Delvey’s rooftop. Complaining about it is ultimately nothing more than sanctimonious noise.

Consumers are nuanced, and coverage should not be a monolith. Many things can be true at once. I subscribe to the print edition of The Cut and also buy things via influencers. I love reading Cathy Horyn slice necks by calling everyone a bunch of talentless hacks — she always so brilliantly challenges the status quo. And I love reading what great thinkers like Rachel Tashijan have to say even if I diametrically disagree. But I also love seeing the light and frothy bits; shopping roundups and the pieces my favorite influencer likes scratch a different part of my brain. And if I’m honest, it’s the frothy bits that ultimately get me to buy.

Marc Jacobs once said, “Clothes mean nothing until someone lives in them.” Online, who that someone is means everything to a brand’s bottom line. And while Anna Delvey may lie, numbers do not.

The very foundation of fashion week is a presentation of new ideas — so shouldn’t its crop of gatekeepers and storytellers evolve along? “Fashion Week” is a bucket term for a litany of smaller events, and who should “get” to attend is ultimately a case-by-case decision that belongs to the brand. A runway is a giant sales pitch. The entire point is to sell clothes. May whoever converts the most attention into sales win. If that means Tinx sits front row, then so be it.

I also think we should apply more nuance to the term “influencer”. There are talent-based influencers: whether it be a writer, someone who has created a radical connection with their audience, or someone who composes outfits with a distinct point of view that inspires. This is recommendation media, service journalism, serving people, etc. Then, I think there are vanity-based influencers, which is where people get the ick. Those are the people who you feel like your presence is secondary because they’re really just talking to themselves in the mirror.

Going a little deeper, there are influencers in the traditional sense, and then there are people with influence. Influencers make a living converting recommendations into sales. “People with influence” connects with the idea of someone who is coming from a place of credibility, who isn’t necessarily making a living from selling you stuff online. It could just be someone with a cool life who you like following, or a celebrity like Emma Roberts. Editors, for example generally can’t accept gifts over a certain value, paid partnerships, or anything that might compromise the integrity of their reporting. So you could say Editors have influence but aren’t influencers.

What’s been happening, and where I think people get stuck, is that the conflict of interest zone is getting blurrier and blurrier. Influencers often become contributors to magazines. Media folks break away from brands like Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar, leveraging their contacts and credibility to catapult into the influencer space. In some cases, influencers are more sustainable fixtures long-term than a twentysomething Editor. In other cases, influencers become the media empire themselves, employing their own cadre of writers. People go on TV or star in movies and amass giant social followings, what they wear on camera and off can be a huge driver for brand awareness.

I’m of the opinion that all of these people are of influence — and all of them move the needle collectively. To some brands, that’s worth a seat at the table. Or in this case, the front row.

No matter how hard institutional media would like to ignore the Internet or erase influencers from the narrative, they’re a growing (and extremely powerful) fixture in this industry. They’re not even new at this point! I’m kind of stunned that we’re still having this conversation, to be honest. The Internet’s presence or exclusion isn’t a debate, it isn’t going anywhere. Just because you don’t sit well with something doesn’t mean it fails to be real. And reality is something legacy publications should contend with if they ultimately want to exist as anything other than legacy.

Khaite is a great example of a brand that gets this. Khaite is a brand I love and wear all the other weeks of the year, so it makes sense for me to say yes to that show invitation. Khaite makes clothes for very online people who live in New York City — and prices them without humility. I am a very online woman who lives in New York City who both buys from the brand and reports to a readership that cares about the brand. Catherine Holstein iterates for her collectors rather than wiping the board clean to innovate dramatically every season, which the people who wear her clothes appreciate — old season pieces hash in beautifully with new. Maybe that’s not every critic’s favorite thing, but it will well sustain her to remain a titan.

I also appreciate that I get to be there. I’m not numb or bored, I’m thrilled, and I’m not too cool to pretend otherwise. I don’t care that ten other girls in the room have on the same jacket as I do. I don’t need to tell myself the lie that I’m a special little snowflake, that I’m not like the other girls. Because I am! I am exactly like the other girls! I know that because they’re right here in the very inbox I’m sending to! I’m talking to them right now! And they want to know what the fuck Catherine Holstein is sending down the runway!

I was sitting next to a woman at the show who was gasping and taking pictures of nearly every item, who turned around and made an immediate showroom appointment to pre-order. Half the girls at the Net-a-Porter party were wearing at least one thing by Khaite. I get at least three messages a week from a reader asking me about the fit or quality of the brand. Heavy hitters love the brand as much as influencers — Lauren Santo Domingo lives four doors down from me, and I see her in Khaite in her everyday life. In short: Catherine Holstein has the girls in a chokehold. All of them.

That is fashion commerce, baby. And that is why Khaite can afford to produce an incredible, cinematic runway — because people don’t just talk about Khaite, they buy it. A lot of it. Holstein is thinking about her woman first and foremost. And if your question is “Who is buying Khaite, anyway?” I can tell you that it’s (in part) the readers of this newsletter, because I have that data, too. Khaite influences the influencers, it is the nucleus. Embracing the Internet without alienating legacy media is what has catapulted the brand from NYC niche to total dominance. More of that. Less Anna Delvey.

The girls who get it, get it.