The Fashion Week Finale

Wall-to-wall models go wild with Kanye West


By Bella Blissett

We’ve seen metallic eyes, oblong eyes, barely-there eyes and glossy ones. But trust us when we say that you haven’t lived until you’ve seen dozens of dicky-bowed (hot) men roam the halls of a dark, cavernous party – rocking a smoky eye.

It was the Hotel Salomon. It was the MAC for Carine Roitfeld party. The dress code was ‘black tie and smoky eye’. And even by fashion’s standards, it was on stilts.
Sure, the evening started off polite enough. With our shadow-eyed waiters circulating with vodka, ginger and cucumber juice cocktails, size zero courgette canapés and teeny-tiny macaroons, a projected video of Ms Roitfeld played out on a continuous loop on the ceiling above the grand staircase.

Fast forward three hours and the black-clad, long limbs of Karlie Kloss ran through the crowds, Valentino posed for pictures and Poppy Delevingne threw her hands up in the air and partied like she doesn’t didn’t care to the sounds of to Whitney Houston’s ‘How Will I Know’.

Joan Smalls meanwhile was too busy trying to vie for her place in an annexe room where a madder-than-ever Paloma Faith sung about heartache – then seemed to miss her own irony as she urged the assembled, fashion-obsessed crowds to undress, “because clothes don’t matter”.

Catching sight of a certain Terry Barber busting some serious moves on the hall-of-mirrors dance floor, we made a beeline for those swinging hips. But tut-tut, there was a hold up – a bottleneck in the aisles.
As we entered a narrow room lined with row upon row of models, stylists, make up artists, celebrities and designers, we forgave the culprit. If only because it was Kanye West.

As the early morning wore on and the dance moves got wilder, this was fashion’s way of letting its over-styled hair down. And letting it down good.
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