FINANCIAL markets may totter, but fashion shows go on.

Less than two weeks before the venerable Lehman Brothers firm collapsed, the fashion industry celebrated frothy fabric confections at the whirling, well-dressed circus that was the Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week at New York City's Byrant Park.

Outside the tent where the event was held, gatecrashers jostled against invited guests and tried to weasel their way past black-suited bouncers and headphone- wearing public-relations fembots. Invited by Singapore's much-awaited shopping mall Ion Orchard to jet to the Big Apple to cover the spring collections of its upcoming designer tenants earlier this month, I found myself trying to get into the Vivienne Tam fashion show amid the chaos.

Leaving the Supportive Spouse and my two-year-old son Julian behind for the 10-day trip was not easy. Both sets of grandparents were roped in to split babysitting duties while I was gone. Also, my husband had to go to Paris for work during my absence, which meant that Julian had neither of us around at night for once in his young life.

But when fashion calls, with the promise of glamorous delights, you answer. And I did.

FIGHTING THE CROWD

A FASHION Week neophyte, I  got into the wrong line, and joined the gatecrasher throng by mistake. I got jabbed in the back by a pair of big, fake breasts belonging to a desperate fashionista who was not on the list (I was, and had third-row seats, just for the record).

At Tam's show, a red-satin peony sheath set the tone from the very beginning, giving way to floral chiffon shirts, lilac-embroidered tulle dresses, detailed applique work and other romantic but wearable creations.

At Marc Jacobs, dashing into the historic 69th Regiment Armory building on Lexington Avenue, I ended up sitting on the floor in my satin gown at the foot of the catwalk when I failed to make it past the bouncer to my seat.

From that vantage point, however, I took in the vintage- Hollywood vibe of gold-threaded exotic silhouettes, multi-layered pattern-clashing ensembles and America-in-Paris references.

DONNA KARAN'S CRUTCH
THERE were other lovely shows. Spain's Custo Barcelona recycled the zany 1960s and 70s with Pucci-esque prints and surreal bathing suits.

At Max Azria's show, the Paris- born American designer sent forth one floaty, divinely- draped dress after another in luxurious fabrics like rayon jersey, georgette and cloud crepe.

The restrained, neutral palette ranged from pale grey, sea green to mocha. Similarly, Donna Karan's show, held at her late-sculptor husband Stephan Weiss's studio, featured a soothing colour scheme of aloe, aquamarine, bamboo and pearl.

Dubbed "Liquid Assets", the collection had glam safari jackets, cascading wrap tunics and goddess-like evening dresses. When I saw these clothes - which hugged curvy figures and forgave bulges - I felt there was hope for me in the impossibly slim world of high-end fashion.

After the show, I stood next to Donna Karan as she gave a string of television interviews. The fashion groupie in me got a boost when she took my hand; she was trying to balance while hurdling over a row of benches in her clingy dress.

SURVIVING THE HYPE OUTSIDE the fashion shows, it was back to the histrionics of the wannabes who were all intent on celebrity-spotting. Throngs of people clustered around the tent at all hours of the day, and the shutterbugs went crazy whenever someone like Jennifer Lopez or Lindsay Lohan arrived via limousine.

Exiting Marc Jacobs, my friend and I got within a metre of Posh Spice. I was close enough to notice how tiny she was - even in Christian Louboutin heels - and that her complexion was less than perfect. While New York's fashion offerings may not be as outlandish and fantastical as Paris' (Chanel's French show recently had models cavorting on a giant carousel), at least the hemlines were not depressingly down and the luxe factor remained, despite the economic downturn.

If I were to brave Fashion Week again, I would make sure to go all out to secure all the best invites months in advance, and lash them about my body like grenades when the time came.

After all, Fashion Week - as I found out first-hand - is a beautiful war zone.

myp@sph.com.sg

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