Four Weeks of Fashion Parties, One Party Girl

Beauty editor, model-muse, and certified It Girl Tish Weinstock spills on the glam and grime of doing fashion week in every major city, back-to-back.

Maybe I have a death wish or maybe it’s because I spent the entire summer with my own brat kids, starved of adult company and head-to-toe looks, but for the first time ever I did fashion week in all four cities. New York, London, Milan, Paris. A thousand outfit changes later, here’s what went down.

For the last few seasons, it’s felt like unless you’re already living in the city, no one from Europe gives a shit about NYFW. Come September 1, people are still OOO—if not in body, then certainly in mind—making that treacly transition into back-to-school mode. The idea of getting on a long-haul flight with mosquito-bitten legs and the residue of summer still in your hair just isn’t appealing. Yet here I was doing exactly that. And let me tell you; New York, we are so back.Upon arrival, you could feel an instant vibe shift. Ralph Lauren was showing in the Hamptons, Alaïa was taking over Manhattan, and there were reports of both Rihanna and Madonna being in town. Plus there was this weird convergence of fashion and politics happening, with the anticipation of the US election.That first night, I went to the Waverly Inn to celebrate Alexa Chung’s collaboration with Madewell. I was very much around during the days of indie sleaze but only in London. Walking into the Waverly time warp I got a snapshot of the American variant. Everyone there was in a band or adjacent to one. Lots of long straggly hair, skinny jeans, and just the right amount of leather. For a fashion week event, it was refreshingly cozy and low-key. No influencers or step-and-repeats. Just hot guys, yummy food, copious amounts of cigarettes, and exceptionally good music courtesy of Harley Viera-Newton, which meant people actually danced.The next day I went to my Collina Strada fitting. I’m not sure why, but as a 34-year-old geriatric, people have occasionally asked me to model for them. This is my fifth runway and my first in the Big Apple. I’d never met the designer Hillary Taymour or her stylist Jorden Bickham before, but when I arrived at Taymour’s studio, I didn’t want to leave. My look was an aquamarine floaty number, which was teamed with some essentially dip-dyed trainers. Part sea sprite, part woodland nymph.After my fitting, I went to meet the artist Aurel Schmidt, who had just done the illustrations for my goth book, at Sant Ambroeus in the West Village, where I basically bumped into the entire fashion industry. A very dapper George Cortina was on his way to an early dinner, while Brenda Hashtag was looking for a loo in which to change into her Miu Miu look. Same, girl.I stopped off at Lucien on my way home and felt reassured by the fact that nothing had changed. Hoards of young, hot skater kids were spilling out onto the streets trying to rally up a crew for the Marc Jacobs x shindig. I was in between wanting to go, despite being hideously overage, and wanting to get back to my hotel to do a warm compress on my eye to abate the stye that was starting to emerge. I chose the latter.Show day. I got a taxi to the NY Marble Cemetery, for the Collina Strada show. The legend that is Dick Page was doing makeup and that saucy little Charlie Le Mindu was on hair. The beat was minimal, just gorgeous, glowing skin, while hair was gelled and straggly. The casting was a colorful mix of models, singers, dancers, artists, and actors, all of whom brought their individual personalities to the catwalk. Two laps on the grassy runway and it was over.It was a long day and I was desperate to get home and sleep, and yet inexplicably wound up at Thistle Brown and Gauntlett Cheng’s jam-packed, sweat-drenched rave before ending my night at a gay bar at some obscene hour, gazing lovingly into the eyes of photographer Ethan James Green.I should not have gone out. Luckily, all I had the next day was the KHAITE show, which was the perfect way to round off my New York trip. I was obsessed with my look, a slinky charcoal number with a structured cropped leather jacket and some yellow python shoes—perfect for snaking my way through the crowds. A masterpiece in minimalist cool, this was Cate Holstein at her finest. But there were also some softer moments, here, courtesy of white crochet separates and dresses in pink organza.That night, I thought about going to the mag launch, a party hosted by Chloë Sevigny and Haley Wollens to celebrate the new issue, but thankfully decided against it. I had an early flight the next day, and LFW to simultaneously dread and look forward to.

I love London. But I love me more. Instead of spreading myself thin, I decided to limit myself to a handful of shows, beginning with Aaron Esh. Outside the show space, a crowd of black-clad cool kids had begun to congregate amidst a cloud of secondhand smoke. They were here for Esh’s sophomore collection and it didn’t disappoint. It felt very rock and roll and heroin chic, but also with a bit of glam. Backstage was also a vibe, so much so that I didn’t want to leave. But leave I did.Next stop: Nensi Dojaka, and her love letter to the perfect party dress. All the Insta girlies were there, dressed in full looks. The mood was fun and elevated. And made me want to have a drink…so imagine my disappointment when arriving at the x Rabanne party and they’d just run out of champagne. In hindsight, it was a blessing in disguise. That Sunday morning JW Anderson slot does not mess about. With pounding techno and an assault of architectural silhouettes, even if you were hungover, this show was bound to wake you the fuck up.A quick change in the car into my 16Arlington look—a black widow extravaganza with sculpted hips—and it was off to see Marco Capaldo’s sizzling-hot collection before changing yet again (my poor driver) into a sheer Simone Rocha slip replete with furry shoes and a pet pooch pouch. Haunting, gothic, and romantic, Rocha’s show was a scintillating reinterpretation of her own codes. Later that night, I popped into the magazine party to celebrate the new issue (of which [ahem] I am a cover star). There Stevie Sims attacked me with a microphone and Amelia Gray got me thinking I needed to start going to the gym. That body is next-level. The party was kicking off (rumors of karaoke abounded) but I had dinner plans, so I slithered off to the Simone Rocha soirée at Claridge’s, where there were sugar-encrusted roses and chocolate-coated mirrors courtesy of Laila Gohar. I spent most of the night smoking cigarettes with Alex Consani and Jeremy O. Harris, and just generally getting up to no good.Burberry Day! After lots of anxiety-inducing emails about the show doors shutting early, my friend Olympia and I jumped out of our car at a traffic standstill and started fully sprinting to the National Theatre. I arrived in my mossy-hued trench coat and leather hooves pouring with sweat and having mild heart palpitations, got caught in the Gary Hume web and then found someone sitting in my seat. But the show started and all was well. Jean. Alva. Edie. Kai. All the Burberry girlies were there, while the front row was lined with the various Oasis offspring. An appropriate way to round LFW off.

Milan is all about extremes. Phenomenal food: Pizza! Pasta! Tiramisu! But atrocious traffic and a crazy mob-controlled car network. My entry to MFW was gentle; a presentation for Maccapani, Margherita Missoni’s new brand, in which my friend Josephine and I, plus a cast of colorful characters, got to lounge around a stunning Milanese house, making art and basically talking shit, the latter of which we kept getting in trouble for with the choreographer. For someone with raging ADHD, staying in character and not talking to onlookers was a challenge, but anything for Missoni. That night, I thought about going to the Prada party but decided to be good instead. She’s growing up.The next day was all about Gucci, baby. The show was lit, literally, and in the Gen Z sense. Red light flooded the majestic Triennale Milano. Ahead of the show, people were shouting across the runway at each other and just generally being silly—conviviality that was echoed in the finale in which models came dancing down the runway to what can only be described as a classic Italian anthem.That night, I had the Versace show, which was everything I wanted to be: sex and glamour. Watching Vittoria, Gigi, Iris, and Mona glide down the runway was an honor and privilege I won’t forget anytime soon. After that, it was off to the Jimmy Choo dinner at Sant Ambroeus, where I’d eaten lunch with Maximilian Davis, Paloma Elsesser, and the Ferragamo team just a few hours earlier. After a stunning plate of paccheri, I was ready to call it a night. And yet somehow I ended up at the Gucci afterparty—a decision I came to regret. The party was heaving; everyone was crowded around a makeshift dance floor. Sabato De Sarno was behind the DJ booth, just absolutely loving life. I don’t want to know what time the party ended, so let’s just leave it there.The next day I had The Attico show, where I saw bleary-eyed and sheepish revelers from the night before. But any feelings of party anxiety slipped away as soon as the show began. Showgirl feather headdresses and barely-there slips made from webs of crystal. Honestly, this show was mesmerizing.That night there was the Ferragamo cocktail party, where I told myself I wouldn’t drink. I lied. But in my defense, by this point, no amount of alcohol could touch the sides. I got swept up in a big group with hunky stylist Marc Forné and found myself at the Ferragamo afterparty and started talking to a bunch of underage skaters, who quickly made me realize I needed to get the fuck home. for now, Milan.

After 24 hours of reacquainting myself with my kids, I was on the Eurostar to Paris with the rest of the fashion industry. My first event was the Dior show. My look was a very demure French woman; wraparound, off-the-shoulder black dress with a pearl choker. The monochrome platforms and black socks (lethal combo when you bring cobbles into the mix) gave it a subversive twist. Painted sky-blue, the set had a calming effect, something that was offset by the leather moto jackets and thumping techno beats.That night I went to The Ritz to see some friends for a drink, which turned into several. Great for people-watching and gossiping about fashion’s musical chairs.Paris is burning. But it’s also raining at the same time, which put a damper on things. But that didn’t seem to rain on Chemena Kamali’s parade at Chloé. Sorry, that was a terrible metaphor. I digress. The show was stunning. An orgy of feminine lace frills and chiffon. My show look was a gorgeous ’70s negligee-coded slip in beautiful sky-gray, but my look for the dinner that night at Lapérouse was even better. A stunning tan ’70s gown with endless frills and floaty tendrils. Part Stevie Nicks part boho fairy. Was I worried about spilling something down it? Yes. But not enough to not enjoy the moment. The dinner was like being back in 2008, Sienna Miller’s tousled hair was tousling. As was Kamali’s. As was Inez van Lamsweerde’s. The dinner got quite rowdy when the shots came out, whereupon we found a cozy booth and started singing along to Q Lazzarus’s “Goodbye Horses.” That night made me realize a couple of things: I want to stop straightening my hair, I need to actually learn the lyrics to songs, and fashion daddy Mel Ottenberg is unbelievably hot. But you already knew that, didn’t you?Cut to Saturday and I’m giving my best horse-girl in a pair of Alexander McQueen betailed horseshoe hooves, teamed with a high-collared black velvet top and gauze skirt containing what looked like more horse hair in the lining. It’s the McQueen show and we’re going with my sister-in-law Daphne, Lee Alexander Mcqueen’s original muse, which felt like a full-circle moment. The show was sensational. Shotgun the finale look. After that, it was off to the Alessandra Rich x magazine party at Hotel Amour for some organic wine and beef tacos before trotting off to bed.Day 6849, I’m still in Paris. Today we have the Isabel Marant show, the Issue Three launch dinner and Mert Alas and Tasso Ferreira’s 71 Gin party, where Lila Moss was also celebrating her birthday. FML. I need a lobotomy or a B12 shot, but I don’t have access to either. The Isabel Marant show was fab, but I wasn’t wearing enough clothing and it was outside. Not ideal. I try and warm up with copious amounts of wine at the System dinner. It’s the model issue, curated by Piergiorgio Del Moro. So every other guest was a model, but in an off-duty context, which was interesting. Can confirm: Angelina Kendall is a real-life angel. Next stop: Le Bristol, where Mossy senior was leading the charge on the dance floor. Too much gin later, I was nearly dragged into an afterparty back at Hotel Costes. These gays are trying to murder me.My husband and I wake up feeling like death: a common case of the influencer influenza. I don’t have time to go to the pharmacy as the Stella McCartney show is at 10 AM. Once again, it’s outside, but thankfully I’m wearing a big non vegan (sorry Stella!) coat. It’s at this point I cancel the Coperni x Disney show (a decision I will forever regret) because it means coming back a whole extra day later. I’m tired, sick, and I miss my kids.That night was the moment I’ve been waiting for; the secret screening of Maison Margiela’s Nighthawk, a film by John Galliano, about his iconic and historic Paris de Nuit–inspired couture collection. The theater is flooded with ominous red light, which perfectly illuminates my ’30s-inspired chiffon gown which Lexy, Galliano’s boyfriend, picked out for me. We were told earlier that day that we had a special job to do during the screening, which was to place a cushion on one of the seats after models Lulu Tenney and Leon Dame got up halfway through, a job I’ve never taken more seriously. The screening itself was beyond; I even made an unexpected cameo appearance in it— a bit of BTS filming from a shoot I did with Galliano and Paolo Roversi for magazine (coming soon to a newsstand near you). The screening wrapped around 10, the night was young and full of darkness but we made the sensible decision to go home. By this point, I’d seen everyone I wanted to see, and had no chat left in me. I’d been on the road for about a month, had more outfit changes than you can shake a stick at, and finally, it had all caught up with me. And besides, there’s always next season.