The day that Phoebe Philo’s debut collection arrived online last fall felt not unlike the first time that Beyoncé cold-dropped an album on all of us. “It’s live!” someone announced, and an electric energy filled the office as everyone more or less dropped what they were doing to see what Philo’s new vision would entail. Afterwards we would look on social media to see who was able to buy a piece, and after that what it looked like when the inevitable selfies and unboxing videos began making their rounds. Though its hard-to-get approach was simply a product of Philo figuring out a new way of working with the system, it felt like there was something missing.
So it was an exciting development when it was announced less than a week ago that her collection would be available for sale at Bergdorf Goodman in New York for a limited time. I made a mental note to myself to go and feel it all. Taking the train there today, I felt the familiar sense of excitement of when I had first moved to the city at 22 and would take the subway uptown to get lost in clothes and imagine what a version of me that wore designer clothes would be, might look like, might feel. It’s not something I do anymore, maybe because I’m older or maybe because I’m a mom with no leisure time for wandering and daydreaming.
Outside Bergdorf’s, giant screens showed Phoebe Philo’s signature tongue-in-cheek imagery, a close-up of elegantly manicured feet in asymmetrical high-heeled sandals doing leg presses, a shot of a woman from behind, wearing white trousers and wildly swinging her body side to side while balancing on that one machine at the gym were you hold yourself up that’s apparently called a “power tower, interspersed with the Phoebe Philo logo in bold lipstick red and and a large O. (Why not a P? I thought, but that’s Phoebe for you.) Inside, I made my way to the fourth floor following only instinct. I turned a corner to find a mini-store complete with a glass facade bearing the logo and one of those black tube things that people use for crowd control at the airport or, I guess, luxury retail stores. The glass partition feels extra-special, as most other designers on that floor have a dedicated rack or a sort of anteroom that is a more contained space while still remaining fully open at the front. The space also has at least one fitting room which is occupied by different customers the entire time I am there. The furnishings are sparse, and the big lipstick-red cylinders that anchor the accessory displays feel quasi Memphis-inspired. There are also a couple midcentury modern chairs are in a corner next to two mirrors, and lots of chrome everywhere. A security guard stood across the way next to a gaggle of employees—a mix of Bergdorf Goodman retail staff and Phoebe’s women (one of which was wearing the “Utility Dropped Waist Jacket” in cargo green and matching trousers)—who watched the goings-on.
The first thing I noticed were the cream shredded trousers that I had fallen in love with after that first drop. I walked toward them with my hand extended as if in a daze, and began petting the fringe a little more aggressively than I would like to admit. It was a lot softer than I anticipated, and I was surprised that from the back, the trousers were “normal”—belt loops, pockets, a shiny viscose twill that did not hint at the chaos in the front. It’s not that I couldn’t tell their design from the website, but in person that contrast was heightened; my brain receptors activated.
I walked next to the rack petting everything: a pinstriped jacket had a fantastic sheen under the light, switching from gray to green, the hand-feel just rough enough to give the wearer a sense of sturdiness and strength. I looked at the price tag, “$3,600,” and thought, Oh, only $3,600? Not because I am rich or out of touch, but because the price seemed on par with other designer clothes. “Isn’t that what things cost?” I texted a friend later. There was a gorgeous long black jacket with a sculpted waist and hips—I ran my hand along its curves and thought about what its sensual possibilities would be when actually worn by someone.
“All the cotton has been pre-washed for that worn-in feel,” I hear the salesperson tell two women eyeing a pair of jeans. The denim is slouchy, with zippers up the back of the legs like seams on nylons (and yes, you can unzip them all the way). I decide to try them on, and the salesperson informs me they are running a whole size too big. He goes to find the another pair somewhere and while I wait a different salesperson comes back with sizes for someone else. The space is tiny and busy but not in a claustrophobic sort of way. On another, smaller rack, there is a (washed) black long sleeve cotton T-shirt with banded cuffs and two football-inspired pads on the shoulders. “I think I need a top,” I say when he returns with the jeans in my size and I am happy when he suggests the football-shouldered style. He walks me to another fitting room around the way.
The initial pair of jeans he brings me are too big but thankfully he does have the size I need. I look at myself in the mirror in full Phoebe Philo, a black T-shirt ($1,050) tucked into my zip-off mid-rise slouchy jeans ($1,600). I feel like me but deeply, infinitely cooler. I begin doing the mental gymnastics familiar to everyone whose taste runs higher than their tax bracket. “Well… it is my 40th birthday in a few months…. Sure, $1,600 is a lot of money, but you would wear them forever, and they wouldn’t really go out of style…. You have that one shirt from Topshop that you bought more than a decade ago that you still wear and is in great condition….” I pick up the phone and I text my editor, “this is cruel because now I want this outfit.”
I go back to the Phoebe Philo space and ogle things some more: Square-toe leather pumps are glove-soft; the “MUM” necklace looks just as good in person (Mother’s Day is coming up!), “That’s the last pair of those glasses in that color,” a salesperson says to a young woman trying on a pair in front of the mirror. “It is?” she responds and I immediately detect the slight vibrato that means she knows she has to buy them. Women love Phoebe because she knows what we want, makes clothes that let us look at ourselves the way we wish we could see ourselves. On the website the clothes were good, but distant, pure fantasy. The minute you touch them, the spell is cast. I leave with the same manifestation mantra I learned from watching Wayne’s World too many times. They will be mine, oh yes, they will be mine. This really is Phoebe Philo’s world.
