Chapter Text
In the beginning, the first challenge had felt like a walk in the park. Seven yards of plain muslin, a budget of twenty dollars, and three weeks to create whatever best represented their point of view as a designer--at home without anyone else watching. Harvey had gone coutour, hand dying the fabric with onion skins, bits of rust, and rose petals before working it into his own textile. The result had surprised him though he didn't show it as his gown came down the runway, merely smirking as if a win in his direction was a foregone conclusion.
Jessica Pearson--editor-in-chief of Haute magazine and the only voice Harvey even cared about--was, if not gushing, at least complimentary, more to his gown than anything else that had come down the runway, asking him questions on his technique and congratulating him on the risk he took.
If Harvey's look is haute couture, then what we have next is haute hippy. Tell us about your look, Mike.
Harvey leaned forward to look down the line to where the kid--Mike--stood grinning like he'd already won. He was the only other designer to manipulate his fabric to make it look different--better--than what it was. Harvey wasn't surprised that it had come down to the two of them but he had wanted to dominate, and looking back to his own gown, all he could see were the places he felt he over-designed in contrast to Mike's easy daytime look with its cool arashi shibori skirt and the top left natural with macrame detailing in the back.
In anybody else's hands, this could have looked like a craft project, and yet you make it look very editorial.
Harvey agreed. Though he'd never say it out loud, it was an amazing look and Harvey was already reordering who he thought his competition was. He was still considering it when Heidi gave them their surprise, and honestly they should have all seen it coming.
We want you to create a second look inspired by the first. But not your first.
The news came at the end of a very long day, and Harvey found himself suddenly unconcerned about winning--though he knew that would be temporary--but longing for something he never thought he would: his nine-to-five job in the mail room at a law firm that would be (he confirmed with a surreptitious glance at his wrist) ending right about now. He'd be on his way home to his tiny walk-up in Alphabet City, the closest he could afford to mid-town, where he could sit quietly to sketch or sew with a glass of wine and some take away.
Not that he actually wanted to leave the show or give up this opportunity. It's just...
He turned to look at the designer next to him, mentally putting air quotes around the word designer, and eyed his model. Tom Keller had made what Harvey imagined probably seemed like a really great idea if he'd been high. It was essentially a potato sack, managing to make a size four model look ill shaped. There was no design to it, no color, no interest--absolutely nothing to inspire.
Harvey rolled his eyes and huffed, straightening up as the judges and half the production crew laughed at him. He immediately shook it off, schooling his features. He wanted to enjoy this, learn what he could, and finally make a name for himself. He called up the image of his apartment again, with its kitchen that was essentially a hot plate and a sink, and his shower where he had to crouch down to wash beneath a spray of tepid water. This was his chance and he would do what he came for. He would win.
We'll see you all on the runway where someone will win and someone will go home. Bye!