Thursday afternoon at Madison Square Garden, the Kardashians and the Jenners and the Wests seemed to arrive to Kanye’s album listening/fashion show as one fluffy unit—their floor-length furs and chandelier-mimicking sequins blended into one another, an indistinguishable palette of white and off-white and tan and rosé. They were a blur from afar—what seemed to be a side effect of bright lights and great distance—but, as it turns out, they were also a blur up close, united in semi-committal dusty pink as poured from the coffers of Yeezy and Balmain’s Olivier Rousteing, and maybe a little bit Antoni Gaudí.

At what point does a saturation of neutrals the color of gessoed canvas become not understated and minimal, but loud on its own terms? Does the juxtaposition of elaborately beaded tops with distressed skirts and dresses—“distressed” is just fashion’s term for “shit with holes in it”—signify that rich people are like, taking old clothes back? More importantly, how likely is it that North West, upon turning 13, begins wearing clothes in variations of neon, exclusively, as a symbol of her rebellion? She already looks kind of over it. That said: everything is cuter when it’s baby-sized. Those checkered Vans! That fluffy coat! My god!

Structurally speaking, I am worried about what happens when Kourtney tries to walk in her beaded jumper? Like, maybe she has more of a thigh gap than I, but those beads are gonna rub off.


Donde Kim?


Detail. Wherein even the photo paper is tan.



White and tan.

Tan (Lamar is throwing off the vibes, but is still in neutrals so it works).


The whitest, the tannest.

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