On Friday evening, around the same time that Jeremy Scott was sending out his black-and-white crystal-strewn comment on the tabloid news cycle, Marcus Wainwright of Rag & Bone hosted what he called “A Last Supper” in the soaring confines of the former Williamsburg Savings bank in Brooklyn. Guests dressed in his latest collection and then dined to dripping candlelight, and an artificial-intelligence contraption attempted to make sense of it all.

This was the day after Telfar Clemens held his show at Irving Plaza, the concert site, with a mosh pit for a runway and live music on stage and snaking lines of desperate-to-get-in fans.

And it was the day before Mike Eckhaus and Zoe Latta lured everyone out to Bushwick to a corrugated metal storage shed to see their latest collection, entitled “Sometimes Life Does Not Provide Poetry.”

It was all a little end of days. But true!

There’s a strain of nihilism pervading New York fashion at the moment, partly because of the nihilism pervading the general conversation with its death-of-the-American-ideal talk, and partly because of the general angst about New York fashion itself.