Thursday, November 19, 2015

The Things That Scare Us

People always say it takes guts to go after the things you want, and I think that's true, but I also think it takes a certain level of blindness, an inability to see or understand the implications of what you're trying to accomplish.

I find myself constantly afflicted with this aforementioned blindness, though usually, thankfully, it seems to work out in my favor. I think because if you do have that blindness, a negative response to your actions doesn't really phase you. So maybe bad things have happened when I've blindly gone after the things I've wanted, but I've just never noticed them. What's that saying about ignorance being bliss? And what on earth am I talking about?

In the past, people have asked me how I've been able to do certain things--how did you get so-and-so to appear at your reading? How did you get your article in such-and-such publication? "Well," I always say, "I just asked." There's really no big secret to it. On many of these occasions, I have been blind to negative outcomes and I just do what I want to do. If it doesn't work out, okay; or, in the immortal words of my mother, "NEXT!"

Such was the case again this week when I was presented with an interesting dilemma--there was an article from the February 5, 1985 issue of The Village Voice I wanted to read as a reference for an article I was working on for another publication, and I couldn't find it online. The piece, titled "I Spy," was written by famed former Voice film critic J. Hoberman, Jim to friends. I contacted him and asked if he had a copy I could read. I didn't think there was anything really special about doing this. I guess my mother had also told me to simply go to the top first, and if that person can't help you, then try someone else. So I went to the source, and to my delight, he responded in the affirmative--yes, he did have a copy I could read, but he didn't have a scanner. Could he mail it to me? Or, he said, I could find the Village Voice archives at the NYU Bobst Library. If he mailed it to me, the piece wouldn't get to me until after my deadline. Would I be able to meet him in person? I asked. I would be glad to get him a coffee or whatever pastry his heart desired as thanks. While I waited for his response via email, I called up the libraries just in case he wasn't available.

It turns out I could only go to Bobst Library if I had an NYU student ID (nope), an NYU alumni ID (also nope...and neither did HanOre, an actual alum, so I couldn't even borrow it), or permission from the New York Public Library in the form of what's called a METRO pass to use Bobst--meaning that whatever I needed was not available in the NYPL system so I, sad and pathetic researcher that I am, had no place left to turn except Bobst and they would take pity on me. So, before wandering down that path, I called up the NYPL--did they have what I need in microfilm? No--they only had the July to December issues of the Voice, or so it seemed. Well, that was one element crossed off my list. Now it was time to call Bobst, to see if my treasure was buried in their microfilm...and it turns out it wasn't there either. Jim was now my only hope.

And to my delight, he was available. We would meet for coffee. "See you there then," he wrote. "I'm a grizzled guy with glasses." I chuckled.


"Hi Jim, I'm here outside of the Anthology Film Archives in a leopard coat and cowboy boots. Thanks again for meeting me today, and I'll see you soon!" is probably on the list of the most "me" things I have ever said. 

But I am easy to spot (no pun intended), and shortly Jim appears, in a maroon beanie and black leather jacket pinned with some kind of band button I can't decipher. His beard matches his self- description and I appreciate his self-awareness. We attempt one coffee shop, but it's full so we try another. Shortly I have a latte in his hands and a tea in my own and we are sitting and chatting. He takes out a padded folder and removes his piece, a perfect photocopy, and hands it to me. After all of the library-calling and emailing, it feels less like a treasure map and more like the treasure itself. I am so excited to read it, but I am also excited to chat with him about his work and the golden age of The Village Voice. He tells stories and laughs and we talk about freelance writing, and it's a lovely time. He shares details of his life--his teaching gigs at Cooper Union and, soon, Columbia; his past and forthcoming books; growing up in Queens--and asks me about mine. I am honored that he has been kind enough to take an audience with me, but also that he is interested in my own life. On our way out, I ask him if he hates it when people ask if he's "seen any good movies lately." He does, he laughs, then we shake hands and part ways. He says he is interested in reading my piece when it comes out.

This is where the blindness comes in for me, I think. I didn't just say, Jim Hoberman, legendary and accomplished film critic, I am going to ask you to coffee! I just said, here's some research I need to do, and this is how I'm going to get it done.
So yes, Jim was the film critic at The Village Voice for almost 25 years; he has written several books about film, has taught at Cooper Union, Harvard, NYU and, shortly, Columbia; and he has twice served on the board of the New York Film Festival; and, as he writes in his website biography, "the thing of which he’s most proud is surviving for over 35 years in New York without the benefit of a normal job." But he's still a person, as we all are. We all put on our pants the same way. Some of us have just been putting them on for longer and in more distinguished places, but those of us who haven't have the opportunity to catch up and get there, too.

And this is not to say that I haven't been scared meeting other people in the past. I was notably fearful about what kind of salad I should order while having lunch with James Wolcott. But I was still there--courage is not the absence of fear, after all; it is acting in spite of it. 

I am scared of so many things, often without reason--failure, butter, rejection, every time I pitch Vogue, texting guys I am dating, mayonnaise--but I try to notice what scares me, recognize the fear is holding me back and do it anyway. Eat the butter, text the guy, pitch Vogue, fail, get rejected, then get back up and do it all again.

I guess if you ask me how end up doing certain things, if I am ever scared, this has been the very long-winded version of my answer. I just never let fear stop me.

The photocopy of Jim's piece

Saturday, November 14, 2015


For their first date, Addison and Aggie were supposed to get hot cocoa and meet in Central Park, but due to rain they had to make other plans. Today though, a few years after they met, hot cocoa wasn't exactly on the menu.

Addison had initially reached out to our mutual friend Cassandra to see if she would take surprise engagement photos of them in Central Park, but she had recently moved to Stockholm. She was kind enough, however, to refer Addison to me. Would I be interested in taking on such a project? I definitely was.

The beautiful vastness of Central Park and the fact that I had never actually met Addison and Aggie became our dilemmas. How would we be able to meet up so I could photograph them and capture the big moment, while still recognizing them and not being seen? I would take some time to plan and plot. I felt a rush of my inner James Bond.

"If you can pick out a particular entrance of the park you'd like to go through, I could be there and I can let you both walk past me, then just begin casually strolling behind you after a few minutes, secret agent-style," I wrote to him. My fingers trembled with excitement and anticipation as I even wrote the words. We'd have to be totally stealth, but if it worked out, it would be amazing. He could text me selfies of he and Aggie under the guise of posting them online so I knew what they were wearing. I would do the same back to him, and tell him exactly where I would be standing so Addison and I would see each other, then I'd know to follow him into the park. We ultimately decided to meet outside the Museum of Natural History.

Even as I write this now, a week later, my heart beats faster. I couldn't sleep the night before. There were so many variables out of my control. What if the bus broke down on my way there? What if their train got stuck? What if Aggie wanted to stop inside the museum? What if I sneezed too loud as they walked past and she noticed me? I tossed and turned all night.

I set my text ringer very loud so the next morning when Addison texted me, I'd be on the move. Around 9:30, he assured me everything was going to plan. Not too long after, I got pictures of he and Aggie. She was wearing a long, light pink coat and he was wearing a grey puffy vest. I'd have no trouble noticing them.

And then, my checklist to myself began. Did I charge all my batteries? Yes. Did I have enough room on my memory card? Yes. Did I have every lens I'd need? Yes. I was originally going to use the longest lens I had, but I didn't want to draw attention to myself--a very long lens protruding from a very short person's face and/or frame is by no means stealth--so I went with my second longest, the one I had used before I had the other one. If it worked on ballerinas far away at Lincoln Center, after all, it would work for Addison and Aggie.

And then what would I wear? I had to be noticeable enough so Addison would see me, but inconspicuous enough that Aggie wouldn't think twice about some chick leaning on a street corner. It was not the day for my favorite leopard coat, in other words. I decided on a black sweater and black jeans with an army green jacket, tan high-tops, and a black beanie. I carried my gear in a green leather bag. I'd blend in perfectly with the scenery. I texted Addison photos so he'd know what I looked like, too.

I arrived probably way too early, but I decided I'd rather be chilled out and waiting for them then scrambling to get there. Texts from Addison were on schedule, though at one point they got on the wrong train and had to come back around to the right stop. Texts resumed after they got off the train. They were now rounding the south end of the museum. I kept my eye out for a pink coat as I leaned, rather shadily, if do say so myself, on a gate on the corner of 80th and Central Park West. Then I saw the coat. I made eye contact with Addison. It was on.

They crossed Central Park West and headed down into the park. I was a cool distance away from them until they rounded a bend but turned back around and walked right back to me. The sidewalk had ended and led into the street, so they had simply moved in another direction to actually get into the park. My innards melted. NOOOOOOO! my brain screamed. I HAVE FAILED. I stood immobile and, by the grace of RuPaul, remembered the millennial stereotype of always being in your phone like an asshole. In a swift movement I reached into my bag for my phone as they were stepping back past me and tapped on the screen indiscriminately until they were safely far enough away from me to not notice. MISSION RESUMED. No failure to speak of. Addison was totally casual and never made eye contact with me, bless his soul.

I had assumed a safe distance again, and my lens length was perfect. Every so often Aggie would turn around and marvel at nature and I would slowly turn away from her, pretending to take pictures of trees. I felt my heart pound, like at any moment she would notice me, turn to Addison and say, why is that strange girl in all neutrals taking pictures of us? At various points I darted into bushes and pressed myself up against trees and warily rounded corners so I would remain unseen. I followed them into various paths, over the Oak Bridge and into the Ramble. We went up and down stone steps, through which my brain cried out, knowing full well my propensity toward falling, Do not trip, you idiot! Keep your limbs together just once for the sake of their engagement!

As we crossed up the stones and deeper into the park, another couple maneuvered in between us. Who the hell are you? I wanted to say. Get out of here, you fools, Addison and Aggie are trying to get engaged! But eventually, thankfully, the couple disappeared. Addison led Aggie to a beautiful area covered in almost a canopy of fall leaves in gorgeous colors. They stopped walking and Addison turned to her. THIS IS IT, I thought. THIS IS THE MOMENT. My hands shook and my shutter snapped wildly as Addison got down on one knee and Aggie's hand flew over her mouth. I caught it all. She said yes, and they kissed, and she jumped into his arms. My heart rate slowed. Addison waved for me to come out and I said hello and congratulations and gave hugs and took more pictures. Addison explained I had been there the whole time. "You're so sneaky!" Aggie exclaimed. She had  no idea the engagement was coming, but Addison had been planning it for months. They laughed and smiled and danced like Drake in "Hotline Bling."

We did a couple of posed shots near the lake and the skyline. In between shots, Addison told Aggie that the ring had 26 stones in it, one for each year it took for her to get to him. My brain sputtered and died and I'm really happy I held together a speck of professionalism and didn't start weeping into my viewfinder. They are such lovely people and I wish them a lifetime of happiness (and thanks so much for letting me write about this on the blog, guys!). It was such an incredible experience to be a part of this once-in-a-lifetime moment, and I will always cherish it. Congratulations again!

Friday, October 30, 2015

St. Marks is Dead

Whenever I would come to visit New York as a teenager or college student, a visit to St. Marks Place was always on my list. I had no good reason why, usually; no specific place I wanted to go or thing I wanted to see, but I knew the street was important. I've written before about my longstanding love affair with punk, and I knew St. Marks was one of the streets the punks frequented--I think part of me just always wanted to tread the same ground as they did, to feel the pulse of creative dissonance running under my feet as they had felt it.

To the uninitiated, St. Marks Place is in the East Village, between 3rd Avenue and Avenue A, in Manhattan; it is technically "8th Street" but nobody in their right mind calls it that (unless you are my friend Dan who is visiting from Boston and when he said it I think I visibly winced in pain). It has, as author Ada Calhoun points out in her new book St. Marks is Dead which comes out November 2 from W. W. Norton, often been a cultural hub of the neighborhood if not also lower Manhattan and even Manhattan in general. In this cultural history, Calhoun shows us the constantly changing lives of the street, the births and deaths of each experience of living there even before the street itself existed. St. Marks, one sees after reading her book, is always dying because it is always being born again.

People who lived on the street know the magic of it, too. In fact, one time I was reading the book on the train a woman peered over my shoulder. She had a grey pixie cut, gold glasses, a brown trench coat, skinny jeans and ballet flats and said to me in a German accent, "St. Marks! You know I used to live there! I should read that book." Calhoun writes in the book that for some people St. Marks is a place you live at a certain time in your life, either your best or your worst, and once you leave you don't return for fear of either not living up to those memories or having to relive them. This woman's experience seemed to be positive, though, and I of course recommended the book to her.

The book is one close to Calhoun's heart, one imagines, because she herself is from the street. She was raised there in the 1970s, often considered one of the most dangerous times to be living in the city in the last 50 years. While she shares some of her experiences of these moments in the book, she is still an appreciative narrator, one who inspires further adoration of St. Marks and its history in the reader, especially this reader, who is a raging postmodern history nerd at her core.

Calhoun narrates the history of the street through vignette-like stories she's uncovered, almost like buried treasure or precious jewels, from what is undoubtedly years of intense (and probably fascinating to conduct! I was jealous of all of the documents she was likely able to read and people she was able to talk to to tell each story) research. Through the tales she shares of everything from German boating tragedies to anarchist crust-punks, she reveals the ever-evolving lives of the street she calls America's Hippest. She writes in such an engaging manner that every era of history she covers, from the disrupted lives of the Native American Lenape tribe who populated the area in the 1600s to the bustling "Little Tokyo" as the street is now known, is equally enchanting. While I don't consider myself a revolutionary history buff, I was on the edge of my seat, nose buried in the middle of the book on the 6 train downtown, as Calhoun narrated to me the growth and decline of Peter Stuyvesant's empire.

What's also wonderful about St. Marks is Dead is that the snippets of history Calhoun chooses to share connect to a person's general knowledge of American culture or history, almost filling in the gaps and allowing one to experience "a-ha!" or "lightbulb" moments while one is on public transit, smiling and nodding to oneself, "I see what you did there! Look at you!" One moment in particular for me was when she writes about the Beastie Boys hanging out on St. Marks at Tish and Snooky's Manic Panic, one of the original punk stores on the street. Like, oh, casual, this group of kids idolizing these punk chicks on the street before they became a legendary punk/rap crew. The book is full of moments like these, of the famous and infamous casually spending their time on St. Marks simply because that's where the cool people were and that's why they wanted to be there.

Something else I loved was seeing some of the places or figures from the latter end of the century are still around, like "Mosaic Man" Jim Power whose mosaics still line the streets in the East Village and have for decades, or Gem Spa, the ages-old bodega/egg creamery which Calhoun notes was actually the background of photo on a New York Dolls album (I'm ashamed I didn't know that myself!). And then there are those I got to see before they closed/were removed/became something else, like the black cube sculpture Alamo at the corner of 4th Avenue, Kim's Video, Yaffa Cafe.

Even in the short time I've lived here in New York I've seen St. Marks change. I've seen noodle houses exchanged for new, trendy bars and my favorite, independently-owned frozen yogurt shop go the way of the wind; I signed the petition for St. Marks Bookshop to keep its lease, though it eventually moved instead of just closing; I've eaten at Korean dessert shops that just opened new locations and drunk half-price cocktails at a Thai restaurant that has since closed due to health violations. Like every New Yorker, I have a vision of the street in my head as I walk down it; I can picture where so many of the places Calhoun mentions are or once were. It's difficult to feel like you're a part of New York's history--the city is so big, filled with so many people who are doing amazing and interesting things--but then you see in histories like Ada Calhoun's St. Marks is Dead things that you too have experienced along with so many others, and it makes you feel like you matter, like you're not just another notch on New York's proverbial bedpost.

If you want to learn more about New York and about American culture, then this book is definitely for you. But then, of course, so is a walk down St. Marks.

You can also come see Ada Calhoun read at the December Miss Manhattan Non-Fiction Reading on Monday, December 7! Stay tuned for more information.

Tuesday, October 20, 2015

The View from Zabar's

My day off began at 2pm on Columbus Day--while of course as a freelancer I don't necessarily observe holidays and tend to work right through them (though I have been trying to be better about that)--it was merely a Monday that I had taken off after working the whole weekend.

After a brisk walk through Central Park seeing the leaves just begin to turn, I made my way to the New York Historical Society to catch the last day of their exhibition on caricaturist Al Hirschfeld, one of my favorite artists of all time. For the uninitiated, Al Hirschfeld illustrated Broadway and entertainment throughout his life, often for The New York Times, using pen and ink, gouache, and occasionally collage. His career spanned nearly 100 years, as noted by the title of the Historical Society's exhibition, The Hirschfeld Century. Any time I get to see a Hirschfeld I'm utterly thrilled, but to see his real live drawings in front of my eyes, watching where his pen whipped back and forth and scribbled those ever-elusive NINAs into place, was a true treat. I availed myself of the gift shop as well, leaving with more than a few Hirschfeld-drawn goodies.

Being on the Upper West Side, mere blocks away from Zabar's, I made a plan to go there post-Historical Society. There was no way I would miss one of my favorite locations in all of New York, especially when it was so close by. To 80th and Broadway I walked, stopping into their cafe for my usual: a nova and cream cheese sandwich on a plain bagel and an English Breakfast tea with milk and one Splenda.

I sat down at the long communal table next to an older gentleman chatting across the table from a female friend of his. His hair was buzzed and whitish-grey under his black beret, a smattering of white scruff around his mouth and cheeks. A black scarf hid his neck and a black coat his torso. He gossiped unabashedly about other people I gathered were also in his friend group, people who gathered at this very same cafe but for whatever reason that day were not present. The woman across from him, younger but not too much younger in a dark green sweater and shoulder-length brown hair, nodded at his every word, as if she were the Gretchen Wieners to his Regina George. I nibbled at my sandwich as he went on about this woman whose son was suing Zabar's after she fell off a stool there though she apparently knew it was her own fault. Oh my, I thought to myself, irony likely registering in my face with an all-too-unsubtle eyebrow raise. I did my best not to make eye contact with them as they continued their tales.

A woman in magenta came in and saw Black Beret.
"HELLO, JACK," she said loudly in my ear, thrusting her face and upper torso toward him as if aiming for his ear. He nodded noncommitally in her general direction but other than that said nothing. Realizing she'd been snubbed, she got in line and ordered a slice of chocolate babka. Ice burn, I thought to myself. Regina George turned out to be a great metaphor after all and this was some top-quality lunchtime entertainment.

Another gentleman from their crew strode in, balding with thick frame glasses, a Hawaiian print shirt and shorts on this 50 degree day. He spoke in a thick New York accent then went up to the counter to place his order in a perfect Spanish one. He talked about the lawsuit woman, too. "Her son's a real sonofabitch," he said to Jack, who nodded. "That's what I heard." Apparently the son lives in the family apartment on the Lower East Side and doesn't have a job. "A real shmuck," one of them offered. The woman in green was still nodding. 

I loved this idea of this crew of old people gathering every day at the Zabar's cafe and shooting the shit. Zabar's itself is a New York institution (it opened in 1934), occasionally inhabited by people who are themselves old enough to be institutions. Perhaps they'd been coming there since they were kids and just never left. Perhaps after all this time they are the people they each have left to talk to. Or maybe they just like good gossip and know where to find it.

I am finishing up my sandwich, almost sad I have to leave in the midst of their discussion. What happened to the woman with the son and the lawsuit? Am I just as bad as the gossipers? And are they going to talk about me when I leave?

Friday, October 9, 2015

A Tale of Two Betties

HanOre and I were trying to think of something to do.

"We could get really dressed up, go to B&H, then go someplace really fabulous with cocktails we can't afford," I offered in half-irony, half-excitement. And HanOre approved! A Monday evening can be really boring if you don't play your cards right, but it looked as though we would be doing just fine.

B&H, our beloved kosher dairy lunch counter (though neither of us are kosher or vegetarian) in the East Village had reopened in August after the sad 2nd Avenue gas explosion a few months ago. All was as it was before, and fortunately the restaurant had barely suffered any damages.

That day, I asked:

"What is our vibe tonight? Bettie Page? Beyoncé?"

The best evenings out, after all, require the best possible costuming. HanOre chose Bettie, so into my closet I dove for something that would pair well with red lipstick and red peep-toe pumps a la the famed 1950s pinup. After a whirligig of flying clothing, a bold, black and white striped dress with a sweetheart neckline caught my eye. Perfect! I zipped myself in and proceeded out into the night, lipsticked and heeled into a neo-Bettie reverie. Though I would have to be careful about gusts of wind so I did not also Marilyn myself that evening.

I arrived at B&H to find HanOre in her own take on Bettie regalia. Next to the restaurant's pale green walls, she was a vision in an indigo blue wiggle dress with cap sleeves, her signature magenta suede pumps, and red lips. Men in flannel and t-shirts sat hunched over the lunch counter while a crew of NYU students huddled together in the back. We were a sight for sore eyes, throwbacks to an era the East Village hadn't known for 60 years. We said our order to the man behind the counter and stood up to take the platter of blintzes (she) and kasha varnishkas (me) from him when they were ready. Diving into our Jewish soul food, we discussed all manner of magazine gossip and news of potential suitors, careful not to smudge our lipstick. Glamour is as glamour does.

Our cocktail adventures brought us to Angel's Share, suggested by HanOre. Up a set of unmarked stairs on 9th Street, there's Village Yokocho, a Japanese restaurant where patrons sit and munch on sushi or udon or what have you, and you walk right next to them as you open an also unmarked wooden door and enter the bar, a speakeasy of sorts. Over the bar there's a mural of cherubic figures and the space itself is a neat little box with small tables and chairs overlooking the street. There's no standing room in this bar, either--that is, it is not an option to stand and that's strictly enforced. Their cocktail menu changes seasonally and includes named cocktails for every major kind of liquor: this is not a place you go for a vodka soda. Well, you could probably have one if you wanted, but you'd be missing the point.

Bartenders in white dress shirts, black vests and bow ties shook and stirred gorgeous constructions. HanOre chose what ended up being a green concoction topped with fluffed egg whites, a sprig of rosemary and freshly shaven nutmeg. It was a sensory experience, tasting the bubbly beverage and inhaling its woody, sweet scent. Mine was a drink called Cheek to Cheek, which included vodka, a wildberry puree, and a mascarpone espuma. The latter was thick, so the cocktail was served with a petite silver spoon. Imagine, a drink and dessert in the same glass! We sat and savored our beverages, crossing our legs and leaning our elbows off the backs of the bar chairs like the 1950s goddess we sought to emulate for the evening. Sounds of 3rd Avenue buzzed past us, as lights from Stuyvesant Square crept in through the window and we continued our gossip. It was a Monday evening done right.

Saturday, September 26, 2015

Antacid Punks

At about 9:30pm this past Tuesday, I was heading home from a photography gig downtown. At that hour, the subway is really perfect for people-watching because it's a lot easier to get a seat and observe.

They get on the 5 train at 14th Street, big bags from punk emporiums Trash & Vaudeville and Search & Destroy under her arm, and a giant, 24-pack of toilet paper in a plastic bag under his. They sit down on the train, metal buckles clanging against black leather boots, silver chains jangling from wrists and black leather vests. His black hair is smooth and shiny, separated in the middle and flowing long straight over his shoulders, just barely revealing a runic tattoo on his right shoulder. There's a scrawling in fiery, red letters across the black t-shirt on chest of some metal band I've never heard of, black jeans on his legs. Though he is short for a man, he has no trouble nestling the the toilet paper package between his legs. His nose is pierced on the side, and his lip is pierced in the center, both marked with a silver hoop.

She is tall, much taller than him, even moreso in her platform combat boots. Her hair is jet black, but dyed that way, crunchy with a hair product that forms it into oddly perfect waves down her shoulders and back. Her skin is powdery white because it has been caked with makeup. Black eyeliner lines curve up the sides of her face, and blood red matte lipstick beams off her mouth, in high contrast to her dark eyes. Her septum piercing, a black half-ring, forms an arc shape through her nose. She's also wearing a black metal band t-shirt and a black leather vest. Long feathers hang from her ears. They chat loudly to each other in Spanish.

She opens a bottle of antacid, spills some on her leather boot, and takes a swig. It's cherry flavored. He rips open the toilet paper package and offers her some to clean it up, but she shakes her head, she doesn't need it. Do I have any on my lipstick? she asks in Spanish, pointing to her mouth. No, he shakes his head. She squeezes some antibacterial from a keychain on her black skull purse into her hand and rubs it in. She takes out a granola bar from her purse and offers him some. He shakes his head no, he doesn't want any, and she proceeds to rip pieces of the pink frosted snack into her mouth. She gets some crumbs on the skull purse and brushes them off. He changes his mind and they share.

A person sits down next to her and stares down at the massive tree tattoo running down the length of her upper arm, not looking away for a solid 15 seconds. I notice I'm staring at this person staring at this tattoo, trying to figure out how much time is passing.

Her fingers hold on long black acrylic nails and a bejeweled skull ring. I notice them when she wraps her hand around his knee. There is still antacid on her shoe when I get off at my stop, leaving them to their antacid and granola punk life.

Saturday, September 19, 2015

Backstage Beauty at NYFW, Spring/Summer 2016

Another Fashion Week has passed. The blisters on my feet are healing, my eyes are less bloodshot and I'm drinking less caffeine than I normally would. Now it's back to a real life, with significantly fewer open bars, free hairspray, and celebrity sightings. Until Februrary, that is...

Here are some of my favorite shots from behind the scenes at the New York Fashion Week Spring/Summer 2016 collections.