Tears of a Photo Nerd

It is amazing what some people will do to see art. And by some people I mean me.

Last Saturday, the Park Avenue Armory held the AIPAD (Association of International Photographic Art Dealers) show. Eighty photography galleries from across the world set up booths inside the massive space, and though I didn’t get to go last year, I made a point of it this time. I carved out time in my weekend for the jaunt through 80 mini-galleries because it’s important to create work, but it’s also important to view what others are doing and have done. It’s like when people say good writers read. I believe good photographers also look at photography. So I set out to educate myself, to continue to understand what I was drawn to and how to harness those ideas or topics in my own work. On the way, I saw new photographs that I will never forget and some which I had always loved and finally had the privilege to see in person. Seeing a work you love in person is like seeing it for the first time.

Larry Clark’s (in)famously graphic cover of his 1983 book Teenage Lust, a teenage couple in the backseat of a car. Brilliant portraitist Irving Penn’s photograph of model Dorian Leigh in an evening gown and actor Ray Bolger in a Santa suit that was on the December 1946 cover of Vogue: only one of two prints ever made of the photograph, one for Leigh and one for Bolger. This one was signed to Bolger from Penn himself. “Medusa,” a George Krause photograph taken of a ladyfriend in the bath, her hair strewn snake-like on the tub behind her head, his naked leg standing on the tub baring the secret of how he snapped the picture. Vera Lutter’s elegant, hyperdetailed, black and white phases of the moon. Alec Soth’s vibrant “Angela, Los Angeles,” featuring the back of a woman’s body adorned by a parakeet on her shoulder. Incredible moments—some raw, some elegant, all captivating.

It’s times like these, today at AIPAD, when I understand more how we can educate ourselves. Not everything you can learn from a book—sometimes you just have to see it.

The same goes for the second part of my day, which I spent partly at Cinema Village near Union Square. The theatre has been around since 1963 and is housed in a converted fire station. It shows documentaries, classic films, cult favorites, and independent movies. Every week the theatre shows different films; unless a particular film does well and it sticks around to the next week and the next.

At 7pm, I was in my seat ready to view the documentary Bert Stern: Original MadMan by Shannah Laumeister. The film chronicles the life of fashion photographer Bert Stern, known among many other things for the intimate final portrait session of Marilyn Monroe. Laumeister’s film shares the stunning highs and lows of Stern’s life as well as her own unique relationship with Stern. As someone who has repeatedly looked to his work for inspiration, it was exciting to hear his thoughts on photography so closely matched my own—like Stern, I also believe photography is about capturing moments and that if you’re photographing something you love the work will be that much better. I almost cried multiple times throughout the film; it’s as if he was saying, “You’re on the right track with your work! Keep going!” Sometimes I guess the best “pats on the back” as it were come from people who don’t even know they’re giving it to you. I can only hope that one day my own work will so beautifully capture a person’s essence the way his does.

Stern at Cinema Village

I was pleasantly surprised to find that after the movie there was a question and answer session with Stern and Laumeister. I was dumbfounded to see this legendary artist in front of me, but somehow found the nerve after the session to meet the man and shake his hand. “Thank you for your work,” I said. That’s all I could muster. I left the theatre and cried for real this time, walking east on 12th Street toward the brighter lights of Union Square, utterly inspired, overcome with positive emotion and those oh-so-cliché photo nerd tears of joy.

On Display/ On Display

I wonder if Milk Gallery has a mailing list of all the beautiful, well-dressed young art people in New York because the space was brimming with them Tuesday night at the gallery opening for the Dennis Stock exhibition. I looked at these creatures in their unironic cat fedoras (a fedora with ears woven into the fabric, naturally), their plastic black pants, their face harnesses and their lace tops and I was sort of dazzled by their “it-ness”, I’ll call it. It was just such a New York experience for me, an entire room filled with young people in various shades of black and beard and plaid. I almost felt like I was of a different planet, a creature in my own right who had just touched down in Planet Art Scene—I was just there to see the work of one of my favorite photographers.

The Dennis Stock exhibition is on display at Milk until April 17, and features some of his lesser known works in conjunction with some more iconic pieces. Though I grew up looking at a photo of his over the fireplace in my family’s home and found myself casually studying his work on and off throughout my life, I never realized until that night how much of myself I saw in his work. Stock is also about moments, as I am—tiny little glimmers of soul that peek out when people least expect to be baring themselves. His photographs of celebrities are powerful for this reason: when they are with Dennis Stock, they are not “Insert Name Here,” they are just themselves. I hope, anyway, for the sake of the truth that appears in the photographs. I love the grain, the grittiness and perfection of a technically imperfect image, something I also try to do and find in my own work. To see even that he has taken pictures in the same way I have (or I in the same way he has), was an exciting, encouraging prospect. As if to say yes, you’re on the right track! Carry on.

Because such is the nature of the gallery opening, I also got to meet the curator and one of the printers of the photographs and get lost in a discussion about photography which, sadly, I don’t get to do as much as I like. I felt kindred spirits among me and my inner light flickered anew. Shortly after I left with the feeling that the universe brought me here tonight for a reason, one of my favorite feelings on the planet, Planet Art Scene or otherwise.

This brings us to a display of a different kind.

--

Last night I was covered in blood and cocaine.

The fake kinds, of course—the sticky stuff that comes in a bottle and what I think was confectioner’s sugar.

Such was the nature of the latest CHERYL party, “Weekend at Basquiat’s”—if you were wondering what Weekend at Bernie’s would look like set in Andy Warhol’s Silver Factory with Jean-Michel Basquiat as the title character (wheelchair and all) then this was the right place for you. Or, as CHERYL themselves write:

Remember that time you accidentally took a disco nap for 30 years, woke up with a beard, your lover was dead, the most famous artist you knew had transformed into a mannequin, and NYC had turned into a luxury shopping mall? We sure do.

Decked out in our art punk drag, Rago and I headed to the Music Hall of Williamsburg in Brooklyn to dance ourselves into a frenzy, as the performance art troupe hopes all will do at their parties (to read about a previous Miss M+CHERYL experience, click here!). It was Rago’s first CHERYL, and she had no idea what to expect but put on a brave face and a bright purple wig and got into the thick of things with me like a champ. Reels of silver plastic floated throughout the crowd, star glitter was thrown from the stage onto everything and everyone, baggies of “cocaine” were ripped open and tossed onto the crowd, and the signature CHERYL fake blood was dripped onto arms and faces of willing participants (myself included). At one point the blood was so sticky I was putting the cocaine on it to make it less so. Then I slipped in some fake blood and stood up, only to be covered in more blood, cocaine, and now glitter—was this what the early ‘80s was like?

Normally I wouldn't post a picture of our faces,
but this isn't what we look like on a daily basis...

Rago and I danced to Thriller, to Call Me Maybe, to Azealia Banks’s deliciously dirty 212, to Deee-Lite’s Groove is in the Heart. Revelry continued with a giant parachute floating over the crowd and making waves. For a heartbeat we were club kids lost in another decade and it was, as always, a perfect CHERYL evening.

Looking for Boston

"I was walkin' and talkin'
Bout this bitch I met out in Boston
Who I didn't see very often
But mmmhmm, mmmhmm."
-Scissor Sisters, "Shady Love"


One of my favorite things about traveling is getting to know a city. Not just my way around it, but the culture of it, the attitude, being able to describe it like I would a good friend once I leave. Asheville, North Carolina is Southern with an indie flair, its gorgeous Blue Ridge Mountains leading into hilled streets sprinkled with vegan restaurants and stores selling nag champa incense and OM bracelets. Los Angeles is modern and new, and it takes those ideas with it into everything that's created there--how can we make such contemporary art or gay culture or electronic dance music so modern while still revering our glittery Hollywood past? 

The Tobin Bridge, which I'm told is
one of B-town's defining landmarks

But I don't know who Boston is just yet. Maybe I didn't see enough of the cool, underground things that so many of my friends love about it, but I didn't feel a ton of its personality while I was there. I did my best the whole time I was there not to think to myself, "Oh, well, we have that in New York," because that's the curse, isn't it? That once you live in New York you compare everywhere to it, as if it's the holy grail of cities? I've actually prided myself on not doing that so far (see all of my posts about L.A. if you don't believe me!). But I found that difficult to not do with Boston. Boston to me felt like the accountant sister to New York's wacky conceptual artist gal: the wackiness may be, as far as my experience goes, anyway, under the surface, where New York's is a little more outré. 

For example, I feel at home walking in the New York streets in my leopard cardigan and red lipstick with my hair in a messy top knot and motorcycle boots on my feet, but in Boston I got stares. AP even saw a girl wearing a similar outfit and told me I should go be friends with her! I mean, obviously she has great taste, but you know what I mean? You can't say something like that in New York because you'd be walking up to everyone and making friends with them. Come to think of it, maybe I should do that from now on. But anyway. Boston seems a little more staid, not as openly quirky as New York. I kept waiting to find the weird, but I didn't see it. I would like to go back and find it though, maybe explore it with different people and see what 'their' Boston is like. What was nice is that it was definitely a relaxing vacation--Boston is a lot slower than New York. Which is interesting to say because I met a girl visiting from the North Shore of Massachusetts who said Boston felt very fast-paced to her. So there's that. 

Whattup Cambridge. Graffiti in Central Square.

One thing I really did like is that feeling you get from being around universities--you just feel a bit smarter, feel the intellectualism in the air and it fills you with an appreciation for the mind. Or maybe that's just me? But either way, there are tons of universities in Boston so you can feel like that everywhere! While I was bandying about near Harvard, I missed academia. I missed going into a class and learning about a new topic and having a professor who inspires me. I flirted with the idea of grad school, as I am wont to do these days. Incidentally, near Harvard I stumbled upon the adorable Grolier Poetry Shop, a store about the size of one bedroom in my apartment stacked floor to ceiling with only poetry books. 

If you touch this toe at Harvard,
it's supposedly good luck.
Also, I'm told students pee on it
because so many people
touch it, so have fun with that. 

Something else I really enjoyed is constantly being able to see the skyline. What is this "sky" business you speak of? You mean you can see the sun set on a regular basis? I also enjoyed that Boston is dotted with buildings from the Revolutionary period that are still standing. So, you know, next to Chanel on Newbury Street there's a famous, gorgeous old brick church (or something along those lines, you catch my drift). AP and I ambled through the Boston Public Garden and Boston Common, snow still on the ground though on its way out, its spring and summertime lakes drained for the moment until the warmer temperatures rolled in. 

One of the many statues in
Boston Common (well, part of it, anyway).

I also spent some time with SC in his hometown of Andover, about 30 minutes north of the city. Andover is peppered, super New England-style, with tons of old houses, some of them hundreds of years old, with delightfully creaky floors. One day the transit system screwed me over and we just hung out in town, but it was totally great! Andover is very suburban so, miracle of miracles, I went to a Target which I hadn't done in months (there isn't one easily accessible to me in New York). SC, his mother and I also went and had proper Cantonese Dim Sum at New China Pearl. I ate chicken feet, or Phoenix Claw as it's known, and nibbled at delicious bok choi, and an utterly amazing egg custard that I will try to find in New York at my earliest convenience. Egg custard, if you haven't had it, looks pretty much just like an egg yolk in a flaky pastry shell. It's creamy and sweet but very subtle. I had two of them. 

SC also took me to Epic Saturdays, a gay night, at the House of Blues in the Fenway neighborhood (so named because it's right next to Fenway Park). We even met Jujubee from RuPaul's Drag Race! I died and, having just finished my plague pills the day before (oh yes, I was quite ill for a week, but I chose not to write about it because who wants to read such things?), it was time for me to have a drink (or five). I danced with the gay boys and the straight girls and even a go-go boy a little bit. He twerked hard for his money, so I slipped a dollar into his shiny gold underwear, like a lady does. 

Boston Common serves snowy
spring park realness, hunty.

I was glad to relax over my few days in Boston, even though every day was packed with activity--seeing wonderful old friends and dashing about from city to city (or neighborhood to neighborhood? I'm still not quite clear where 'Boston' ends and other cities begin), exploring and getting lost in each of them. 

I also had the pleasure of making a delightful friend on the bus on the way in and out: I've always believed that the universe throws people our way for a certain reason, so when a young man sat on the bus next to me and turned out to be a dancer and a dance photographer (check out my work if you aren't familiar with why this is awesome to me), it wasn't messing around. AC is from Singapore and happened to be visiting New York for a few weeks, also going to visit friends in Boston. I don't know if I'd take the bus again, but taking it this one time was so wonderful I just couldn't chance a trip to be any better! 

So maybe I don't get Boston just yet, but that doesn't mean I won't or that I'm going to stop trying. After all, the universe hands us all kinds of experiences for different reasons. Perhaps the Big Bean and I will have a long and flavorful relationship, even though our first date didn't go exactly as planned. We shall see, kittens! Tomorrow is another day, and Boston is another town. 

Meltaway

I should have written a blog post yesterday but I didn’t. Instead, I sat on my roof with my roommate in the bright sunshine and crisp winter’s-on-its-way-out air. I took off my shoes and I drank my English Breakfast Tea with milk and Sweet ‘n’ Low and I ate my whole wheat bagel with cream cheese. I smoked a cigarette and read New York magazine. I peeled off layers and I rolled up my jeans and I put on my sunglasses and I felt peace.

I woke up planning to write. I got up early, got dressed and saw the sun casting its beams on the building next door and I knew I couldn’t stay inside all day. They were the kind of sunbeams that tell you what the whole day is going to feel like, the exact temperature and kiss of the air on your skin. As I was getting dressed, my roommate was all wrapped up in a blanket and heading out the door which, to say the least, is not her usual state of affairs. “What are you up to?” I said. She was going to sit on the roof in the sun, and would I like to join her? Actually, you know what? I would. I could just sit for an hour and then write later.

But I didn’t. As soon as I got up to the roof, I knew it would be a while before I left. After one of the saddest, coldest winters in recent memory, Saturday morning brought hope in the guise of an almost-spring day. I felt relaxation, I felt possibility, I felt the sun morphing my winter skin’s awkward beige pallor and my self into something healthier, more golden, more like what I felt on the inside.

In the depths of winter, just a month ago, DL reminded me that when caterpillars begin the whole cocoon/chrysalis experience, they actually think they are going to die. But then, in the complete reverse scenario, they become butterflies. I wonder if we too have this sort of faux-death experience every winter, when the miserable cold stings our noses and fingers and makes our eyes tear and holes us up in our own cocoons of sorts. And every spring we are created anew, we forgo socks, Vitamin D once again infuses our skin, sunglasses perch on our noses as we walk to the subways that will get increasingly warmer.

I am excited for New York in the springtime. Everyone begins to bubble a little bit more, oozing positive energy and productivity, getting outside just to be in the sun. We get up earlier, we stay out later, the days are longer and that alone just feels good in the body, to have the desire to get out and to be somewhere other than the cocoons that have contained us for so long.

So there I was on my roof, emerging from my cocoon. It was incredible to believe that just the day before there had been a weird ass snow-slush extravaganza monsooning upon us. And now? It has almost all melted away.

Roommate and I sat and talked and didn’t talk and read and drank hot beverages and allowed our legs to see the sun they may or may not have forgotten existed. It is pure solace to know there will be more days like this ahead of us.

Salon

The first time I made my way to the unbelievable studio/life space at 95 Grand Street, I was nervous. My dad's cousin, forever the Larrains' dentist, first invited me to their monthly Art Salons. "You're artsy, you'll like this," he said. Having been in the city less than two months, I figured why not?

When I first arrived at the end of September 2010, there was probably a bright, wildly constructed dress in the window. There were probably nude models downstairs being painted and drawn by artists using brushes or pastels or pencils or charcoal. There was probably a small child covered in black smudges from playing with one too many art supplies. There was probably the famous roast pork with pineapple and the infamous sangria. Gilles was probably playing that incredible flamenco guitar, Louda bedazzled in one of her couture fabric creations. Because those things, I would learn, were what was always there in the delightful tradition of Gilles and Louda Larrain's Art Salons.

There was always a feeling of magic I got when I entered Gilles and Louda's, like I had been transported into the life I always thought New Yorkers lived: a three-story studio space that opened onto the street with a gallery, descended downstairs to Gilles' photography studio, and upstairs to their living quarters via one staircase and Louda's workspace via another. Gilles' photography lined the walls: pictures of Sting, Miles Davis, Mikhail Baryshnikov, the American Ballet Theatre, Taylor Dayne, Robert Mapplethorpe (plus unnamed boyfriend), and infinite others. Each photo was rich with styles of 20+ years past, from Baryshnikov's feathered hair to Billy Joel's bright white patent leather ankle boots, to the distinct absence of lines on Glenn Close's face. Louda's couture fabric and dress designs featured prominently in their gallery window overlooking the street. She would also have a rack of her clothing on display, allowing some hosts or patrons or performers to don the colorful, handmade garments.

"Salonistas!" The voice of the night's emcee would cut into the jibber-jabber of guests' voices, asking them to quiet down or go upstairs if they wanted to talk before introducing the next performer(s): a jazz band, an ethereal-voiced pianist, a violinist, a poet, a burlesque singer, and the list went on. In between performances, elegant humans clad in silk robes would release said garments to the floor, to be drawn by those who had brought their sketchbooks, or by Louda who always drew them on the big white sketchpads she balanced on an easel. I met graphic designers, vintners, architects, creative directors, photographers, writers, editors, glove designers, makeup artists, hairstylists and god knows who else at these parties that brimmed with people, creativity, and life.

This past Thursday was the last ever Art Salon, as Gilles and Louda have sold their space and are moving to Hawaii. They will not miss the weather, they say, but I am sure they will miss the family they created at the salon. I have never written about the salon before, though I have been going since 2010, because I never felt like it was my place. The Art Salon, I felt, was a place you had to be invited to by someone else who had already attended. Though it was by no means a secret party, I believed the sense of community there was maintained by the idea of bringing a friend as opposed to advertising it on your blog (though The New York Times did write about the salon in 2010). One of my favorite things to ask people at the parties was how they found themselves there--my friend knows so and so, we met at such and such, and the reasons continue. But, for the most part, everyone had someone else to thank for being there, for being a part of a community they never really left. After a while, people recognized your face, they said hello, asked how you were and you really talked to them like human beings, not like human beings making small talk. People were interesting and interested. They will continue to be, though I don't know where they will congregate the last Thursday of the month from now on.

Though I hardly attended the salons for as long or as often as others, I felt something slip away on Thursday, that kind of feeling you get when you know, pardon the cliche, that something is "the end of an era." There were 46 art salons total, and I'm sure a life was changed by every single one of them, be it in a tiny or a big way. I learned lessons from people I met at the salon. I embarked on wild, exciting business ventures. I made friends. I drank sangria. I fell in love. I was inspired.

Thank you to Gilles and Louda Larrain for their years of salons. I'm sure I can speak for all of the salonistas when I say you will truly be missed. And if you happen to start a new salon in Hawaii, you know we'll all be there, certainly in spirit, hopefully in body.

How to Be a Freelancer in New York

I've written about this here and there, but I don't think I've ever just sat down and talked about how it works. For those of you who know the story in its entirety, please forgive the repetition. 

When I first got to New York, I had a real job. It was on 54th Street and Seventh Avenue, and it always smelled like pastrami because the famous Carnegie Deli was downstairs. I took the 6 train to the NQR to get there. It took exactly 30 minutes from my door to my office. My boss always understood that the position was not my ideal--she knew I was a writer, and whenever someone came into her office who she thought I could learn something from, she would allow me to sit and chat with them for a while about their jobs. One particular woman, Joanne, came in one day and talked to me for an hour and changed my life. 

You want to write? she said. Okay, so email every editor of every publication you want to write for, and see if they'll take a meeting with you. Bring your clips. Ask them if you can pitch them. She gave me tons of contacts to reach out to, and began my wheels turning. It seemed so simple! After months of figuring out how one actually ever makes the connections you need to get a job in the media industry, all you really had to do was make them yourself. Nobody's going to just hand you media contacts on a silver platter; you have to ask first. And you're not going to make any connections just sitting in an office with just one other person. So go out and get them! Joanne lit a fire under my butt that has never gone out. Interestingly, my mother had told me to do the same things, but I never believed her--I think maybe just hearing it from someone in the field made it true (sorry for that one, mom). 

So when I was laid off, I began hustling. I contacted editors and asked them to talk to me about their work, I applied for infinite jobs every day, I made big lists of publications I wanted to work for and attacked their mastheads. I was still set on finding a job, being an editorial assistant and working my way up from the bottom like everyone else. Sometimes it was incredibly productive--a meeting with one editor resulted in a freelance gig I still have today. Other times, I would spend an entire day emailing infinite editors and I would hear nothing back. At the end of two months, I still had no job. 

I remember the days when I cried because I wished so badly to just order some damned Chinese food, when buying a bagel and cream cheese at the corner bodega was my big luxury for the day. I needed to make some money, and fast. This was not acceptable any more, to my self-esteem or to my bank account. 

I thought about all of the skills that I had and how I could capitalize on them. Incidentally, the first skill I banked on was social media, for a yoga studio in my neighborhood. I loved the studio, so I emailed them and told them what I could do for them. They brought me in for a meeting, and then they hired me. But I was still looking for full-time jobs. I applied and applied and applied, but I was getting nowhere. So I wondered, if maybe in the meantime, some other people could use some social media work. 

It turns out they did. One woman, an author and the mother of a friend, hired me to do social media for her book. A friend of mine started his own business and need social media associates to work for him. By the end of that summer, I was working 40 hours a week, paying my rent, often working from my own couch. 

I remember I went into my first boss's office to do some extra work for her, and she asked me how I was doing. I told her. "You still should have a real job, though," she said. "You can't make a living as a freelancer."

The nature of freelancing, though, is that it's not consistent and it's not guaranteed. There are no sick days, no vacation days, no healthcare, no 401(K)s. My cycles of clients have gone up and down, sometimes to the point where I was only making $90 per week. Having those freakouts and solving them is part of making a living as a freelancer. The universe works in mysterious ways, but you have to put yourself out there to let it work its magic. 

I never thought I would or could be a freelancer. I thought my life would follow all of the steps that people who working magazines follow--editorial assistant, associate editor, assistant editor, deputy, etc. until I was at the tippy-top of the masthead. Somehow, it all changed, though. And part of me still wants those things, but wants them at *the* job, not *a* job. The universe, society, etc. tell us that our lives are supposed to function a certain way and if they don't then we're not "doing it right." This simply isn't true. Freelancers live outside the norm. We wake up at odd hours and work well into the night, we work at coffee shops and libraries and, god bless it, even Brooklyn Bridge Park when it's warm because there's free Wi-Fi there. We get paid at weird times and meet weird, awesome people who lead us to other weird, awesome work. Every day is different, and everything we do every day is for our work, for our businesses, for ourselves. It's not written anywhere that all humans have to have 9-5 jobs, that they have to clock in, commute to work, sit in a cubicle, go to office parties, etc. Sometimes your life just leads you down a different path. 

This is not to throw shade at people who have office jobs, by any means! More power to you, honestly. I am jealous of your office parties and holiday bonuses and team-building trips to Martha's Vineyard. I have never had a vast amount of co-workers or happy hours or a salary. But I have other things, and because I have them, I don't think I would trade with you. I believe we both have the freedom to be happy as we are. 

I like the way my life works right now. I work my 40 hours per week, if not more, on infinite projects and articles and photoshoots. I am never, ever bored because there's always something to do, and it's different every day. Granted, I am still learning myself (we all are), but here are some things that have worked for me. So cheers to you if you seek to begin freelancing! I have the most respect for you and I wish you only the best. Chase the dream because, really, it's closer than you think. 

1. At first, you will feel like you want to crawl in a hole and die. Know that this feeling will pass. 

I HAVE NO JOB I HAVE NO MONEY I HAVE NO BOYFRIEND I HAVE NO NOTHING EVERYTHING IS BAD AND I'M GOING TO DIE POOR AND ALONE IN A CARDBOARD BOX.

Yep, that's about right. It starts this way because, well, you don't have a whole lot going on right now. Your mind wanders, and it wanders to all of the things that are bad. But you need to not think about those things. That's definitely easier said than done, TRUST ME I KNOW, but the best way to counteract those thoughts is to…

2. Be Productive.

Wallowing in a pit of your own sorrow is not going to do anything for you. "Be Productive" is the best advice my father ever gave me. I will never forget the story he told me about literally diving in dumpsters to get names of people to call to build his business. You need to give yourself tasks to do that will further your career (you know what they are) whether or not they make money. Do the work and the money will come.

3. The Worst Thing Anyone Can Ever Tell You Is No

This is the best advice I ever got from my mother, and it applies to all facets of my life. For work in particular, it forces me to just send that email or just call up that magazine or just damn do it already. Nothing scarier than "no" will happen, so why be afraid? 

Another good piece of advice I got from a writer at The New York Times is "Let them say no first." Which doesn't mean allowing someone to reject you, of course, it means not rejecting yourself before someone else even has the opportunity! Don't psych yourself out of applying, or pitching, or reaching out to anyone. 

4. Meet People

This one's a no-brainer. It's networking, it's hustling, it's building your portfolio of contacts. And for crying out loud, we're in New York! The opportunities to meet people here are unlike those anywhere else. They're practically there waiting for you!

Again, just email people and seeing if they'll talk about their work with you. You never know, they may need someone to help them out, or they may have another connection to help you out. People who are at the top of their game know how hard it is to get there, and oftentimes they admire the spunk and moxie it takes for people starting out to even ask them. They'll be glad to help you out. Or they won't respond. Follow up, or brush it off and keep moving. 

And if you meet such awesome people by chance, don't forget to open your mouth and say what you do. Everything happens for a reason. I've gotten writing gigs just because I said what I did at the right time. 

5. Get Out of the House

It's so easy to work from home, to roll out of bed and sit in front of the computer all day. But you can't do it. Get up, shower, brush your teeth, get dressed (in real clothes), and do work for a few hours. Then, take a break. Even people working regular jobs don't sit and work for 8 hours a day. That's nonsense. Go out, take a walk around the block for a half an hour. Grab some coffee. Or work part of the day at home and part of the day somewhere else. When you take a break, you're more productive. It lets your mind and your body breathe. 

That being said, also don't work in your bedroom or on your bed. It's good to keep your work and your sleep space separate. 

6. Work a Normal Work Day

When I first started freelancing, I found myself working 12 hour days 14 days in a row. This is incorrect and counterproductive because you can't work when you're sick (which keeping a schedule like that will make you). So now, I work 8 hours a day (sometimes more, sometimes less), depending on *what I need to get done that day to make myself feel like I've completed a good work day.* Keeping yourself to a schedule heightens productivity. I could sit and write all night on some subjects…but then I can't wake up the next morning. What's nice is that sometimes my 8 hours starts a little later than others' (I got up at 11am the other day…granted, this is not the norm and I like to get up before then, but sometimes it happens), but I always put in that time. 

7. Be a Normal Human, Too

You know, one who goes grocery shopping, exercises, goes to the bank, to the post office, picks up your damn shoes from the shoe repair place even though they've been ready for almost a week now. Part of managing your own business is making sure you have time to do these things, too. There's no reason you should be scraping peanut butter out of the jar for breakfast except pure laziness. Make time in your day to go to the damn store, and maybe work a little later that night (I am still working on this one, myself). 

8. Nothing Worth Having Ever Came Easy

Welcome to the most difficult thing you will ever, ever do. Nobody is there to enforce your schedule, give you feedback, make sure you're on the right track, producing work at a reasonable rate. You have to be the judge of all of those things yourself. You have to send those invoices, reach out to those potential clients or contacts, and be your own boss. 

One time I met a photographer at a street fair who would take my picture with an oversized Polaroid if gave him some money. I said no thanks, and laughed "I'm a starving artist!" He didn't laugh and instead looked at me, eyebrow raised. "Why are you starving?"

The truth is, I wasn't starving, but I understood what he meant: that if I was starving it was my own damn fault and I needed to do something to fix it. And you can't fire you, you just have to make yourself better. Learn the skills you need to learn and rise to your own occasion. Ferdinand Foch once said, "The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire." So flame on, baby, and start your own blaze. Nobody else is going to do it for you. 

Miss Manhattan Goes Backstage

Another season of New York Fashion Week bites the dust. Here are some of my favorite snaps from backstage at the shows.