Bill Cunningham

Every day, Bill Cunningham gets on his bicycle and snaps away at the streets of Manhattan, from society fetes to SoHo streetcorners. Clad in his blue work smock, the 80+ photographer has devoted his life to documenting not only New York fashion, but fashion around the world. He works at The New York Times, and has produced two photographic standbys—“On the Street,” where he photographs New York street style, and “Evening Hours,” a society column—every week for forty or so years. Cunningham has photographed everyone from Greta Garbo to Anna Wintour, and millions of mere mortals in between. His work is a historical record of fashion. But his humility never lets any of that show.

Perhaps this is why director and cinematographer Richard Press took on the project of making Bill’s life and work in to a documentary. “Bill Cunningham New York” was released this month for exclusive engagements in New York, Washington, D.C. and Los Angeles before finding its way to theatres all across the country at the beginning of summer.

I was fortunate enough to attend one of the screenings (they’re almost all sold out up until the last screening day on March 29) at Film Forum, a landmark non-profit independent movie house in the West Village. With just four small theatres, Film Forum plays the movies film lovers love, from older films like Taxi Driver to the latest avant-garde Italian cinema releases.

Every seat in the theatre was filled. Honestly, it wasn’t too much of a surprise considering the number of people in New York alone who read the Times, love fashion, love New York and, of course, love Bill’s work. Though I grew up far from New York, every Sunday morning meant reading the SundayStyles section of the New York Times. I ceremoniously spread the paper out over the carpet in my family’s den and took in every detail of the Style section, especially Bill Cunningham’s “On the Street.” New York was always the dream and when I was able to see Bill’s photographs, I felt that much closer to achieving it. What were they wearing in New York, an epicenter of the cultural universe? Bright colors, bold furs, beautiful shoes—Bill saw it, and he showed me. I never felt too far away.

The film gave a world of insight to the life of this man, who is humble beyond comprehension (he even snapped away at his own award ceremony, when the French Ministry of Culture honored him with the title chevalier dans l’ordre des Arts et des Lettres). He has literally donated his life to his work, sleeping amongst filing cabinets filled with his photographs, and in the process has become one of the most revered fashion documentarians in the world. Even Harold Koda, head of the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Costume Institute, thinks so. And in the film, everyone from Anna Wintour to Brooke Astor sing his praises. One of my favorite scenes shows a group of photographers asking Anna to pause for a picture, but the only one she pauses for is Bill.

He is a creature of habit, shooting color film on his manual camera, eating four-dollar breakfast sandwiches at corner greasy spoons, riding around town on his bicycle. He is consumed by his work and knows no other life, really. What the film shows, though, is his humanity. That he is not just a Times photographer responsible for documenting however many decades of fashion history, but rather a man whose career successes outweigh his personal life entirely. The film brings up the question of Bill’s sexuality, if he has ever been in a relationship, and what his active role in his religion—he goes to church every Sunday—means to him in the face of that. Bill answers, saying no, he’s never been in a relationship, and his religious family didn’t think of fashion as a manly pursuit so it was difficult for them to understand. A few seconds pass and he starts to cry. Watching the film, I felt Bill almost forces himself to live this way, suppressing and even punishing himself to live without what he calls “urges.” That particular scene was heartbreaking, but it made me understand what I was watching that much more. Bill could not find beauty in himself, so he devoted his life to finding beauty elsewhere.

“Bill Cunningham New York” is wonderful, though, because it shows Bill loving the world. Seeing him being inspired is inspiring in itself. It reminds us that yes, of course Bill Cunningham’s work is important, but the artist himself is also important. He is a staple to fashion and to New York, but he is also a kindred spirit to anyone who has found passion and love in their work. In the end, we are happy there is beauty in the world for him to love, and hope to catch a glimpse of him on his bicycle.



Loved it so much I bought the poster.

For more about Bill Cunningham, you can check the movie site here and read a really great article by Bill himself about his work here.

Meatballs Are The Best Balls

Let me begin this by saying I am not an especially carnivorous person. I do not enthusiastically shout “Go Meat!” like the happy bratwurst people on the Hillshire Farm commercials. But I do have a love for a tasty meal, and any restaurant that supplies said tastiness is one that I will hold in high regard. I’ve written about a few restaurants here, but most of them do not have a to-go stand where you can order naked balls.

A single meatball slider

I am, of course, talking about meatballs. At The Meatball Shop in the Lower East Side, you can order your balls naked, meaning not on bread of any kind, or you can order them on a baguette as a hero, as sliders or as a ‘smash’ on a brioche bun. There are also numerous kinds of meatballs— including the classic beef but also spicy pork, chicken, vegetable, and meatball du jour—and sauces—classic tomato, spicy meat, mushroom, parmesan cream, pesto, etc.

Though the restaurant is primarily known for its meatballs, you will also have your choice of risotto, a number of sides, desserts (homemade ice cream sandwiches on specialty cookies!). And don’t forget a drink because, as the restaurant says, “you’ll get thirsty eating our balls”.

When TDS and I arrived at 84 Stanton Street, a giant maroon sign indicated to us that we were, in fact, at The Meatball Shop. It was a tiny little restaurant, whose small outdoor tables were filled with customers, even on a somewhat cloudy, 50 degree day. Upon entering the restaurant, we found there was an hour and a half wait, perhaps applicable to the restaurant’s small size and current hotspot status. After schlepping from Brooklyn, however (it was the same day we had gone to Williamsburg), we were not to be deterred. The restaurant had a takeout stand that was only a 20-minute wait. We had seen a park nearby, so decided to grab our balls and sit on a bench with them instead.

We'll have our balls to go, please.

We both ordered the ‘smash’ sandwich, which consisted of two meatballs “smashed on a toasted brioche bun with choice of sauce + mozzarella or provolone cheese served with a small side salad” for eight dollars. I got my beef balls with classic tomato and provolone. Usually one for exotic tastes, I decided to keep it simple since I was trying their balls for the first time. Upon receiving our balls in a minimalist brown kraft paper bag, we quickly skittered outside like little squirrels, super-hungry and so excited to try them. In the park we saw people before us had a similar idea, as a lone Meatball Shop bag flitted across the concrete when a gust of wind rolled past.

My da-lee-shiz sond-weesh.

Then, the sandwiches happened. Rather, they did not so much happen as they were “a happening.” An event. A happy wave of tastes cresting through my mouth. The sweetness of the brioche, the friendly tang of the tomato sauce, the saltiness of the beef and the smoothness of the provolone all pressed together in my mouth and I wished it would not end. I had meatball sandwiches before, but they were nothing like this—the meatballs were tough, the sauce made the bread fall apart; generally a disaster. But this sandwich was mushy in a good way, and the bread gave it just enough thickness so it didn’t fall apart. Happiness.

Beyond just the fantastic flavors happening in my mouth, though, what I really liked about the sandwich is that it was so well thought out. You could really tell that everything had been planned, from the bread used to the way the sandwich was assembled. It wasn’t just slapped together randomly—it was a thoughtful slap, and the thoughtfulness made it even more delicious, somehow.

Founders Michael Chernow and Daniel Holzman say the restaurant is dedicated to simplicity and deliciousness, and I can tell you without hesitation that this is certainly the case. I’m not the only one who thinks so, either. Though the restaurant opened in February 2010, it has already been featured in publications all across the country, including but not limited to Details magazine, New York magazine, and many more. What’s even better is that the restaurant is thoroughly accessible—there may be long lines, but the takeout is relatively fast and the restaurant is open until 4am Thursday through Saturday, and 2am Sunday through Wednesday. They also don’t take reservations. All of this, I think, adds even more to the simplicity. Come in whenever, eat delicious food, the end. Well, Meatball Shop, if your doors are open, I’ll be there. The end.

Cigarettes and Bicycles

Of late, Miss Manhattan has ventured not once, but twice into Brooklyn! It’s about time, since I’ve been in New York seven and a half months. I guess I just never got around to it—you can’t just say, oh, I’m going to do Brooklyn today! It’s an entire borough, just like Manhattan. I always felt like I needed a specific reason to go, and I never had one until recently.

My most recent trip to Brooklyn was with TDS, to Williamsburg. I had never been to this exotic locale before, and had only heard the most…interesting things about it. In short, Williamsburg is where, historically, the hipsters live. As TDS and I left L train on the Bedford Avenue stop, we knew we were on a different planet. For the most part, here is what I saw, as far as people went:

·         Beards

·         Flannel

·         Black, thickly framed glasses

·         Girls with platinum blonde hair dyed silver

·         Skinny jeans

·         Beanies

Oh, and more beards.

As we walked down Bedford Ave to get to the Brooklyn Art Library, home of The Sketchbook Project (a nationwide project where people filled Moleskine notebooks with collages, sketches, writing and other cool stuff and donated it to this project…more below), we noticed how different a planet we were on. Where in Manhattan street vendors peddle wares like faux leather handbags, bongs, and books by the African-American erotica author Zane, in Williamsburg they sell architecture coffee table books and vinyl records. Tasti D-Lite, a low-cal ice cream and frozen yogurt franchise, sells crepes. There is a strange disconnect between the look of the residents and the specific, dare I say upscale retail options. As if it’s not cool to like things like crepes unless everything else about you suggests you wouldn’t be caught dead eating one. Insert comments relating to bourgeoisie and/or elitism here.

What I’ve been told about Williamsburg by people who live in Greenpoint, the next-closest neighborhood, is that you can be close to all the bars without having to live near the people who frequent them. The people who frequent them are, and please excuse me for the now far-overused term, the aforementioned hipsters, people who are so into their own coolness but will tell you unequivocally that being into your own coolness is supremely uncool. This brings us to irony, another hipster construct—i.e., dressing like a lumberjack, which one would normally think supremely uncool, is now cool just because it’s uncool. It’s a twisted web, difficult to explain, especially since I’ve now used the word cool far too many times. Actually, here’s something really great that will describe it far better than I ever could:

Normally, the things I saw in Williamsburg I would think were awesome if I saw them in Manhattan, or anywhere else for that matter—vinyl vendors, awesome used books a la the Strand bookstore, a store dedicated entirely to muffins, and a moving truck full of musicians just rocking out down the street with the back of the truck open—but in Williamsburg I thought they were absolutely the most annoying things I’ve seen in my entire life. Everything exists in this ironic purgatory where cool and uncool cancel each other out, leaving one feeling only annoyance because they just can’t feel anything.

There were some things I actually liked in Williamsburg, despite these feelings. TDS and I made our way to the Brooklyn Art Library, an art cooperative set up to house the Sketchbook Project among other art-related events. There was an entire wall covered in shelves upon shelves of these aforementioned Moleskines, from all over the country and the world. I looked at one that was made up of collages of Wyoming and another full of drawings from an illustrator in Hawaii. The project was really neat, and I thought it was a great way to bring art together from all around the world that people could actually hold and touch and not just look at on the wall. You’d be surprised how many different things people can fill a simple notebook with if you just say, “Ready? Go.” The project will be touring all around the country soon, and you can check it out here.

And then I tried to buy an old wax pencil they had for sale. On the pencil it said 29 cents, so if it wasn’t exactly that I figured it would be like a dollar, taking the “cool oldness” factor into account. I went to up to the waifish cashier with a single braid across her forehead and found that one pencil was, in fact, six dollars. Incredulous, I tried to clarify. “Yeah, it’s vintage…” she said, her voice trailing off. I had been in Williamsburg only a short while and already it had not failed to live up to my expectations.

The other thing I really liked about Williamsburg was this gourmet chocolate shop called Mast Brothers. Mast Brothers handcrafts each and every chocolate bar they sell in the store, and it certainly smells that way when you walk in. It was like inhaling dark chocolate powder, and I almost felt like it got in my nose and my eyes. The chocolate is ground and roasted in the store and made into the bars without any extra oil, butter, or anything.  

There are a number of flavors as well, including but not limited to Serrano Pepper, Hazelnuts, and Fleur de Sel. TDS and I purchased the latter (we split the cost of $7, figuring it was worth it after sampling the cocoa goodness in the store…we were right.) and were instantly floating on some kind of chocolaty air. Fleur de Sel is chocolate flavored with sea salt, and each grain of salt pops on your tongue as it mixes with the swirling darkness of the chocolate. Though I am not even a chocolate person, I was instantly swept off my feet by this chocolate bar. I also found out that it was voted “Best New American Chocolate” by Food & Wine magazine. Crazy! Mast Brothers sell their chocolate all across the New York area, but they also have a select amount of places they sell elsewhere so I definitely recommend finding it if you’re interested.

Overall, the trip to Williamsburg was an interesting one, full of irony and coolness. Yeah, I said it. Would I live there? Not if you paid me. Would I go back again? I’d have to have a reason. But it was certainly an experience. Here is a picture I took that I feel best exemplifies Williamsburg: cigarettes (Newports, because they’re the cheapest) and bicycles (because who the fuck wants to buy a MetroCard and become a part of the machine?) littering a streetcorner.

Crumpled and Uncrumpled

Some days I finish work feeling like a crumpled up ball of paper, crunchy and squished. It’s on days like these when I especially love going to yoga because I know it will smooth me out again.

I got hooked on the practice in high school, loving it because it kicked my butt without kicking my butt—I feel the burn without punishing myself or dripping in sweat. As I continued through college I noticed yoga would not only smooth me out, but give me something else to focus on when papers and tests were clogging my brain and sometimes my pores.

I knew when I came to New York I wanted to continue doing yoga, but I didn’t start until I had been here for four months, when it started to turn cold. Before that I had been running or walking up and down the East River, but as I began to lose feeling in my hands and my nose come November, I realized it was time for a change. In Florida I had done yoga at a gym, so I thought maybe I would try a gym out here. Little did I know I was soon to become the Goldilocks of gyms.

I started with a gym just a block west of my house. It was an intimidating metallic and glass structure with grey walls, had a waiting area with velour-upholstered armchairs and a coffee table upon which rested copies of magazines like Details and Vogue. I went up to the front desk, which held computers encased in glass, and was notified that a “membership specialist” (or something of that nature) would be right with me. A handsome man soon entered the room and introduced himself to me as said specialist. I instantly had visions of that episode of Friends where Chandler wants to quit the gym. The gym says okay, but how about first you take a tour of our facility with this obscenely hot chick in only a leotard? I braced myself. No handsome man would sway my decision-making!

He asked me, would I mind coming into his office and answering a few questions about my exercise habits before he gave me a tour and they may or may not invite me to become a member? I made a mental note of this phrase—as if somehow joining this gym was a privilege when really if you threw money at them they wouldn’t say no, of course. But my exercise habits were questioned, and I found myself bending the truth and making up answers about my routine to somehow appear more fit or active than I actually was (I now wonder if he knew/thought I was lying). I didn’t like this about myself, and made another mental note of this for later. Would I feel like I had to look or act a certain way if I came to this gym? I didn’t want that—I only wanted to look like crap, get my gym or yoga on, and get out. If I couldn’t do that, then the gym was not for me.

We took a tour of the gym and I began to notice something really upsetting about the entire environment. It wasn’t just clean, it was sterile. Devoid of warmth and personality, it was an unwelcoming environment that almost exactly suited the purpose of focusing hard on feeling the burn and dripping yourself with sweat. I suddenly realized where I was—I was in the evil gym from Dodgeball, Globo Gym, where over-muscled jocks and yuppies came to get pumped up: “Here at Globo Gym, we understand that "Ugliness" and "Fatness" are genetic disorders, much like baldness or necrophilia, and it's only your fault if you don't hate yourself enough to do something about it.”

The only thing I wanted to do was leave, but I had to sit through another short meeting with the handsome membership specialist. He asked me what exorbitant gym membership interested me and when I might like to join. I said I’d have to think about it. “What’s to think about?” he said, as if joining any other gym except this one would be a supreme joke. It made me hate the gym even more. We finished our meeting and I left, mumbling “Yeah fucking right,” to myself as I walked through the door.

The next gym I visited because a free three-day trial came for it in the mail. It was a couple blocks north of my house, so I went. The people signing me in were a lot more chill. There was no activity questionnaire, there were no special meetings, just a tour of the smaller facility with a pretty winding staircase. That was fine with me, I didn’t need a lot of bells and whistles—just a place to do some yoga and maybe some cardio. But I didn’t realize how small the gym really was until I was practically exercising in an old man’s armpit as I attempted a cardio workout. He was far too close to me for comfort, and it wasn’t his fault—the treadmills and ellipticals had to be smashed closer together so more could fit, more people could work out at once, more people could join the gym, etc. Though my normal cardio routine involved the elliptical for 30 minutes, then a series of stretches, crunches and weights, I only stayed for the elliptical portion because if I stayed longer I would actually vomit.

It was the first time I felt homesick since moving to New York. I know it’s a silly thing to trigger homesickness, but in Florida everything is spread out, there’s lots of room between exercise equipment, and it doesn’t get cold so you can run anywhere any time of the year (you have to be careful in the summer, but that’s another story). I was sad. All I wanted to do was exercise! And gym memberships in New York were not at all the same as in Florida, where they were five times less expensive. I didn’t have a lot of money to spare, and I just wanted to enjoy myself while working out. Was it so much to ask?

I gave up looking for a week or so, then I had a stressful day at work and all I wanted was some yoga. No gym, just plain yoga. So I found a studio near my house and resolved to go that evening. More than 10 blocks north, it was a little bit of a hike, but I didn’t mind because hey, walking is exercise too.

New York Yoga is a small studio, but it doesn’t matter. Classes are limited to 20. The walls are softly paneled in welcoming colors. The receptionist is always sweet, no matter who it is. There’s original artwork on the walls. Yoga mats and good-smelling candles are for sale in the back. There’s a plush carpet in the locker room that you can mush your toes into (no shoes are allowed beyond the tile in the front part of the studio so it stays clean). And the class I took was awesome. The teacher lit candles and played soft music, rubbed massage oils into our necks and spritzed our faces with lovely scented water during shavasana. The class challenged me and kicked my butt in that awesome I-don’t-hate-myself-and-want-to-die way, and it made me feel refreshed. It was what I was looking for all along—it wasn’t too big or too small, it was just right. I was a real-life Goldilocks…or should I say Yogilocks?

Nobody sat me down and questioned whether or not I wanted to join, nobody judged my exercise habits to see if I was a good fit. There was no smelly man’s armpit to extract myself from. On the contrary, I wanted to feel refreshed like this all the time. And, for a not-exorbitant price, I now do. I look forward to the yoga classes I go to usually twice a week and to that feeling of uncrumpled-ness that I know will come with it. I always knew that fitness could be happiness, but I didn’t know how until New York Yoga.

City Canvas

With each click of my shutter on the streets of Manhattan, I fall a little more in love. There is just something about a New York City sidewalk that has so much life that when you shoot a model walking down the street, it’s almost like a double portrait.

Mere minutes ago I finished my second fashion editorial for Her Campus.com, the national online college women’s magazine for which I am Style Editor. I had my models posing in my stairwell, on my fire escape, and ultimately outside in 40 degree weather where they put up with my zaniness in sleeveless dresses. What? They’ve had to do far worse on Top Model.

But when we were outside, the photographs had a certain vibrancy that I think was entirely due to the streets. Cars whizzing past, people shuffling in the crosswalk as I tried to shoot my models before the ‘Walk’ sign changed (pure hilarity—I’m glad my models were such good sports).

What really was the crowning moment was hailing a cab, telling the driver I would pay the fare if my models could pose with the car. He smiled and said “Yeah, sure.” That was all I needed. In an instant I posed the girls in front of the cab, on the hood of the car, inside it. And the driver ended up charging me nothing at all, just saying “Forget it,” with a smile and he drove off. We may have made his night!

When I was shooting outside, I understood the reason why so many movies have been shot here, so many books take place here, so much art is produced here in general. There’s something about the speed of the city, the grime, the flashing lights and the noise that inspires. I can’t say what it is for sure, but I know there’s an extra electricity pulsing in my veins that I haven’t felt in any other location.

I love how lights on cabs look in photographs as they rush past, solid beams of colored light implying movement. I love how the sky is the clearest, most solid color—like a white wall painted blue—on really beautiful days, and how that sky somehow brightens even the tallest skyscrapers or the lowest subway entrances. There is beauty, sometimes unconventional, everywhere. This city is not passive—it’s a living, breathing being. It has a heart and a soul, and on nights like tonight I can really feel it.

I hope to be in the category one day of famous artists who have used the city as their canvas, but for now I am content to have New York as my muse.

Models in the crosswalk

Miss Manhattan Takes Fashion Week

On Thursday, February 10th, something incredible happened. I walked through the brisk, late winter air swirling around Lincoln Center, past Avery Fisher Hall, past the famous fountain, past the Metropolitan Opera, past the security guards dressed in black and directly into the Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week tent. I was invited, after all.

 As I mentioned previously, I was hired by New York street style blog Style Defined to snap some oh-so-fabulous looks during Fashion Week, write some runway reviews, and tweet about various fashion week happenings. Being in the tent all day was my job. I had to occasionally repeat those words to myself because sometimes I would be in a state of disbelief. I hoped the sound of my voice wouldn’t suddenly jar me awake from a far-too-real dream.

Sure, it’s easy to sneak into the tents if you really want to—just look fierce, throw on your sunglasses, name a designer and walk past the guards like you own the place while yelling into your cell phone. But it’s the invitation, the spot you have waiting for you at a specific show that really matters. Because you’re not just inside the tent—you’re an insider.

With my camera hanging around my neck, notebook and pen poised and ready to take down names of the superior street stylish, I would be in the tent for hours talking to people from all over the fashion industry—bloggers, editors, writers, stylists, models, you name it. “Excuse me, hi, I’m with Style Defined and I really love your look. May I take a picture of you?” Snaps from the camera, followed by Style Defined business cards, a friendly smile and handshake, and I was off to the next stylish person. While working in the tent and at off-site shows and parties, I even managed to snag designer Richie Rich and well-known blogger Susie Bubble.

If I was feeling peckish, a quick, free, low-calorie bottled Frappuccino from the Starbucks counter set up in the tent soothed my hunger. Other than that, I lived on mini Fiji water bottles and skinny cans of Diet Pepsi. Both had booths in the tent, along with Maybelline (free lipstick), Kim Crawford (free wine), DHL (free…something. I still don’t know what they were giving out), Essie (free manicures), and others in and out throughout the week. Caffeine happily chugged away in my veins, but for the most part I was electric with pure adrenaline.

Christian Siriano

When it was time to tweet or write, I found a spot in AOL’s media box in the center of the tent, a space which could hold I think 30 equally caffeinated photo editors, bloggers, writers, and so on at one time. The spots filled up quickly and I had to move fast to nab a spot, but fortunately it never came to blows.

Christian Siriano

And when I wasn’t in the tent doing street style or social media, I was seeing shows. The first one I saw was Christian Siriano. What always amazes me about Siriano is the maturity in his designs, even though he just turned 25. Many of the designs this time around were genuinely classics, though on-trend for the upcoming season--wide-leg pants, little black dresses, high-glam ballgowns. For the first part of the collection, Siriano used a lot of black, but made it interesting with a variety of textures. Then came a forest/olive green and a pinkish mauve. The designs were smart, wearable, and high-fashion which I think we can always have more of.

Toni Francesc

The other shows I liked in the tents were Mik Cire, whose leather jackets, though menswear, made me swoon with delight; Carlos Miele, who made hot pink palazzo pants for fall; Toni Francesc, whose silver and gold jumpsuits gave me delusions of grandeur; and Anna Sui, whose smart pattern-fur-coat combinations always give sassy rock and roll vibes. The Alice + Olivia presentation at The Plaza was also delightful, with beautiful 1920s-meets-1970s sparkles on the models and Veuve Cliquot champagne for guests.

Alice + Olivia

If I wasn’t in the tents, I was at shows in galleries all over Chelsea. Especially fantastic were the Jeremy Laing, Kimberly Ovitz and Juan Carlos Obando presentations. Jeremy Laing’s pieces were inspired by celestial bodies, with the surface of the moon and even eclipses making appearances in his collection. Kimberly Ovitz smartly blended minimalist design with neutrals and wild colors like grey with neon yellow, and royal blue with black. Juan Carlos Obando upped the glam factor with floaty, almost Grecian evening gowns and fierce suits.  


Jeremy Laing



Juan Carlos Obando











  



    

Kimberly Ovitz

Every day my schedule was different, and I was hopping back and forth usually between Chelsea galleries and the tents. Some days were longer than others, like those punctuated at the end by the oh-so-important afterparties. I wound up attending four, two at the posh Empire Rooftop (which, I’m told by my roommate, is another place often featured on Gossip Girl), one at Griffin in the Meatpacking District, and another at the Tribeca Grand Hotel. I met amazing and interesting people everywhere I went, from drag queens to photographers, young social media hotshots to face jewelry designers and everyone in between.

It made me feel alive to have something to do every second—down time was only reserved for my post-midnight arrival at my apartment, when I would then sit down and work some more on selecting photos and typing up my notes for the day. It sounds like a lot, but it was absolutely the best feeling I could possibly ask for. I was flying, still in disbelief that yes, this was my job, the very thing I came to New York to do.

There’s always a disconnect when you realize you’re finally living your dream. For so many years, the only thing I wanted was to go to the shows at Fashion Week, to cover them and write about them and take pictures. Then, because of some crazy twist of fate and Style Defined, there I was, doing it. Here’s to the next Fashion Week! May it be as incredible as the last.

Juan Carlos Obando