Beauty Behind the Scenes

Hands-down, my favorite thing about Fashion Week is going behind the scenes at the shows and seeing them all get put together. One dresser lacing up a model's Doc Martens for the runway while the model reads War and Peace, another dresser lint-rolling a model while she stands texting backstage. A designer adjusting a model's belt so it hits just the right spot, a hairdresser making a hairstyle just messy enough. Then, the show goes on and the models strut their stuff, their hair falling perfectly (or purposely imperfectly) on their shoulders for a mere 15-30 minutes for a runway, much longer if it's a presentation.

Incidentally, while models are standing for presentations they, understandably, do some of the most mundane things, like scratch their hair or their noses that are just so much funnier because they're giant Barbie dolls doing it.

I have been fortunate enough to be able to capture these little moments, and wanted to share some of my favorites from the week.

One Day You're In...

From February 9 to 16 is New York Fashion Week, and that means I’m running around in a swirl of models, dresses, makeup and god knows what else taking pictures and writing about what I see. And as strange as it may seem, I absolutely love the hours I spend on my feet snapping away for just the right shot, the crowds that show up at some of these events in impossibly high heels (men and women), and the nervous energy of designers hoping to make a good impression. The pressure is high—what editors, buyers, and whoever else sees at these runway shows and presentations affects what happens to the designers next. Sometimes designers have one bad collection after another and they fall off the planet, never to be heard from again.

I saw this play out on a much smaller scale at a show I went to last night. It was at a gallery in Chelsea, as so many shows are. To get to the presentation, one had to alight in the passenger elevator which really looked like the freight entrance just next to it.

“Who are you here with?”

A cleanly bald man in a blue velvet jacket with seafoam green pocket square looked at me inquiringly as I moved past him. “I’m with the PR company,” I said, as I made my way inside. What’s interesting is that even the smallest designers’ shows will have a very strict guest list, as if to say, no, not just anyone can come inside. But then you confidently say your name or what brings you there and move past the entrance without a pause and people let you go.

I was expecting a typical evening of shooting, models, clothes, socializing, etc., without any fireworks. People were swishing their wine glasses, staring at the models on display occasionally, chatting with the designers—it was really just a cocktail party overseen by models on raised white platforms.

One woman seemed a little out of place. She wore an acid-washed denim dress that went down to her shins worn over black leggings fringed with stones. The dress was belted with a magenta patent leather belt and on her feet were carnation pink heels encrusted with various kinds of stones. She walked around with one of those large, plastic-looking totebags given out by some grocery stores. There was no sense of irony in her look though, as is common with the somewhat questionable fashion choices people make today. “Can I take a picture of you for my blog?” she asked a young girl sporting patterned pants and a tan jacket.

More power to you, I thought to myself. It’s about time one of these industry events got a little shaken up, made a little uncomfortable. There was a brightness to her that seemed just a bit off—she was not one of these cold fashion girls who look you up and down before looking you in the eye. It’s sad that being a happy girl made her not fit in. I felt people looking at her and judging. I couldn’t watch it happen, so I just turned back to taking pictures, making my way through the room to do my job.

I continued on my way for a while, squeezing past the row of other photographers who had set themselves up in one location with their tripods and other accoutrements. About a half hour later, I heard a crash behind me. Trying to squeeze between a model on a platform and that same row of photographers, the woman in the denim dress had tripped and fallen, crashing to the floor with her wine glass still in her hand, the stones on her heels scattering. Someone helped her up quickly, I’m sure, but others gasped and stood around her, staring. What was scary is that I saw less concern in their eyes than a kind of twisted voyeurism, almost like they were laughing at her. I still couldn’t watch.

When she fell, her wine glass broke in her hand and spattered some blood on the floor. As soon as she was helped up and taken to the makeup room, people with the designer instantly rushed over to wipe up the blood. A circle of onlookers had formed around them, and as soon as the blood was gone, they filled up the space and continued socializing. It was like nothing had happened, that people just wanted to forget the incident as soon as it was over. It was almost startling. Time passed and more people filled the room.

For me, the situation held up a mirror to the industry. It highlighted those certain somethings that we all choose to ignore—the classism, the status battles, the creative frustration—and instead embrace only the things we like about it—the glamour, the artistry, the exclusivity. Not only that, but it showed me how quickly one fall can make someone—a designer, a model, a blogger at a party—disappear forever.

*

Eventually the women reemerged, her thumb wrapped up tight with makeshift bandages. The designer went up to the woman to make sure she was okay. The woman drank another glass of wine and continued with her evening.

恭禧發財!

It means 'Happy New Year' in Chinese! And this past weekend in Chinatown was the annual Chinese New Year parade. Small children threw firecrackers on the ground from thin plastic bags, confetti burst into the air, and red and gold dragons abound all over the streets. This year is the year of the dragon, my year, the luckiest year. Elderly women wave their hands, trying to touch the dragon for luck. They smile and their thin, wrinkled hands twinkle with delight. Even with the cold gripping my hands, their happiness is catching.

Shaking it Off

There are days when, after sitting put as the brilliant community manager I am, I simply need to get up and shake off the last few hours. I need to feel like I have moved my bones across this great city and taken advantage of this strange, 50-degree “winter” weather we’ve been having, eschewing the sluggish, Jabba the Hut feeling that plagues me when I sit for too long. Sunlight beams onto the building across the street and I begin to itch, like a dog who needs a walk. And as soon as I finish my hours for the day, I am off, headed toward Central Park with my camera at my side.

I think about nothing but the pursuit of concrete under my feet and the last few hours wither away slowly. I am moving again like I used to when I had my “real” job, to the subway and back twice a day at least, if I didn’t go out at night or if my boss didn’t have some wild errands for me to run around midtown (“Go to Chanel,” she said one day. And do what? “Nothing, just go.” Fine by me). I need to start using the main library as my workspace like I used to, since the train is, I think, over a mile walk from my house. I love walking around the city, rain or shine, snow or slush, because I love the hum it puts in my blood. It’s a hum that starts slow, but gets faster once it begins synching with the fast pace of the nameless and driven others around me.

And it’s funny, that even at 3pm on a Tuesday, the city still hums with life. Maybe quieter in my neighborhood than most, but a hum nonetheless. I walk up Fifth Avenue and the sun greets me at every intersection. I cross the street to be on the side of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Met as it’s known in these parts, and admire the wares (some faux and some not faux) of the merchants who have set themselves up on the cobbled path punctuated by the occasional tree leading up to the museum. Some of them sell Breakfast at Tiffany’s posters framed in black plastic they probably printed off the internet. One stands covered in colored dots behind canvases of small square faces he’s painted. A sign reading $50 that’s been scrawled with paint-doused fingers stands in front of him. I admire his gumption.

My next stop is the steps of the Met, those infamous steps where tourist upon tourist has sat and taken that signature picture. Their friend stands at the base of the steps and the subject sits in the middle for just the right angle where you get the widest expanse of the building behind you. As I sit there, at least four of said picture are taken, usually as the photographer stands in front of the USMC vet’s hot dog and pretzel truck. Sitting on the steps as non-tourist is less interesting because all you see are the backs of heads, so I move on.

Into Central Park I go, passing private school children and their parents as they make their way to the nearby playground. I swerve on a path I’ve never taken before and wind up at the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir. The sign for it is covered in bars like a jail cell and I can’t help but be saddened by the irony. My feet sink a bit into the mud created by snow that has since melted and my feet squish on the path. I sit on a bench nearby and schoolchildren go by with their parents. Tree branches are grey and deadened by winter, reaching out into the air like skeletons grasping for life. The sun is setting and I have to be getting home.

The Float Masters

What's cool about New York is that there are performers in the subway stations who have been selected and sanctioned by the city to perform there. NYC recognizes there's a lot of talent out there, so why not give them a space to perform? One day I came upon The Float Masters, a breakdance crew performing at the Union Square station. This is what I saw.