WWD photographer Steve Eichner sees it all and shares his unique perspective from the front lines of New York Fashion Week, from the runways in the morning to the after parties and after-after parties at night.
10:27 a.m.: Ralph and I have had a busy week together.
10:35 a.m.: Beige ballgowns on the runway. Nice for that next safari gala.
10:37 a.m.: A guy in shorts shooting from the front row. He’s not very Ralph.
10:46 a.m.: Yelp. A puppy has been trampled by the packs of street-style photographers.
Chloë Sevigny for Opening Ceremony
11:53 a.m.: It’s a beautiful, quiet walk inside the gates. Hard to believe you’re still in Manhattan. “What is this place — a church, a monastery?” “Actually, it’s a refectory.”
11:55 a.m.: Girls doing double Dutch in the courtyard.
12:14 p.m.: Walking into a huge room. Soft music playing, various performances going on, some dresses hung like an art project. I spot Chloë. She’s standing with an older woman, and to be polite I shoot them together. “That’s my mom,” she says.
12:17 p.m.: Having a thought: People often ask me which celebs are nice and which are mean. I’m adding Chloë to my nice list.
Calvin Klein Collection
1:18 p.m.: As I pull up in a taxi, the driver asks, “What’s going on here? Very crowded.” “It’s a fashion show,” I inform him. “Will Naomi Campbell be there?” he asks (speaking of celebrities on the nice and naughty lists…). I tell him that I hoped so. He says in a thick accent, “She’s not married and no children. So sad. This is a hard life, always have to keep yourself beautiful.”
1:25 p.m.: Black Suburban pulls up. Garments rushed in.
1:27 p.m.: “They Are NOT Wearing,” I say as I see an artist painting nude people outside the show. Suddenly, they are surrounded by police officers. “You cannot be here,” the officer says. “I’m an artist. This is free speech.” “You’re in front of an egress.” The group of naked people is moved. The cops stand by scratching their heads. “You can stay,” the top cop finally says, and reluctantly shakes hands with the artist, then sprays his hand with sanitizer.
2:27 p.m.: I Instagram a front-row pic of Sarah Jessica Parker and Rooney Mara. It goes viral.
5:15 p.m.: A life-size pink house is the centerpiece of the runway show. Pink shag carpet covering the seating area and Beats by Dre headphones on every seat.
5:36 p.m.: A girl wearing a pink feather jacket fits right in.
5:45 p.m.: Word is Rihanna is coming.
5:51 p.m.: Let me go get some filler for the WWD slide show. Robert Duffy. Snap. Martha Stewart. Click. Baz Luhrmann. Flash.
6:01 p.m.: I’m standing in front of the seat RiRi is supposed to sit in. The voice in the sky says, “Everyone, please take your seats. The show is beginning NOW.” P.r. people scramble: “Get off the runway.” But what about Rihanna? I find a place to shoot the show. The runway photogs are all screaming. I’m on the other side of the pink house. I can’t see Rihanna’s seat. I wonder, did she show up? Are the other front-row photogs getting her?? S–t!
6:17 p.m.: The show ends. Marc exits the runway. I race to the other side. She did not make it. Phew.