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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.

BCBG Max Azria

10:05 a.m.: I enter Moynihan Station, better known as the 24-hour post office where I have been known to mail in my taxes at midnight on April 14th. “This is not going to be good,” I overhear a security guard say as a throng of fashion frenzied fanatics push their way into the show.

10:21 a.m.: “Cute hat, Sami Gayle, cute hat, June Ambrose.”

10:25 a.m.:“Are there a lot of big names here?” someone asks. “No, but a whole row of small names hoping to be big names,” I reply.

10:47 a.m.: As she show ends I think, “One down and thousands more to go.”

W’s “It” Girl Luncheon at the Colony Club

12:32 p.m.: “It’s all Valentino,” Harley Viera-Newton notes as I snap her. “What’s going on here?” I say. “It’s all constellations. It’s the universe, I’m out of this world!”

12:40 p.m.: “Get it from the side,” Allison Williams says. “It’s Antonio Marras.”

12:44 p.m.: “I was so hungover this morning and I had to film something. It’s going to be on ABC,” Caroline Vreeland, my new favorite social butterfly, tells me. “It’s a two-hour documentary. They are following me around fashion week.”

Paul Frank Children’s Fashion Show

4:45 p.m.: “She’s an Instagram sensation,” a woman says, pointing to her little dog. “What?” I ask. “Yes, she’s Chloe the mini frenchie and she has over 50,000 followers.”

5:07 p.m.: I take a sweet photograph of Coco Rocha and her baby.

5:09 p.m.: OMG. This is the BEST ice cream I have EVER eaten — marshmallow and M&Ms. “Give me another one of those,” I say.

6:28 p.m.: Ancient fashion week secret: if you have a little down time and you’re near Chinatown, get a foot massage. Shhhhhh.

Topshop and Ciara Dinner

9:03 p.m.: “Kisses, kisses, kisses,” I exclaim as I flash Ciara, Jourdan Dunn and Iman smooching for my lens. Ah, the power of the camera.

9:11 p.m.: “Hiiiiiiiiiiiii. We are spending all our time together,” Emily Ratajkowski purrs as I snap her. “Yes and I could not think of a better way to spend my time,” I say. I am such a doofus.

Rihanna’s Party

10:05 p.m.: Stressed out in the rain dealing with a s–t show at the door. Finally I persuade my way in. I put my flash on my camera as I’m led upstairs by a publicist. I see a huge bodyguard I recognize. My instincts kick in. It’s Kim and Kanye! As I’m spraying them with flashes, another photog asks them to stop and pose. “No, get us walking,” Mr. West directs.

10:06 p.m.: “Sir, sir, you cannot take photos here,” I’m told by a security guy. This is overheard by my public relations escort: “Wait here, Steve, Ill clear this up.”

10:07 p.m.: “Take my picture,” a giddy Lindsey Wixson says, giggling while posing. “I can’t right now, I’m waiting for clearance,” I respond. “Oh, just do it,” she coaxes. I look over my shoulder and snap away…

10:52 p.m.: As Drake’s “Started From the Bottom” bumps on the sound system, the room fills with what smells like cannabis smoke. RiRi is in the VIP room surrounded by body guards and she seems to be partaking. Shocker.

11:05 p.m.: I got the money shots, so now it’s time for a glass of ice cold Champagne.

11:26 p.m.: Text from my editor: “Please come to elevators. Timberlake is here.”

11:28 p.m.: “He came out, did a loop and disappeared,” my editor says. Pharrell did the same thing. I hate this feeling. I hate not getting the shot. I feel like I’m letting everyone down. Sadly, I return to my Champagne.

11:44 p.m.: My editor runs over to me: “Pharrell is here.” We walk over. A huge bodyguard waves his hand with that “No photos” look on his face. I snap one anyway, getting only half of Pharrell’s face.

11:47 p.m.: Timberlake approaches Pharrell’s table. I start blasting away. Then walk over to the elevator. Suddenly, there is a bearded man in my face screaming as if I just killed his child: “Asking the f—ing question! Ask the f—ing question!” He’s so close to my face that it takes me a moment to focus and recognize him. Oh, crap, it’s Justin Timberlake still roaring, “Asking the f—ing question! Ask the f—ing question!”

11:49 p.m.: His team surrounds me and demands I delete the photos. My editor comes to my aid. I hate to harsh anyone’s mellow but it always puzzles me why celebrities come to public events, where they know the press is invited, and expect not to get photographed. So I say to them, “Once the photos are in my camera they are my property.” And with that I close NYFW, Day 1.

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