10:24 a.m.: “It was unsettling,” photographer Taylor Hill tells me. “I saw 25 people swarm Kate Lanphear while smoking a cigarette….A lot of people think they’re shooting street style at Lincoln Center but they don’t realize street style is everywhere in New York and no one is dressing for the street at Lincoln.”
12:02 p.m.: Maggie Betts fanning herself with her program. “It’s so hot in here.” A minute later another front rower comes up with a theory: “This place is so big,” she says. “I bet it’s too expensive to air condition.”
12:07 p.m.: BryanBoy’s really into message Ts this season. Today, it’s “Broke motherf—-er,” emblazoned on his shirt.
12:11 p.m.: I snap a few photos of some beautiful girl in the front row. “Who are you?” I ask. “Margaret Qualley.” “Actress?” “Yeah, I’m on ‘The Leftovers.’” “You don’t look anything like yourself on TV.”
1:12 p.m.: I guess models need inspiration, too. Backstage I spot the show’s “Walking Directions.” “Powerful, Iconic, Dynamic, Couture, Glamorous, Exclusive, Sensual, You are our stars, Love, Max and Lubov.”
2:18 p.m.: “Awesome!” I spot a fridge full of Kefir coconut ice cream pops.
3:40 p.m.: I try making some fashion commentary to myself during the show…how about I stick to photography.
4:51 p.m.: The fashion hierarchy is strange. First row to third row. I’m not used to seeing Emily Holt this far back. A “demotion promotion” she calls it.
4:58 p.m.: “Love it up, love it up!” I say as I snap Liberty Ross draped around boyfriend Jimmy Iovine. “Beats” a cheating director.
5:01 p.m.: Nicki Minaj. It cannot be real.
5:06 p.m.: Everyone is drenched in sweat. We’re waiting in line to shoot Rihanna. I hand her security guard a napkin. He reluctantly takes it to wipe his brow. Like it or not, we’re all in this together.
5:08 p.m.: Straight from Ancient Egypt…a woman is fanning Nicki Minaj. If I ever quit photography, I want that job.
5:52 p.m.: Re-attempting my fashion commentary, I say “Beautiful. A lot of tennis-y stuff.”
Band of Outsiders Store Opening
6:34 p.m.: A PR person hands me a tip sheet. “I don’t have my glasses. Read it to me…in a sexy voice.” :)
6:37 p.m.: “How’d you like my photos of your store in the paper today? I need to feed my ego,” I ask Scott Sternberg. “You are the finest interior photographer in all of the world!” Thanks Scott! I’m going to ride that through the end of Fashion Week.
6:38 p.m.: Iced buckets of Peroni. Nice touch.
6:46 p.m.: I Instagram a pic of Jason Schwartzman. Instantly, I receive a text from an editor friend saying, “Tell Jason I love him.”
8:07 p.m.: Here we go again. BryanBoy in yet another wordy outfit. “So good and so many.” Huh?
8:19 p.m.: I fully photobomb a picture of Rihanna. I hope it’s on the wire services. (Next-day research shows it is.)
10:57 p.m.: “What’s this drink called?” I ask the waitress. “A salty dog.” These are going down way too easy…it’s going to be a sorry morning.
11:00 p.m.: “Over here by the chandelier,” I direct Prabal for a photo opt. He says, “Would you like me to hang from it?” Writing it now I realize he’s referring to the new Sia song. Guess the salty dog made my pop culture references a little fuzzy last night.
11:14 p.m.: Not much going on celebrity-wise, but I am photographing some of the local color: a guy with a 10-foot tall feather in his fedora; a girl aggressively punching as she dances; a nutjob in full-on Joker hair and makeup; a cart with crazy frozen popcorn. It makes smoke come out of your mouth when you eat it.
12:27 a.m.: All right, I get a usable photo of Joan Smalls and Prabal. Good f—king night!