Yes, I'm Ready For Some Football

This is the Patricia Field HSN Line launch show. I think all those words, when used in that combination, are vivid enough to clue the reader in to the content of the show. This particular show has all the hassles of Marc Jacobs on a micro level; the delays, the overstuffed venue, makeshift backstage, belligerent weather and none of the payoff -- certainly not in blown-mind count or in sheer what-the-fuck-ness. Of course, the modern New York fashion show is a grand act of artistic shibai anyway, so any value found in the show itself is the result of missing the point entirely.



The Edison Hotel Ballroom is a dismal place near Times Square. I imagine the good people in charge spent a great deal of time trying to get the old people smell out.



HSN's presence meant that there were pockets of pre-lit action where I could just post up and wait for the river of human oddities float on by. I found their setup to be a little clumsy -- from a civilian standpoint, anyway. I support and respect their scorched earth/brute force style of lighting.



The process of prodding and primping fantastically beautiful people and the organization of individual stations is similar to working in a high-level restaurant. This particular backstage was oppressively hot and the misting air conditioner wasn't helping matters in the slightest.



Any show with a name designer is SRO. This is a given. The expanded coverage for HSN and the manpower needed to cover the show the way they did (multiple hand-helds, multiple talent crews, at least two end-of-runway positions, a jib and two Steadicams) meant that most optimal viewing positions have been a) thought of and b) taken. Sometimes it's best to just give up.

Throwback Image Saturday (II)

Another from my early series of people I (used to, for the most part) hang out with in college. Dana was the editor of the school newspaper for a spell, and an all around cheerful person, in spite of the attitude this picture suggests. Call it one of my early dour-hipster pictures. This particular image was an outtake (one of her smiling made it in) and I uploaded this one 'cause it just seems more me at this point.

As with Nick, I've not seen Dana since I graduated. Last I heard she was back in Seattle or someplace on the Western Coast.

Fashion Week, Darth Vader and The Russians.

I managed to survive another Fashion Week with my sanity intact -- please remember that I'm working the shows for television and not as a shooter for a magazine or similar. This means, of course, that I generally have to engage people on a coherent level rather than a grumbly, mumbly or stalker-y level. I then turn on grumbly, mumbly stalker mode to take pictures during the down time.

Yes, I was there at the two-hour-delayed Marc Jacobs show (below) and overheard a pleasantly on-point smackdown delivered by Anna Wintour. When asked if going to shows with her daughter, Bee, was good bonding time she replied,

'Of course. And we've had plenty of time to do it tonight.'

So there. In truth and perhaps obviously, the same thing happens for a TV crew. It's easy to make friends when there's nothing to do but sit around and tell jokes and tell fish stories.

On the other end of the spectrum (of everything, really) is Heatherette (above), whose show our crew is always welcome at, and whose cast always includes Amanda Lepore, whose existance always confuses out of towners. Most importantly, Heatherette always seems to go off on time and in full force with a splendid time had by all.

I'd like to take the time now to fill in and finally put in writing my "Russian Theorem" before someone else steals it.

"Gin's Russian Theorem

Any given photographer can advance one and a half letter grades just by having a six-foot tall Russian model in his or her frame. The limit of the advancement is an 'A+' grade" and the effect is not amplified by having more than one (1) model."

That is to say, a "C" grade photographer becomes a "B+" grade photographer by merit of the absurd physical presence of the woman in front of the lens. I use this self-effacingly, and as a criticism of others. I become a great photographer at Fashion Week.