Oh Hello, I Didn't See You There

Who up in this bitch likes clothes and getting paid? If you raised your hand, you might like to know that Mercedes Benz Fashion Week is here again. Of course, we are all now starving and dying because while there is no depression in Heaven, there is one here on Earth. Bummer. It is well documented that many designers are trying to reconcile the luxe loucheness of pretty birds in sparkly dresses with imminent doom, and one of the ways they cope is with PRESENTATIONS, where said birds line up or lounge about and wear said dresses.

Witnesseth, Exhibit A:

We are so bored,



Exhibit B:

The designers get their moment with the chorus girls,



Exhibit C:

The shoes are kind of cruel when the girls have to stand in one spot for a half hour,



Exhibit D:

You achieve a new level of intimacy with the process when the models and stylists start talking to each other in plain view,



A presentation, though classical in structure and effect, is nowhere NEAR as much fun as a runway show as the pace is slower and static, and the crowd hewn and refined to close friends, staff, and Important Tastemakers (Editors). You could say that a presentation "intimate." You could also say there are "fewer freaks." Tomayto, tomahto.

I've also noticed that the people working the shows, the support staff, the hair and makeup boys and girls, security and the media are all just happy to be here and employed. Count me among them.

While some designers opt for smaller presentations, others still use the fanciest trade-show venue in the World, The Tents. ON WITH THE SHOW.

Behold, a tiny space for all your hair and makeup needs,



A double-wide prepping area sub-divided to fit two designers' crews in at the same time (economies of time, space),





There are fewer cameras on the runway during pre-game this season, but they all end up in the same place (this has not and will not change ever),



The usual suspects are still in the front row,



I'm pretty sure the staff photographer for Nicole Miller pre-rigged the venue with strobes. I can't recall having seen that before, even though I'm sure it has happened at least once. In any instance he lit that space up like a motherfucking roman candle.



People still applaud the effort and time.



That wasn't so hard, was it?

View And Response: Kate O'Brien's Portrait Of Amanda Palmer

This portrait of Amanda Palmer by Kate O'Brien reminded me of a little Valentine's Day incident last year wherein I was lured into attending a "Happening" in Ft. Greene with the promise of exotic and swarthy companionship (shall we say).

The location: It was seemingly a squatted factory of the kind that was so popular Pre-9/11 with poor college students and reprobate young adults; red brick and crooked floors and exposed beams. Paintings were on the wall in a fresco style and they were poorly done, garish and ugly. There were several floors of the party and several rooms per floor and at least one corner of each floor had a makeshift bar with tiki lamps, christmas lights and cheap off-brand liquors and cans of watery, warm beer. Also on each floor was a stage whose boundaries were marked on the ground with reflective tape. Naturally, there was a band playing each stage in a different musical style. The crowd was young -- perhaps underage -- and enthusiastic in the way that young people are when they are allowed outside of the house and horny and drunk and drugged.

So the Girl I was with (who shall remain nameless) and I couldn't figure out what to do. Some of our more resilient traveling companions (the idiots that took us there) went off in search of booze or weed or both. Some of the others lingered against the furthest wall from the action in hopes that death would come swiftly and painlessly. The Girl and I looked at each other and slipped off past the throngs of sweaty, bepatchouli oiled college freshmen and we stumbled downstairs to dance. And we danced close... very, very close... to swingin' oldies and sweet soul music for what seemed like seconds but was more like hours and the room stopped spinning and our buzz wore off and we both realized that -- hey -- we were both huddled for comfort because we were fascinated by each other, true, but also because we were trying to protect each other from sweaty, bepatchouli oiled college freshmen. Time to go.

I grabbed her hand and we headed back upstairs from the room we had left hours before. As we fought up against the current of stumbling girls in awkward heels I heard the sound of a broken piano and a female voice singing in a strange affected English contralto.

"Fucking bitch thinks she's Amanda Palmer!" I turned and said to the Girl.

"What?!" She didn't hear me.

I turned back to find the exit. Of course it was Amanda Palmer playing a solo show on a broken piano on Classon Ave. with about sixty rapt post-teens sitting cross-legged on the floor like kindergarteners waiting for story time.

I turned and whispered in the girl's ear, "We need to go. Now."

The Way That I Rhyme

There's not much to say about this set from Darkside Haunted House -- it speaks for itself, I think. I will add that it was one of those jobs you're happy to take just because the situation is so weird that it becomes a crime NOT to take it. There's a Disneyland-style line-maze that serves to pace attendance and allows guests cycle through and experience a series of terrors. One such section featured a series of hillbilly-Deliverance-style vignettes. Our host and guide said, dryly, "Guess what our theme was last year?"

This comment reminded me of one of my cleverer moments, if I do say so myself. Back in college one of my video professors was a heavy in the early Experimental Video, Queercore and Riot Grrl scenes in the 80's and 90's (and was even namedropped in Le Tigre's "Hot Topic") and she and I would frequently butt heads over this and that. For example, she would accuse me of misogyny and in turn I would make my work more misogynistic because... well... wouldn't you?

Anyway, a few years after we graduated George and I went back to talk to some of our more beloved professors and in the course of conversation asked what Cecilia was up to.

Professor: "I'm not sure. Last I heard she was in Ireland working on a horror film."

Me: "You mean, like, slasher-horror or the horrors of gender relations...?"

Professor: "..."

So I never got a good answer, and I suspect I was right.

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.