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NY Fashion Week: A Run-On Sentence

by Eric P. Wright
It descends upon the city like a carnival, its machinations steeped with orgasmic chit-chatter but it asks only for the few, the initiated, the elite to bear witness to its undaunted authority, after all we will all be wearing paisley orange shirts next year if it so wishes - -and everyone has a role: like that girl that was in that movie next to “so and so” (but had no speaking parts), a semi-celeb who receives adulation only before Ethan Hawke or Paris Hilton arrive, we have editors, TV crews or the fashionistas and somewhere in the middle I exist, straddling the line between editor and photographer because my friggin’ company is still young and so sometimes I gotta carry the friggin’ camera and its eighty lenses that I never use all over town to shoot 20 minute shows that they make me wait 1 hour for or I have to hear some showoff mention how he shoots for god all friggin’ mighty WWD or and other times, as editor, I stand to the side or sit in a chair with my notepad and the customary slanted eyes, and eyes watch me and/or the bold ones ask me what I think about a show or designer or model and it is then that I friggin’ realize that I wasn’t paying attention and I say “yeah, the garments just flowed” or “it was a questionable lineup, but I gotta tell you I think it worked”- - then I mosey on over to another show and I am pissed by now because I probably didn’t even get a gift bag and I run into a friend whose eyes light up because he envies what I do and he is shocked that I am so calm when I am around all this model tail and when I finally get home a few hours before I have to do it all over again, after all the friggin parties, I realize that I stared through the cataract of my 35mm camera at the stillness and trepidation that is necessarily NY Fashion Week.