Fashion Week

Here they come. Models and models and more models. Gargantuan strides, heads down, smoking and texting and tweeting. The bloggers step in front of them, risking being trampled, requesting information, having them sign a sheet. Here at Lincoln Center during fashion week, even the anonymous look and act famous. Male designers, fragile boys with slicked back hair and toothy smiles, are accompanied by tall, regal women who could be bodyguards. Men in black patrol the entrance checking credentials, swinging neck jewelry audaciously.
I am but one of many snapping photos of anyone who looks interesting, including other photographers. A young, gorgeous woman in tight denim short shorts, sits against a wall sketching people. We surround her as though she is some unimpressed European art student. Her tanned legs and feet in flip flops indicate a world traveler. Are the models as beautiful in person? Oh yes. This is not normal protoplasm we're running after. Most are cooperative and pose as long as needed. There are all shades of women, though most are Caucasian. Many are wearing very short skirts and heels and probably should have their own cable channel.
One photog, missing many teeth, appears to be a veteran who knows each model by name and orders us to let them through. Another is tall and never focuses, holding the camera waist high and firing away.A middle aged man in a wrinkled white shirt and Odd Lot tie paces in circles, nervous and confused, an R. Crumb wannabe.
After four hours I leave, having captured over 200 shots of these exotic creatures. No one asked me who I was wearing, probably because my baseball cap said 'Old Navy'. I can't afford Banana Republic.