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.
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.
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.
5:52 p.m.: Re-attempting my fashion commentary, I say “Beautiful. A lot of tennis-y stuff.”
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.
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.)
11:00 p.m.: “Over here by the chandelier,” I direct Prabal. 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.
12:27 a.m.: All right, I get a usable photo of Joan Smalls and Prabal. Good f—king night!