WWD photographer Steve Eichner sees it all and shares his unique perspective from the front lines of New York Fashion Week — from the runways in the morning to the after parties and after-after parties at night.
8:56 a.m.: I check in and they give me a bunch of passes, one for backstage. Free coffee! Booyah!
8:59 a.m.: I take a cool shot of the riser photographers with giant Elie Nadelman marble sculptures behind them.
10:04 a.m.: A very postmodern set for this show. Tree branches tied to fluorescent lights. Very nature meets the electronic world.
10:13 a.m.: Nice eyes, Bella Heathcote.
10:23 a.m.: A photographer asks me, “Is Anna [Wintour] usually nice about photos?” “Yes,” I say with a smile. “ Go get her and tell her I sent you.”
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11:15 a.m.: “Can I see?” Bella Thorne asks and looks at my camera’s preview screen “My legs look too short,” she complains and I agree. “I’m tall and was too lazy to bend down,” I admit. She poses again and I reshoot.
11:21 a.m.: I get Kylie Jenner and I think I’m done so I hand my card to my runner and leave the show. Just then a big black SUV pulls up. It’s Rita Ora. S–T! I jam another card in my camera and follow her back into the show.
11:28 a.m.: The lights go down and the photo pit yells out the usual cry: “Uncross your legs!” This time it’s met with a reply from a front-rower. “I can’t! I’m wearing a skirt!”
2:21 p.m.: One of my friends from the security team informs me that they’ve built a temporary structure on the High Line in the shadow of the new Coach tower. “Wow, they can afford to build a tower?” I marvel. “No,” he says. “They just pay to put their name on it.”
3:30 p.m.: “WHERE DO WE CHECK IN?” a runway photographer screams after baking in the sun for over an hour and getting the runaround. “Yeah, man,” I say. “I’ve been sent to 11th Avenue then back to 10th Avenue and then downstairs and no one knows where we’re supposed to go.”
3:41 p.m.: Mostly Asian superfans are lined up by the arrival area and they start screeching as someone pulls up. “It must be the Justin Bieber of China?” I overhear.
4:20 p.m.: Mariel Hemingway and Langley Fox hold each other tight.
4:33 p.m.: I take one of the greatest photographs of my life. The runway is made of mirrors and I get the reflection of the photographers shooting with the foot of a model stepping on them. Art imitates life.
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8:11 p.m.: I’m running late, stuck in traffic. I get a text from my editor: “There are a lot of people here: Kate Upton, Jessica Alba…” I hop out and hit the ground running.
8:20 p.m.: I rush into the show and spot the celebrities. “Blondes have more fun,” I say to a sort-of-newly blonde Jessica Seinfeld. This gets her attention and she poses with Kate and Amy. But my camera won’t fire, the flash is on wrong! “Sorry, my camera gets nervous near beautiful women,” I say as I fix the problem. “Put your hands together,” I direct them, and get a cool shot.
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11:28 p.m.: “We’re hoping for Katy Perry and Rita Ora,” a publicist tells me.
11:51 p.m.: Leonardo DiCaprio, hat over face, comes in surrounded by, like, 28 security guards. A debate ensues amongst the hired photographers. “Why come to a party and not get photographed?” one says. “If he wants to party with supermodels and he’s not promoting anything its fine,” another chimes in. “F that! For the money he makes, he sold his soul,” a third one barks.
12:07 a.m.: “I’m from Interview magazine, is there anyone I should get a picture of?” A spunky newbie with a Polaroid camera asks me. “Yeah, Leo is in there! Go get him!” I say, pointing to the VIP area. The guy says “Alright!” and runs in. We all crack up laughing. This is not going to end well.