Today was the start and end of my runway fashion photography experiment. I had obtained a press pass for a men’s runway show hosted by a company called Ritual Projects run by a Texan woman by the name of Robin Meason. The event was held on the Maxim’s river boat moored at the quayside near the Eiffel tower and featured a clothing line by a company called Y-Project. It sounded very appealing.
I arrived an hour before the allotted start time only to find 20 photographers crammed into a space only big enough to hold 10 at best. I managed to get myself into a location just above my friend's head which wasn’t too bad. Unfortunately, it was already a baking hot day outside but inside the boat it was like a furnace. The area where the photographers had to stand was just behind the floodlights that shone down the runway and they were pumping out heat like there was no tomorrow. Within seconds I was a grease spot. One guy looked like he had just been dragged out of the River Seine his shirt was so wet.
It appears that fashion shows are all about the brinkmanship of the biggest egos trying to arrive later than each other. So the show actually commenced an hour and a quarter late because the people from the “Federation” hadn’t yet arrived.
Once the show finally began a succession of emaciated young men and the occasional girl (or were they?) walked down the runway in clothing I would at best describe as eccentric. Apparently trousers should all be worn mid-way down the calf, or be long enough to be a tripping hazard, while sleeves should be of a length suitable to accommodate an orang-utan. I know I’m old and no longer in touch with the latest fashion, but seriously?
The show lasted 5 minutes tops after which everyone made a stampede for the door.
Showtime over…… WTF was that?
I think what I found to be most frustrating about the experience is the lack of skill required on the part of the photographer. No opportunity to pose the models, no building a rapport, no trying to capture a great expression, no need to refine the lighting. It’s just a madcap blast on the motor drive as people march towards you.