Like Riding a Bike, or Getting Run Over by One?
As soon as I stepped off the plane after a 9-hour flight with less than a 12-hour turnaround from my previous shoot, I thought to myself, Evaan, are you nuts? The answer is obviously yes, but the feeling only lasted about three seconds before I realized I was back in Paris for the first time since 2007. It doesn’t feel like that much time has passed, but here we are, 18 years later, and my heart was racing with adrenaline. That incredible light so many people speak of was on full display.
As the taxi wheeled through the streets, I started to see familiar places, the smell of freshly wet streets, and the beginnings of Parisians making their way to work on this beautiful fall morning (watch out for those bikes). I’m not sure what it’s like for other photographers, but I have difficulty finding time to work on personal or passion projects—or even finding that seed that sparks an idea for one. Hats off to those who are able to create multilayered, well-thought-out works of art.
I just have this unrelenting itch that needs scratching in the form of taking photos with a camera. I paint with other people’s brushes. I have never had it in me to purposely create art.
We landed on the first day of Paris Fashion Week, and I had a list of errands to tackle. First up: a light breakfast with model agent extraordinaire Liz Bell of Liz Bell Agency. We met at Café Ruc, just steps away from the Louvre. The café is perfectly situated between many Fashion Week venues. Liz, who had a storied career as a model in the ’80s before transitioning into a powerful mother agent, always has a story to tell from her time on the runway. She fills us in on the many days spent at Café Ruc as both a model and an agent. The café serves as a hub for some of the world’s top agents to meet and discuss the goings-on.
As my fellow photographer Kitt Woodland and I sit listening to bits of fashion history, we see tall, striking figure after tall, striking figure cross gracefully in front of the café. One model sits on the patio journaling as the morning light beams through their glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. He is quickly greeted by two companions, they laugh and greet one another before moving to a bigger table to no doubt discuss what shows they’re walking, where their next casting is, and the logistics of getting across town in less than five minutes.
I finish my perfect French omelette. Liz has a 12 o’clock appointment to get to. We hug as we part ways. I am left thinking how important these people are in my life. As a photographer, you need people in your corner of the ring. Liz Bell and Richard Hawley (Richards Models) were two early champions who gave me breaks and allowed me to enter this fashion ring. The biggest person in my corner—who of course brought me into the arena in the first place—is my wife, Luisa. I add this here because memories of yesteryear remind me the last time I was in Paris was with my wife, when we had the most amazing trip through Europe. Sadly, with three school-aged children and an activities list longer than I have fingers, she could not make this trip. I miss her and my three incredible children.
Next up: film. More precisely, a box of Kodak Portra 400 and two rolls of Tri-X 400 black-and-white film. You can’t really go to Paris and not burn through a couple rolls of black-and-white. I wandered over to Nation Photo. They have a couple of locations in the city. This one, just around the corner from Les Halles, is a tiny hole in the wall that exclusively deals in analogue photography—much to the chagrin of everyone coming in asking for an SD card. I was pleased to see a well-stocked fridge and even more pleased that the film was actually in the fridge and not baking on some dusty shelf.
I had opted for a smoothie at Café Ruc, so I was now desperate for coffee. We headed back to Le Marais, where we are staying for this adventure. Our Airbnb is lovely, located in the heart of the Marais with cafés teasing me in abundance. But before I could put my lips to a heavenly iced latte, we had to meet up with our third photographer travel companion, Denis. After settling in, we headed over to Moonlight Café for my first coffee in Paris in almost two decades. It was worth the wait as I sipped my iced latte through an artisanal orange glass straw. Paris has always been a city of firsts for me, so it was fitting that I started with my first time sipping through a glass straw. First… and last.
Next on my list of errands (bless y’all for making it this far in the bLOGUE): a haircut. I’m not very discerning when it comes to the who’s and where’s of the process. I just need someone with relatively decent eyesight, a pair of scissors, and preferably not drunk (ask Kitt about the power of scissors and mezcal). I googled “haircut.” Several places popped up. I based my choice not on reviews or appearances, but on proximity and whether they were open. So I headed over to 101 Coiffures, located at 101 Rue Beaubourg—hence the name. Sometimes a business doesn’t require a lot of thought when it comes to branding: just what do you do, and where are you. I say this because a lot of artists get tripped up getting out of the gate. Just get out there and do the art.
Art, however, was not made at 101 Coiffures that day—but I did have less hair on my head. When I described wanting a little off the top, they whispered in French back and forth. A woman at the back blurted out, “He wants Pedro Pascal.” I reluctantly nodded and thought to myself, at least they didn’t say Mr. T.
The errands ended as the Burc Akyol show was about to begin inside the grounds of the Hôtel Jaucourt, thankfully close to where we were staying. A nice way to ease into Fashion Week. Denis and I turned a corner onto a narrow street. On the left, guests funneled into the show; on the right, a wall of photographers waited, waited, always waiting for their next shot.
It’s been a minute since I specifically went out to photograph Fashion Week. It’s an intense undertaking—moving from show to show, constantly walking from one venue to the next, trying to carefully time the entrances and exits. For the casual fashion reader: Entrances are primarily magazine editors, celebrities, rich people who can actually afford to purchase the clothing, influencers, and enthusiastic fashion folks who unfortunately couldn’t secure a seat but still want to be seen. It’s odd, all these worlds colliding in one frantic 30 minutes. I love it—it’s such a treat for the eyes. A break from puffy jackets and Lululemon leggings (though the leggings are now mostly Alo).
The Exits are the same folks leaving the show, only more chaotic because they’re all in a rush to the next venue. The treat at the exits are the models, who endure hours of prep backstage for an incredible 15 minutes on the catwalk. They often exit through unmarked doors, away from the crowds. The when and where of these doors is a mystery, but those with a keen eye are rewarded with what I consider more meaningful portraits. I enjoy the balance of the chaos out front and the slightly less chaos of the “model off duty.” They’re never truly off duty, though. With a flick of a switch, they can transform from worried twenty-somethings searching for an Uber or Metro to a stunning pose and glare into the lens that could shatter a tower of champagne flutes.
I digress. What was my point? Ah yes—it’s been a minute. I wasn’t sure how I would feel jumping back in face-first. Feet would be easier, but street-style fashion is more of a face-plant. But like riding a bike, I got right back into the swing of things—body moving through tight quarters, eyes scanning hurriedly across the scene, tracking people’s paths to meet them in the best light. You know going in that you’re going to miss a lot of moments. It’s like being a wedding photographer, only there are 32 couples and you need to catch all their first kisses.
You have to fight the urge to swarm with the crowd. Not everyone sees the world the way you do, so you have to pick your moments. I prefer a calm background, which means I often don’t get the celebrity hopping out of a black Suburban, overrun by fans and photographers screaming for eye contact. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to be so loved that a simple acknowledgement of someone’s existence is enough.
Denis and I stuck around for both the Entrances and Exits, as the Saint Laurent show wasn’t far behind. I managed to take—make?—still sounds weird to me when it comes to street photos. I really am taking. I don’t give much back other than a thank-you and a smile. I hope I’m not too much of a nuisance. I’ve made it my rule to only take three frames per person. I do this so as not to waste their time, to give space to the other three hundred and eighty-four photographers, and to challenge myself. If we don’t push ourselves, how do we get better?
After the show we hopped onto a very packed Metro to the Eiffel Tower, where the Saint Laurent show was taking place at the Place du Trocadéro. We arrived to a stunning view of the Eiffel Tower, a cloud of fake smoke providing atmosphere for their show, which I only caught snippets of online. Outside was a mob of screaming fans, held back by fences. Entrances and exits were hard to access, so we wandered the perimeter, capturing the odd portrait here and there, before mostly enjoying the lit-up Eiffel Tower. We even observed a couple getting engaged and then called it a day.
I have a fairly consistent routine after every shoot: enjoy dinner with the folks I just spent 12 hours working with. It helps me rebalance. Normal people eat dinner at night with their families; eating with others makes me feel a little more human. It doesn’t hurt that we’re in Paris, home to some of the most fantastic restaurants in the world—they literally invented bon appétit. I reached out to friends before the trip and got a list of their favourite food spots. First up was Carboni’s, a modern Italian restaurant conveniently located a few minutes from our apartment. I am obsessed (as my daughters’ Gen Alpha friends say) with Italian food—so much so I married an Italian.
We couldn’t get a seat in the main restaurant but were allowed to dine in the basement speakeasy—a special way to start the trip. I don’t expect every day to be this picture-perfect, but this was quite the way to top off the night. I enjoyed a pappardelle dish that disappeared quickly to make room for one of the best tiramisus I’ve ever had. Chocolate dusting… good. Fluffy mascarpone… good. Espresso-soaked ladyfingers… goooood.
Thirty thousand steps later, when my feet hit the bed, the day was over. Thank you for making it this far. Until next time—merci, au revoir.
—Evaan
