30,000 Easy Steps On How to Get the Best Photos During Fashion Week!
Step one, wake up :) Step two, hit snooze. I do this for about fifteen to twenty minutes before the acrobatics required to reach around to my awkwardly placed phone become far too annoying to justify those extra eight-minute parcels of slumber. Those are generally the best dreams of the night—thankfully no dreams of work this time; nothing worse than pulling an eight-hour shift in your mind, mainly spent looking for where I’m supposed to be on set.
I knew today was gonna test my sole. Having the right footwear is crucial in Paris; the city is littered with cobblestones and narrow, winding, worn staircases whose edges provide an unnecessarily banana-peel-like surface. I have a rather wide foot, so lately function over form has been informing what I’m willing to put on my feet. It’s hard not to be just a smidge self-conscious about my wide-foot slip-on Skechers when the people I’m photographing are wearing shoes that cost as much as my first used car. And no matter how much I tell myself “Well, Howie Mandel wears Skechers,” I’m still left feeling like Cinderella at three minutes past midnight as I scurry about in my pumpkin shoes.
If I had to vote on the word most important to me, it would be routine. The most important meal of the day… secondhand smoke. I kid—but for real, Paris lovvvvvesss to smoke; they even have skinny cigarettes that I assume are appetizers for their larger cigarette siblings. Jokes and lung disease aside, breakfast is indeed the most important meal of the day for me—not for the reasons a doctor would describe, but because it gives me a start. We have so many cues in life that tell our bodies when to begin an action. Like a starter’s pistol for a runner, breakfast is my cue to get the creative energy flowing (ugh, flowing is the worrrrst). How about: breakfast lets me flip the switch. Without this daily ritual I can’t seem to find any ground beneath my feet.
So Denis and I sit ourselves down at Café Berry, a picturesque café tucked in a small alleyway in the Marais. If you’re wondering—and you’re probably not—Le Marais is not French for “trendy neighborhood with wine bars,” but rather “swamp,” the area derived from a dead arm of the Seine and eventually turned into farmland. Back to breakfast: I order the Bun Egg, which consists of a potato bun moelleux, œuf au plat, bacon caramélisé au sirop d’érable, cheddar, mayo maison sriracha, and finally pousses d’épinards. Translation… mmmmmm. Of course, no breakfast is complete without my iced latte. We quickly polish off our breakfast and ask for the bill—Mais en français : Puis-je avoir l’addition, s’il vous plaît ?—then it’s off to start the shows.
Steps 4 through 7,678. We head to the Louvre, where the Louis Vuitton show is set to take place. This is the difference between New York and Paris. New York’s shows don’t offer much of a backdrop—more of an absurd SNL sketch: “Alexander Wang’s latest collection will be at the corner of a 20-minute walk from the worst subway station, in an unmarked alley inside a green trash bin. The bin will then be rolled into the Hudson River where 48 extras, adorned with mermaid tails, line the floating runway while you watch AI models projected into your Meta Ray-Bans.” Nope—not in Paris. Today we shoot in a grand plaza with the Louvre pyramid as our backdrop.
We arrive through the arches to a scene that’s a mix of gawking tourists, people on their way to lunch, and hordes of fanatical, screaming TikTokers waiting to catch a glimpse of an almost recognizable celebrity. I wander the space looking for interesting people to photograph. I try to strike a balance between understated fashion—generally worn by the fashion editors—and the insane circus sideshow outside the shows. The celebrity aspect is too crazy to entertain: a sea of photographers all screaming to get their angle, fans desperately trying to get Zendaya’s attention. It’s too much for me because those photos are never any good—just ugly step-and-repeat event imagery that takes up space on data servers in the desert. Everyone has a job to do; it’s just not for me. It can get dangerous as people spill onto the street, so you have to be aware of where you’re standing at all times. The people who risk their lives to see the top of Jonathan Bailey’s hair truly baffle me—click (as I snap a photo of the theatre of the absurd).
The plaza was plenty hot—I miscalculated how hot Paris would be. It doesn’t help that I mostly dress in all black; that’s on me. Trying to ascertain where the exits might be proved too difficult, so we packed up and made our way to Canadian sensation Matières Fécales.
Steps 7,679 to 9,338. We wander to Place Vendôme, where the show is taking place at the Hôtel d’Évreux. We arrive 30 minutes early, but a few folks are already there. This brand draws a very specific crowd, and it’s amazing to see how inclusive they are of all types of human beings—what started as a social-media phenomenon becoming a fashion house. We head over to Café Nuance to grab my usual iced latte with full-fat milk (sadly, Paris—and France in general—are not overly keen on skim milk). I’ll just have to walk it off.
The light is still fairly strong, but it’s working to create fantastic shadows. The crosswalk just before the hotel is a great place to stake out and catch people arriving from the nearby métro station. I plant myself behind a lamp post so I’m not blocking anyone crossing and to give me something to lean on to steady my shots. The parade of characters starts to unfold in front of me, each fit increasingly avant-garde. Passing through a strong beam of light, a woman wearing sci-fi-esque headphones and sunglasses that looked like they were picked up off the floor at Morpheus rave crosses in front of me. I jump up like a jackrabbit and hightail it up the street to get in front for a shot. I realize the woman is FKA twigs—the British singer/songwriter/dancer/producer/person—pacing back and forth on her phone, purposely not stopping for photos.
There’s an informal runway with no rules or marked flight path out here. I get it: people need to be seen to feed the Reels monster—the little Tiks so people Tok. I’ll be honest, this blog makes me cringe a little, but I’m stuck between a rock and a crazy place. I do have a little entertainer inside me and, for some reason, I enjoy being on stage. When I was in my early teens, all I wanted was to be a MuchMusic VJ—I submitted four years in a row to the VJ Search and, thankfully, was never selected; who knows what my world would look like now.
Right—fashion week. The cast of characters wanders around Place Vendôme. There’s no shortage of photos to be had, but again I need to find that balance of fashion versus Halloween. I love that fashion allows a space for people to let out their creativity, but sometimes it feels like they’re all wearing masks because being themselves is either not allowed or reminds them of something they’re trying to escape. I try not to disregard someone peacocking—even if the photo never sees the light of screen, I take it. The blog has given me a more solid sense of purpose this time around and, as I hand out stickers advertising the blog, I think it makes the people I photograph feel like the moment has a little more meaning than just a random fish-in-a-barrel snap.
After a good stint in the plaza, Denis and I head around back to capture models exiting backstage. It’s tight quarters: a narrow street where cars, Lime bikes, and Vespas all share what we’d call a walking path in Canada. The crosswalk is barely seven feet wide. I position myself just left of the door in anticipation of their likely route to the métro for the next show. I’m rewarded: as each model scurries by, I (foolishly) ask—in French—if they’d do me the pleasure of stopping for a moment so I can take three frames. The first model is British, the second Swedish, the third and fourth from South Sudan—each speaks perfect English, each likely thinking, who is this clown who speaks neither French nor English?Even I’m shuddering as I hear the words coming out of my mouth. I might as well be grunting and waving my camera; I’d likely have better results. Thankfully, most models are gracious and stop for a moment—knowing they’ll likely never see ninety percent of the images taken of them over the course of the shows.
Steps 9,338 to 15,345. We hang around until the stream of models slows, then make our way to the Palais de Tokyo for the Dries Van Noten show. I visited Antwerp last summer for work and, on a day off, got to the Fashion Museum for a Willy Vanderperre exhibition. I learned a bit about the Antwerp Six, Dries among them. This season is the second year Dries hasn’t been at the helm, so I was curious what the crowds would be like. It’s an interesting time in fashion; a lot of heads of mainstream houses have stepped down. It’s a brutal industry, and I can’t imagine having to create as many unique pieces as these designers do, multiple times a year.
The Palais does not disappoint. Those striking exterior columns throw beautiful white fill into everyone’s faces. I generally like a little more mood, so it takes time to get used to a space with almost no shadow side, but I try to find the slightest bit of negative fill. The crowd surrounds the front entrance where editors and influencers pile in. I wander, trying to figure out where the exits might be, and find a small side entrance below that turns out to be a casting area for the Rick Owens show in a couple days. Models sprint into the side door, likely coming from another casting or show. It’s not for the faint of heart. All week I’ve watched models jump on prearranged Vespas: they have ten seconds to pose, then—death stare over—they’re back to their phones, finding their scooter in a sea of black, grabbing a helmet, and off they go into Paris traffic. It’s frantic. I can’t imagine spending most of your day in a chair getting prepped, walking the show, grabbing your bags, and then ripping through the chaos on two wheels.
Steps 15,345 to 24,678. If you haven’t gleaned it yet, I’m terrible at taking time off. I may have let a few people know I’d be in town. I didn’t expect much—people are busy, and it’s been over a decade since my last visit—but as luck (luck-adjacent) would have it, a very kind woman I met on that 2007 trip returned my text and had a few models in Paris that would be available to photograph. When we first met she was a booker at Nathalie’s Models; fast-forward to today and she owns a new agency on France’s west coast called The Waves. Émilie was so kind to us on that first trip, so it was lovely to hear from a familiar face.
I’ve worked so hard these last 18 years, and that Paris trip is still a highlight—mainly because it was an integral building block for everything that came after. Up until then I seldom had access to models with life and work experience. Rekindling the 2007 vibes? Of course I said yes—because I am a maniac who can’t take a day off.
It makes a huge difference working with a model who’s walked a runway, shot an editorial, burned through weeks of catalogue work. On a creative you’re no longer teaching; in Paris I finally felt like a team, where all parts pulled their weight. No longer did it feel like a seminar—“How Not to Look Like You’re Pooping in a Photo.” The models in Paris understood the task; I could relax and do my job: find great light, work on composition, keep my eye to the camera instead of constantly instructing how to walk like a human. They all knew what to do with their hands.
A detour on language. Luisa and I were in New York after Paris, riding the high of visiting several countries and photographing amazing models in beautiful cities with magnificent light. Our portfolios leveled up in a flash; I felt light-headed flipping through the work, hardly believing the photos were mine. Equally exciting and depressing—I realized the last six years of work were headed for the trash. We met with agents in NYC and, with the new portfolios, were finally allowed to start model testing. Both feet in the bullpen.
One model, Véronique, had a very specific ask for her book: lingerie. I know plenty of photographers would be excited; I’m cut from a different cloth. It’s probably the last thing I want to shoot. At the root—it’s underwear; at the root of underwear… let’s not go there.
So: our small New York apartment. Véronique is wearing a sheer black lace bodysuit with cutouts that leave nothing to the imagination; it hugs her like the grip of a used-car salesman closing on a factory-recalled sedan. I’m doing my usual thing, working around to find the angle. I’m not even sure what the “correct” angle is as she rummages the bed sheets in what I gather is “sexy” posing. Luisa—my wife—is standing three feet to my right (important). I’m generally effusive on set—those who know me can hear it: “Gorgeous—yes, that’s great—amazeballs!”—but this time I’m trying to be muted. Remember: three feet to my right is my wife, whom I love more than anything.
Véronique contorts her knee to nearly under her chin. Thick French accent. I’m trying to normalize this knee-to-chin maneuver through my lens. I find myself standing over her on the bed in an almost Antonioni way. I’m trying to find footing on a subpar IKEA mattress. Véronique asks, “Is it hot?” I’m half listening, trying not to fall hands-first onto her. Luisa… is standing three feet to my right. “Is it hot?” My camera can’t acquire focus; my attention is not at the level a model of Véronique’s ilk needs. Louder: “Is it hot?” Luisa is three feet to my right. “Is it hot?” I finally come back to earth, hear the question, and answer, “Oh, uh, yeah, a little, but I’m okay—do you want me to open a window?” In a very terse tone, Véronique snaps back: “No—I mean, am I hot? Do you think I look hot?” Luisa is standing three feet to my right. Immediately I know the right thing to do is not open the window, but the sweat pouring down my face—accumulated in about three seconds—could have used the air. I respond with the most unconvincing delivery: “Um… yeah. Oh yeah, for sure—you’re looking hot. The, uh, knee-chin pose… that’s definitely hot. Hot stuff. I mean… sexy-hot. You look great.”
Steps 24,678 to 29,780. Back to Paris—and fewer awkward moments. Point being: our fast-paced jobs sometimes require asking permission in different languages. While most people learn “Where’s the bathroom? Can I have a glass of water? Where’s the nearest hospital?” we learn: “Excuse me—may I take your photo, please?”
After the Dries show I head back to the Marais to purchase a few items I can cycle through on the tests. Just like in 2007, I wander into ZARA and grab basics. If lingerie sits at the bottom of my to-do list, shopping for clothing is a close second—ironic for someone entrenched in the business. I’d rather be photographing clothing than picking it off a rack and trying to figure out what extra small even means. Should it not start at small and go up from there? Anyway, I get my clothing and head back to the apartment to prep for the model tests the following day. I decide to pause the shows to squeeze them in.
Steps 29,780 to 29,999. Apologies for the long post—sadly it keeps going. But I’ll Coles Notes it from here. I should have eaten and relaxed a little, but the show I thought I’d miss was running late, so I booked it to meet Denis and Kitt at Courrèges. Small side note: it’s pretty awesome traveling the world with those two. It feels neat to travel as photographers like many before us, capturing images together and growing our portfolios.
The show is a five-minute walk from the Airbnb. I hear the crowd roar—heading the right way. A K-pop star has just entered the building. Not that I’d get even a half-decent shot of the top of their head. Rabid fans, like swarms of zombies, crowd around unmarked black minivans caravanning the people of note. Not an inch of space. Phones out, arms stretched, everyone recording while simultaneously burning down the rainforest—for photos that will be deleted in a few days, never viewed, because they have to clear space for the Zac-Efron-face latte art alongside an artisanal açaí bowl glazed with unicorn tears. I mean—I love everyone.
This show had everything great about fashion week and everything that makes me wish I didn’t have eyes and ears. I try to zen out and focus on taking good photos. It’s getting dark, so I pop my tiny flash onto my Ricoh GR IV. The Ricoh is such a freeing camera—the true point-and-shoot. I set it to manual, dial in flash, and let the camera do the rest. With a flick of the wrist the strap slings it into my hand; it powers on in a blink and lets me be supremely spontaneous. Models stream from the backstage entrance—I don’t have to hunt for it; the swarm locates it for me—and I wiggle through like Gumby to snag a frame here and there. It’s over in an instant. Deep breath; back to the apartment.
On the way, Denis runs into a hairstylist from a New York show we did backstage—Gypsy Sport. Kailee, from Louisiana. A delight, in town for fashion week. She flew all the way from the US to work the Christian Louboutin show. On her flight, her confirmed job—the one she crossed the Atlantic for—was canceled. She lands, gets to her apartment, and learns it’s uncanceled; goes for a bike ride; ten minutes later it’s canceled again. Get this woman a drink. We hit a nearby patio to catch up. As she explains the insanity of a Will Smith nepo-baby-run brand, it dawns on me: I have three model tests tomorrow and no help. I was going to have the models show up done, but fate intervenes—and yes, I believe in fate, in the sense that if you put yourself in the right place at the right time, good things can happen; ultimately you create your own date with the ingredients for happenstance. Our industry is small; we all gravitate to the same restaurants, the same neighborhoods, the same cities at the same time.
I ask Kailee if she’d be interested in helping. She says yes. Night made. With a grin, I say good night and make my way up three flights of stairs to the apartment to rest and get ready for another full day. Step 30,000: good night, everyone.
Cheers,
- Evaan
