Ernest Hemingway goes hunting at the Marc Jacobs Spring 2013 show.
I am in range and my hat, which is in this season, is good and on, a damn cute hat, and I can see the entire show and the open runway, which is showing fashion. Afterward, Marc, who is an American man who can wear a skirt and make it look good, will throw a party. Open bar.
There she is. That’s a damn fine one, too. The spots are fine, and her hair parts in a fine way, and the dress hangs low and true and near the floor, within the finery.
It’s as dark as if it wasn’t light. I could shoot, aim, and get my shot. But then there’s the crowd. Well, the crowd. Yes, the crowd. Hm, the crowd.
Come on. Shoot. She’s not going to stand there all day and it’s already dark and in the darkness I can see the next one emerging.
Hell, is it a worthwhile head? She’s a small target with a small face and what if the dress got marked? It’s Marc Jacobs, which is too good. Which is too good.
—Katherine Bernard, “Dead Authors at Fashion Week: Part 2”