no regrets, coyote

Back on the street again. And, for your listening pleasure, a song from one of my favourite musical style icons, to illustrate this post:

   

This is my kind of style: crisp men's shirt. Simple, slightly cropped trousers. Clean, cool, confident. Slightly androgynous. Bit of colour - red, in this case, for Danielle, who I met on Dover Street, Mayfair. And I suppose I should explain my absence, but as my friend Antonia's husband would say, 'Never apologise, never explain.'

I will say, however, that I didn't attend London, or any other, Fashion Week this season. There are various reasons why, and, while I had been asked to do my 'fast track' - and I did, in case I changed my mind - I listened to my gut, and my heart, and, in the end, was so busy with other things that I actually forgot it was going on. And then - because I do love life's little coincidences - my friend Mona, in Virginia, happened to send me an article in the NY Times, which pretty much clinched it for me. They quoted people I have almost worked with - and chose not to - and some who, let's just say, are not quite as nice in real life as they make themselves out to be online, and I realised that, when I set out to shoot street style, this whole hoo ha - this circus - was not what I was interested in joining. And the way I know I've made the right decision is that - by not going - I have no regrets.

Of course, that could all change. Especially if I found that someone wanted to pay me a nice hunk of cash. Who was it - was it Linda Evangelista? Ah, yes, here it is, under 'brainy quotes': I shall paraphrase. You won't get me into fashion week for less than $10,000. Or the pound equivalent, in today's market.

That said, I do like doing the odd street shoot. When something strikes my fancy. When it comes from my heart, or my soul. 

I will not be bought. 

No, I didn't mean that. I can be bought. Of course I can. But I will no longer sell myself short.