It was September, and there I was again: surrounded by fabulous bods, bare shoulders, designer jeans, spike-heeled pumps, and, yes, a beer wagon. Where I live, there’s only one place you see this: the outdoor runway show that climaxes Fashion Week. [gallery]

I’m anything but fashionable myself — but I’m fascinated by this annual gathering of the Tribe of the Fashionistae. Their exotic plumage, enthusiastic participation, and exuberant enjoyment of each other’s company make it a spectacle unlike anything in my daily life.

Last year had been my first visit, and I had taken the traditional documentary approach of roaming stealthily through the scene, camera dangling discreetly off my shoulder, never lingering in one spot for long. Give me a vintage Nikon, a leather jacket, and a Galoise hanging from my lower lip, and I’d have been every inch the ’50s stereotype of the glamorous-yet-haunted documentary photographer. But it had worked, and I had been happy with the pictures.

This year, though, I decided to try something different: acting as if I belonged there. Having paid extra for a VIP ticket, I entered by strolling down the red carpet, camera brazenly in hand, then roamed around the VIP enclosure. I didn’t actually do any schmoozing, since I didn’t know anybody while everybody else seemed to know everybody… but I looked as if I was ready to schmooze.

And when the show started, rather than slinking through the fringes of the crowd, I picked out a vantage point — next to a transformer vault, with a parking meter to lean on — and stuck there through the entire evening.

It was interesting how this static viewpoint changed my perspective. Being a fixed point as the scene swirling around me, I found my eye being drawn to the same faces over and over. Soon they became familiar, and I’d start looking specifically for how they responded to various moments, vicariously enjoying their enthusiasm, letting their reactions mirror the changing tempo of the event for me.

As the evening went on, I found myself growing very fond of them. Last year, I had been very much the stranger in a strange land. This year, I felt I was among friends — even though I didn’t know a single one of them. It made the whole event seem warmer, less strange, less alienating. And I think that shows up in the pictures.

It surprised me how much my documentary stance could be altered simply by shifting from the role of roaming, solitary hunter to that of stationary parking-meter leaner. Maybe what I’ve learned is that when I find myself wanting to document an unfamiliar photo environment, I should forget about ’50s clichés and try just staying put…

[click any single image for a larger view]