«IT'S CALLED GOSSIP AND OF COURSE IT'S AN OBSESSION OF MINE»

It's a familiar sight at New York Fashion Week: The women who rule the runways arrive in chauffeured cars with darkened windows. They stop on 40th Street beside the Bryant Park tents and emerge like the clone girls in a Robert Palmer music video, Aphrodites floating in on scallop shells, Starbucks skinny half-caf in one hand, Balenciaga bag in the other. Light bends around them. People know them by name. You never see their male counterparts -- or more accurately you never think you see them. They arrive almost unnoticed on foot from the Bryant Park Metro station, Eastpak backpacks slung over their shoulders. It's only when they're underground, congregated in twos and threes and riding the trains in New York or Paris or Milan that they stand out: 6-foot-2 packs of cheekbones and confidence, giraffes among the wildebeests.

LA Times
March 8 2009