Ran into an old friend on Prince Street late last week and we got to talking about the usual trivial things you exchange when you haven’t seen someone in a little while. How are the children? What children? Have you been enjoying the weather? What did you eat for dinner last night? Is it true that you’re off crack again? And so forth.
My dress was blowing around like a little diva because of the stray patches of black and white chiffon printed panels that layer over the interior grey and green psychedelically printed mini dress.
I mentioned that I hadn’t made it to yoga that morning (nor had I the previous 563,563,276 days but who was counting?) and so while he suggested I stand by my lonesome self for a photo that would inevitably find itself filtered to Instagram propriety, I lifted a leg to test my balance. As it happened, said balance was still in check and thus this was born.
At last, the magic of (not quitting) Instagram
: makeshift Soho yoga sessions and the photographic evidence to portray it.Pedophile lenses
still in tow, photo by Ben Fink Shapiro.