What was it like to be photographed by Bill Cunningham?

As soon as my phone beeped to deliver the sad news, my addled brain was wrestling with metaphors. The best I could do was: He kept his eye on the sparrows while documenting the peacocks. And I know that because I sat down at my keyboard in the DI/DO division of the NYTimes one morning in late 1999 to find a Polaroid-size B&W proof of my consort and me at the Bill Brandt retrospective opening at ICP the night before.

I never even saw him focusing.

Over the 30 months I continued to work there, my woke self would often spot him out and about and he would always give his elfin sort-of-wink that meant “see you, don’t have to acknowledge you.” Over the 14 years since, I have regularly joked that large areas of this allegedly stylish island could be labeled “places you will never spot Bill Cunningham.” He did have the sharpest eye (which is why I avoid the Union Square Greenmarket on Saturdays in summertime — he made it such a destination for On the Street wannabes).

A whole photo composition class could be taught using the snap dropped off by the guy who always addressed me as Child, who put cheap&classy rhinestone glasses on every desk in the Style department on 2000 New Year’s Eve. Where we were, established in type over our heads? Check. Why we were there, established by a photo exactly in the background of the center of the shot? Check. Wineglasses at the center of the shot? Check. Look of “you are the most fascinating human being I have ever met” on both our faces? Yep.

The guy was a gentle genius. I can even forgive him for making my arm look fat.

(So where is that photo? Fading in my office. Bill Cunningham was the last guy standing on integrity. Even with no estate, why steal?)