The lights are low. Throbbing music, better suited for a club, blares over the loudspeakers. All the press sit in the front row with their notebooks and scribble down the names of VIPs. I don’t see any. The photographers, who are mostly male, roam around with hulking crags of metal sitting on their shoulders, grinning at the "stars" and taking pictures of anyone who looks like they might be important.
Sometimes I feel like I’m inside an aquarium surrounded by colorful fish swimming in circles.
The lights switch on above the runway and young models (at the beginning of their careers) stomp along a mirrored stripe of floor paneling, trying out an array of expressions. Some go for "sexy" others try "remote," and others look plain unhappy.
Wouldn’t want to be a model.