C'mon Vogue!

I was seduced by the glamor of Vogue magazine at a very young age.  As a kid I used to pore through my mom's copy each month staring at the photos, reading every article and absorbing every ounce of sophistication I could.  While other kids were into sports or heavy metal music I covered my locker with photos of Paulina Porizkova and dreamed of going to extravagant Robert Isabel designed parties in exotic, hard to pronounce locations like Gstaad and St. Tropez with Comtesse Jacqueline de Ribes, Gloria von thurn un Taxis, Diane von Furstenberg and other assorted socialites dripping in diamonds and glamorous gowns with giant bows and shoulder pads designed by Oscar de la Renta, Valentino and Yves Saint Laurent.  Vogue took me out of Fredonia, New York (population: three chickens, a few cornfields and a rusted dump truck) and into the world, exposing me to incredible possibilities just beyond the horizon and teaching me to dream big, and it's been my bible ever since, so you can imagine my excitement meeting legendary photographer Arthur Elgort, whose iconic images so mesmerized me as a teen (and who I quite frankly thought was dead).  Like meeting the Wizard of Oz.