Words by Mitchell Bork.

All of the afternoon in SoHo a slight smile shines and then disappears as if her mind is thinking rapidly, and thoroughly in-between frames. She doesn't walk. Instead, her feet simply kiss the concrete and tar and cobblestone. Her hair is as much of the ballet as her slow, elegant walk through the afternoon. Her gait is demonstrative that she is, indeed an astral.

Despite the endless hustle and bustle of Soho it is as if she is the only one there. Confidence never deterred by any passersby interrupting. A transplant from Germany, she is now a part of New York. This is her home and she is here to spoil the city.

With the spark of flint against rough stone, yet the precision of a skilled tailor she floats on. Existing along the teetering point of grace and defiant swagger. She demonstrates herself.