Bill Cunningham died in 2016, and the Sunday New York Times just hasn't been the same for me. You see, I'd go immediately to the Sunday Styles section and look for his photographs of New Yorkers and their fashions, both people on the street and the smart society types who posed at the assorted balls, receptions and openings. It didn't matter where I was actually living, the Connecticut River Valley or San Francisco's Russian Hill, gazing at Cunningham's "On the Street" and "Evening Hours" photos always transported me back to a New York where I could imagine, if only for a second, that it was me charging across 57th street at Fifth Avenue looking dashing or posing in a tuxedo somewhere with a canape in one hand and a martini in the other.
