What would Bill Cunningham, the man who transformed street style photography (before it was even known by that name) into social anthropology, have made of the currently empty grid of New York, its echoing avenues walked only by the occasional pedestrian venturing out from home, maintaining a careful six feet of distance between themselves and anyone else?

He probably would have donned his blue French workman’s jacket, hopped on his black Biria bicycle and started documenting the world the novel coronavirus hath wrought: the different ways people have decorated their homemade masks, the shift in apparel from suits and heels to working-from-home leggings and sweats.

But, like the rest of us, he probably would have mourned the end of the fashion show that was the street — the daily swirl of color and identity that could be found simply by standing on a street corner (his street corner, at 57th Street and Fifth Avenue, say) watching the world go by.