I go way back with the ladies of Kirna Zabete: Beth Buccini and I worked at New York magazine together in the 90s, and I met her partner Sarah Easley the summer the store was gearing up to open 14 years ago. The two of them remind me very much of this 1964 Vogue photo of interior designers Mica Ertegun and Chessy Rayner: two chic women of exactly one mind. Except where Ertegun and Rayner were all clean, minimal lines, Easley and Buccini are a nonstop mad tea party of brights, prints, and as many accessories as their outfits will bear. It is not an exaggeration to observe that on any given day, between the two of them, their outfits have got every shade on the color wheel represented. I love them for this.
It is very easy to spend a great deal of money very fast at their new, behemoth store on Broome street. Like for instance, I’m loving the black, red and white on this Japanese-style floral print from Thakoon.
And I’m dying for this leopard print and polka dot fantasia.
I almost can’t even bear to look at this blanket jacket, I love it so much.
A complicated shape to pull off, to be sure. But I love the pink-on-red tweed, and the leather trim drives me mad with desire.
With tights, boots, and a sweater, this would be aces.
Tribeca Mom and I had a date on Saturday—she was family-free for the weekend and itching for a walkabout, and I was happy to oblige. We enjoyed a little Mexican-Peruvian Brunch, and then it was off to Selima Optique on Broome Street. In a city full of chic alternatives to your usual mall brand opticians, Selima may be the chicest choice of all. They’ve got a surpassingly cool in-house line, a nice selection from other designers, and the kind of efficient and straight-up friendly service that keeps a person coming back. Which, as somebody with light sensitivity issues and a more-is-by-all-means-more outlook regarding the acquisition of new sunglasses, I do. Frequently.
To that point: what do you think of my new Ray Ban Clubmasters? I’ve wanted some forever, but the classic Clubmaster shape looks crazy on me. These are squarer, which somehow renders them softer and more flattering. Definitely less hipster than the original, but then again, so am I.
Here they are close up. Cuteness, no?
Tribeca Mom had a substantial American Express gift card burning a hole in her pocket, so we hit the Jerome Dreyfuss store on Broome Street—as excellent a spot as any for a splurge that’ll cost you nothing. Dreyfuss is Isabel Marant’s husband, and his bags work a similarly Frenchy-understated fashion insidery angle. I own one, a small grey leather number that makes any outfit I pair it with just a tiny bit cooler, and would die for another. But today was not about me. Tribeca Mom got this, and it is perfection: big enough to carry papers, but chic enough to bring along to dinner or a nice lunch, and made of the lightest leather. I can’t stop thinking about it.
In retail, as in romance, you are in love until you are not. Often, it’s tough to get at what went wrong; whether they changed, or it was you, or if it was just time. What is there to do? You accept, and you move on. Such was the fate of my relationship with Banana Republic. The last good time I recall—and I’m not just saying this in order to extend my cute love metaphor—was practically Elysian. I’m guessing the year was 2003, because I was wearing a camisole, blazer, and jeans that day, and I was very big on that particular combo in 2003.* I was browsing the Banana at The Grove in LA, doing my homework for a meeting I had the next day at Gap/Banana/Old Navy HQ in San Francisco. The store itself was bright and brilliant with color; the merchandising was spot-on, and most everything on the racks felt not just wearable—which BR so often is—but on-trend and really genuinely cool, too. When I spoke with the company’s CEO the next day, in the type of meeting where one is expected to discuss one’s own brand for a while and then praise one’s host’s brand at great length, I got to mean every word I said. It was a rare treat.
And then: nothing. Until Saturday, when the siren song of this yellow beaded tee beckoned from the window of a Banana Republic near my home and I was drawn in to take a closer look. It’s part of a collaboration with Milly, and is somehow chicer and slouchier in real life than as shown here, and because it was just $45, I made it my own immediately.
I also quite like this tunic: the print is great, and the colors are just slightly unexpected. Also: those are rather excellent elephant shorts she is wearing on the bottom, but they are both itsy-short and sold out.
But this elephant print scarf isn’t.
*The fact that I remember what I was wearing but not the year is a whole other story. Another day.
Most of my favorite indie boutiques are located at a safe distance from my home—to visit Bird, a trek out to Brooklyn is required, and to splurge at Blue Tree, I must travel all the way up to Carnegie Hill. But Castor & Pollux is not five minutes away from my front door, beckoning daily, dangerously. I want pretty much everything that proprietress Kerilynn Palmer stocks—hand beaded Alice Park tunics, diaphanous Gary Graham dresses, gauzy tops by Alasdair—and have a very tough time leaving the store without a shopping bag in hand. So I try and limit my visits, and when I do go to tell myself I’m just there for inspiration, repeating silently to myself just looking, just looking.
Alas, this almost never works, and especially not if Kerilynn is around, because we always get to chatting, and the longer I linger, the more I try on. It’s too bad that C&P’s website doesn’t feature more of the clothes they stock, because then you could get a better sense of all of its many and varied temptations. For that reason, you must be sure to put it on your Must To Visit list when you come to the city. Meanwhile, you can shop the gorgeous jewelry line that’s been created just for the store: I love the graceful but substantial shape of this bracelet, which is available with pretty birthstones too.
And these malachite studs slay me.
My longtime friend (and sometime co-conspirator) Andrea Linett is an ideal shopping companion. She has endless stamina, is famously amusing, and has a great eye not only for what’s worth buying, but—perhaps more importantly—what’s worth leaving behind. We don’t get to see each other nearly as often as back when we were running a magazine together, but we still talk and text all the time. And have shopping excursions when we can, occasionally running into former co-workers, who always look mildly shocked to see we’re still at it. On Sunday, Andrea and I made a date to visit Gargyle, a boutique way deep down on the Lower East Side that I’d never visited—and that shockingly, given that this is so much her turf that some neighborhood shopkeepers once nicknamed her The Mayor of Ludlow Street, neither had Andrea.
Gargyle is is a wee little store, but it is packed with wonder: flowy Mes Demoiselles dresses; sexy lace blouses from Lover that I would totally wear even though I am not a sexy lace blouse person; their own rather beautiful line of bags; and more. I wasn’t sure how Andrea would feel about these snake print embossed leather platforms, but she thought they were as awesome as I did, so of course I not only bought them but wore them out of the store. I am about a million per cent sure that at least one of you is going to insist they are awful and the very soul of clunk, but I am here to tell you that when you put them on, they are magic.
I do love a leopard print, but rarely on a bag: as with shoes, it almost invariably ends up looking cheap. This Wood Wood tote is a glorious exception, thanks to the excellent washed-out grey and black print.
Right down the street from Gargyle is Project No. 8, a spare, clean design store that displays its wares pristinely and thoughtfully, giving the art gallery treatment to, well, the same stuff that pretty much all of these places carry. Waxed canvas totes? Check. Artisanal soap from Brooklyn? Check. Hand-tooled wallets? Check. Apartamento magazine? Present and accounted for.
Of course I am generalizing horribly. There’s plenty of beautiful stuff at Project No. 8, and it’s all quite carefully chosen, and this crystal bee tumbler is maybe one of the best things ever.
Then we moved along to Maryam Nassir Zadeh, a store I absolutely love even though I have never bought a thing there. The clothes are all expensive and esoteric, with shapes that are frequently complicated and far easier to pull off the closer you are to six feet tall.
For instance, I would not attempt this, but it is a wonder to behold.
My favorite thing at Maryam Nassir Zadeh are the shoes. I can’t even bear to look at these Robert Clergerie platforms.
And check out the heel on these gold Rochas slingbacks!
Did you ever have your heart broken by a man who went on to date somebody new almost immediately? Causing you to spiral into endless, obsessive speculation on how beautiful, sexy and probably just all around superior to you she must be? And then maybe one night you ran into them together at a party, and she was pretty but no knockout, and you definitely had nicer legs—and suddenly you were cured? That’s not entirely unlike* how I felt upon visiting the new Iro store the other day.
I’ve probably coveted more Iro jackets than any other brand’s over the last year or so. They come in perfect dress-me-up, dress-me-down silhouettes—from close-cropped to slouchy, but elegant no matter what the shape. And their prints manage to fuse ethnic with something decidedly more grown-up and Chanel-informed. I think it’s safe to say that many of you know my taste well enough by now to recognize how up my alley this is.
This nubby moto-inspired number would go straight into serious rotation in my wardrobe as well. But unfortunately, everything Iro costs more than it should, thanks in large part to the fact that Iro is French and the exchange rate is crap. I was pretty sure a visit to their new boutique wouldn’t offer up much more than a nice generous helping of frustration. And so it did, but for another reason entirely. The store, in a move that seems increasingly common and that I am not at all down with, displayed on its racks precisely one of each item they carried—fine if you’re a jewelry or shoe store, but somewhat off-putting if what you’re pushing is apparel. Worse—and as if to scream I defy you to shop here—almost everything on those racks was a size 0 (their equivalent of a 2) with a few size 1 pieces (an Iro 4) thrown in for good measure. Apparently Iro plans to extend their US presence in short order to 20 US stores. New Yorkers may put up with that brand of snotty, but I can’t see the rest of the country doing it.
I could have asked for a few things in my size, but I resented having to. So I did the only thing that felt right—walked to Zara. Where I found this lightweight moto jacket that rang in at a mere $99 and is very Frenchy/ethnic, and so comfortable you could positively nap in it.
*This analogy seems increasingly imperfect the longer I consider it. But I’ve also grown fond of it, so it stays.
The West Village is as lovely a neighborhood as one could hope to inhabit, and I never stop feeling grateful to live here. And yet, any part of town can become tedious if one spends enough time there, and this turns out to be particularly true for those of us whose commute is precisely as long as it takes to locate where we last put the laptop. So occasionally a person just has to get out of Dodge—no matter how charming and livable Dodge may be. Today, the temperature was on the verge of breaking 50, and the sun wasn’t not out, so I slid on my most walkable boots, put the dog on his leash and hit the sidewalk.
Bleecker Street stretches from Bank Street (practically my doorstep) all the way to the Bowery, and for this reason functions somewhat as my personal I-95 for walkabouts—winding as it does south and east through several downtown neighborhoods, with opportunities to exit at many alluring shopping destinations along the way. From Bank until West 10th on Bleecker it’s wall-to-wall big-name stores—Maje and Diptyque and Coach and Fresh and about eleventy million more. But cross that border and you start hitting a few neighborhood stalwarts—places that have been around since the street was lined with dusty and expensive antique stores (which feels like a lifetime ago but was actually—amazingly—only about ten years). The fantastic floral studio Ovando is one of those places, and I popped in to pick something out for a very dear friend who’s recuperating from surgery.
I got her a little something like this. It felt like the kind of arrangement that would go a long way toward brightening up a drab hospital room.
But I was not un-tempted to get her one of these orchid-in-a-box numbers, which are what Ovando’s more well-known for. People in the media send each other flowers reflexively and for the most un-sentimental reasons. As a magazine editor, you learn early on that the beautiful arrangement the mailroom guy just placed on your desk is nine times out of ten going to be from an acne cream publicist looking for coverage, and not your future boyfriend—or even new best friend. After a while it kind of dulled the gesture of its romance. I always swooned, though, when the flowers were from Ovando.
It was raining when I walked out of the store. Because it’s spring, and New York, and of course. So I popped into the first shoe repair I saw and bought a nice basic black Totes—something I mention only because it occurs to me that those of you who visit from out of town should always know to look for the nearest shoe repair store if you get caught in a downpour. They’re everywhere, and they all sell decent umbrellas, not the cheapo $5 ones you get on the street that will not last the day.
I wanted to check out some home stores—my hunt for the perfect side table marches on—and popped in to Matter, where I wish to spend a great deal of money just as soon as I come into a sizable fortune. This blown glass side table is so transcendent I think I could get all trance-y just staring at it.
And this steel and rawhide console makes no sense at all, but I need it.
I am dying for one of these excellently weird-ass trays. And am also beginning to realize I’m a tray-hoarder, which seems like an odd choice.
Would this domino set not make a lovely gift? With those those excellent stars?
After Matter, I popped briefly into Clic Bookstore and Gallery, the most recent venture by Christianne Celle, who created a mini lifestyle-and-fashion rich hippie revolution when she founded Calypso—and went on to make a crazy fortune when she sold it a few years back. The space itself is an funny boutique/gallery/bookstore hybrid—there are ongoing art exhibits, and an assortment of appealing tribal/hipster jewelry and clothing lines. But books really are at the heart of what this place is about.
There are lots of rare editions by the kind of photographers that fashion people like to get inspired by, like William Eggleston and Nan Goldin. And lots of titles that people like me can look at and then kick ourselves for letting slip through our hands—like that first edition Annie Leibovitz book with Meryl Streep on the cover, which I gave away, having decided it wasn’t sufficiently punk rock or something. And which is now selling for $320.
Every year, it’s the same thing: at some point in March, I catch a glimpse of myself in a particularly honest mirror somewhere, and have a moment of clarity. I’ll pledge that the life of High Sloth I’ve been leading all winter must stop, and the (comparatively) more rigorous, healthy life I lead the rest of the year must begin again immediately. And that is usually that. At the moment, however, it’s taking a little time for things to click in—time that is only allowing my extra winter layer of chunk to grow just that much chunkier. And the only way to make it stop, I realized today, is to get drastic. And so I’ve set a rule: no more clothing purchases until I like the way I look again. Now it’s got to be all about leafy greens, getting to the gym, and taking the dog out for studiously long, brisk walks—stupid freezing cold or not. Yesterday, we took off for the Meatpacking district.
A girl trying not to shop could make better-informed choices than strolling around the Meatpacking. But I didn’t think a little inspiration could do me any harm, and how was I to know that there was a new Rag & Bone store on 13th Street? An especially lovely one too, with its own Jack’s coffee bar, which I am so all in favor of, and will definitely be back for. Here’s yet another jacket in that sweatery fabric Rag & Bone always makes jackets in: I’m nuts for the leather detailing, as well as the unexpected speckles of green and pink.
Rag & Bone can always be relied upon for a nice selection of really flattering tops that are both forgivingly cut and chic, which are two things that do not often occur in the same garment. This slinky tee with sheer panels flows so prettily. All you need is the right cami.
I would look so uncool in an army jacket, but that doesn’t keep me from being obsessed with them. And this one—with that clean cut and unexpected, but somehow totally right, button collar—is just tremendous.
And look at this: it’s early, but we’ve already got our print of the week:
Then it was off to Washington Street and Vince, because I’d seen this tunic in the window a while back, and thought it might be nice to wear with leggings, the way I like to do with dresses that are too short for me to consider them dresses anymore. Normally I might find a handkerchief print like this a bit much, but the very subdued color palette makes it OK.
This top is so boilerplate me that I can’t believe it hasn’t been in my closet for years already.
Post-Vince, I popped over to the Warby Parker eyewear store on Washington Street, where they were serving Colombe Coffee at the door (I am so loving this trend), because I remembered hearing that Williamsburg jewelry boutique Catbird was going to have a store-in-store there over the weekend. Turns out I missed them by a day, but no matter: it got me in the door, which is something I’ve been meaning to do, but half avoiding, for a while. It’s hard to be anti-Warby Parker, what with their socially progressive ethos and for-the-people prices. And yet they just seem to try so hard in a very certain kind of way: their brand is named after Jack Kerouac characters, for instance. And then there’s this, which truly nothing can forgive.
Still, they make a lovely product. This pair of sunglasses is called the Winston, but I call it the Angus McCain, because they’re like the ones worn by a very nefarious character on my favorite underappreciated BBC drama (and here I am saying that Warby Parker is trying too hard).
I always surprise myself by liking those sunglasses Audrey Hepburn wears in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, because I so severely lack the Audrey Hepburn chip. And I kind of like these too, because they remind me of them, only lots lighter.
My birthday was Sunday, and although the day itself turned out to be a delight, I spent most of the week directly preceding it in an ugly funk, engaging in endless rounds of particularly ruthless self-evaluation. A little self-awareness is good, but it’s deathly to sit around wondering how you might have ended up—and where, and with whom—had everything gone down differently. Deathly and pointless. And yet also—unfortunately—completely irresistible. So I stewed, and I pouted, and I hated my life, until I remembered all the reasons why I liked it. And when I was done, I shopped.
My first stop was Sephora, as I was running perilously low on Josie Maran Argan Bronzing Oil, which is the magic elixir of life. I’m going through a big Josie Maran moment in general—her line is small and carefully chosen, and you get the feeling they’re not pushing anything they don’t believe in. I’ve also become quite attached to the Argan Color Stick, which provides a nice rosy flush without looking all fake and blush-y. This time out, I bought a compact—my first ever, actually. Two years ago, I didn’t even know how to apply eyeshadow; now I can actually blend. This feels very grown-up lady to me. So does the fact that these colors have tiny hint of glimmer to them. Normally that’d be a big red flag, but in the spirit if Nashville‘s Raina Jaymes, a sexy-ass lady in her 40s who never met a sparkly shadow she didn’t like, I’m all in.
Also very Raina Jaymes, and definitely better suited for Connie Britton’s coloring than my own: this pinkish-coral lip stain that I came home with frankly by accident, as I meant to grab the cherry-red, but which is providing a nice little pop when I apply it underneath my regular color.
Then it was off to Steven Alan’s newish boutique on Tenth Avenue—a store that I find myself rather improbably loving, as I feel like I outgrew Steven Alan some time ago. I respect the guy’s vision, and he certainly has become a force, but the designers Steven Alan stocks in his shops, and his own line (especially his own line) all have this sort of half tomboyish, half twee, almost intentionally unsexy vibe that only works for those who are very young, very stylish, and very sexy. If you’re not at least two of those things and you attempt to pull these clothes off, you wind up looking like a pilgrim, or the head of the PTA circa 1973, or a naughty schoolgirl, minus the naughty.
This store feels different, though. There are new-to-this-universe designers (more, alas, in store than online) and the space is huge and bright and lively and somehow more grown-up, and I find much to want every time I go. This cobalt blue Acne pump, for instance, is the lazy girl’s best friend. Just put it on with a black dress and tights and, and poof! That bold dash of color instantly telegraphs style genius.
I love when an ethnic print is used on a really clean shape like it is here—plus, this green is fantastic.
Another lazy girl style tip: get yourself an extra-thin chain that you can just leave on and forget about, so that you’ve got at least one piece of jewelry on at all times. This initial necklace is exactly delicate enough, and the fact that it hangs off-kilter is all kinds of (very subtle) cool.
It’s a shame that R-13 is my new favorite denim line, because they make some pricey, pricey jeans. Still, there aren’t many brands out there manufacturing jeans that feel like jeans anymore—everything’s got so much damned stretch. (There need to be alternatives for the lady who doesn’t want to look all Jenny From The Block, but still isn’t ready to default to mom jeans, right? I feel a post coming on). This pair is a great boyfriend shape that’s still on the skinnier side, so you have comfort and volume without feeling like you’re big as a house.
Again with the blue, I know. But it really is a fantastic blue. Still, if it’s not for you, this fabulously proportioned—and reasonably priced— canvas Baggu tote also comes in black and natural.
It is nice to know that somewhere in this world exists a wee little black diamond ring with a rose gold band that can be yours for under $200.
A lot the Northeast wasn’t so lucky—and my heart goes out to those who got smacked this weekend—but I’m feeling quite grateful that the Blizzard of the Century decided to give New York City a pass on Friday night. Saturday morning was nothing but clear, bright skies, (mostly) shoveled sidewalks, and the kind of lightly giddy mood on the streets that comes from knowing that a bullet was dodged. The neighborhood was full of tourists gamely mucking about, kids playing in Abingdon Square Park’s relatively-unsullied milli-acre of snow, and, of course—in this, the most doggie-dense area of town—a thousand pooches frolicking in the snowbanks. At any given moment, at least half of them could be counted upon to be wearing Pawz, disposable little balloon-shaped rubber booties that protect from the rather ouchy effects of salt on their vulnerable little paws. Pawz are a bitch to get on—somewhat like trying to fit four little condoms on somebody who doesn’t understand there’s an upside to wearing them—but they get the job done. And although the matchy-matchy look here wasn’t intentional, is there any denying that Sammy looks boss?
BTW: when the snow gets half-slushy and it’s time to pull out your serious mucking-about boots, consider reaching for your favorite cropped jeans too. They’re just the right length to not get all bunchy when you pull socks over them, and just in general keep things on the smoother side. File that one under Counterintuitive But True.
By Sunday afternoon, I realized I hadn’t actually left my neighborhood since Tuesday. This is a surprisingly easy thing to do in New York if it’s winter, and your universe involves Fresh Direct, working at home, and at least one nearby cafe that you can treat as a second living room. Still, this was a troubling thought. As was the realization that I couldn’t recall the last time I’d had one of my little city shopping rambles. The sun was out, but it wouldn’t be for long, so I decked Sammy out in his Pawz and off we went. The first stop was APC on West 4th Street where, rather predictably, I was drawn immediately to this blue leopard print parka. I communed with it for a few moments, and then moved on. As one does with items that have a certain appeal that can not be denied, but are bat shit crazy nevertheless.
Way, way more real-world tempting was this canvas and leather tote with an unbelievably good dot print that almost reads like tweed—you really have to go to the site and zoom in to get a good sense of the scope of its excellence. If I still worked in an office I would be all over it.
As it is, I’ll probably just get the tee.
What I really found myself flipping out over, however, were these amazing quilts—all of which were made in India with archival APC fabrics. This one with the yellow and light, light brown has nothing to do with the rest of my home, but I want it desperately.
I like how this one’s design is somewhat like a traditional quilt’s, but then again totally isn’t.
Then it was off to lower Fifth Avenue—not the most thrilling destination, but the most convenient for somebody who’d gotten a late start and was traveling by foot and with dog. I popped in to J. Crew, but somebody had majorly flipped the switch on Springtime in there—it was Liberty schoolboy blazers and lilac-hued cashmere sweaters as far as the eye could see. I’d be back, of course. The lower Fifth Avenue J Crew is one of the great constants of my life.
Madewell was in more of a transitional mode: I want this this chevron-print peasant blouse madly, even though the neck is a bit high for me. There is always the possibility of wearing it backward, with the button unsnapped and the label cut out, a trick I’ve employed more than once. Also, it is just as—if differently—cute in the red.
I wasn’t in a dessing room mood but when I am, I will be back for these swing tees, which seem to be just about the right length, have a nice slouchiness, and are super-soft. Also, that’s just a great blue.
Couldn’t one almost frame this safari scarf and use it to decorate a child’s bedroom or something?
My next—and final—stop before home was West Elm, because I am desperate to find new side tables for my living room sofa. And can I just say? That maybe it’s just me, and maybe it’s just because it’s always so mobbed on the weekends when I go, and maybe it’s just the weird feng shui of that 18th Street store, but I can never really shop at West Elm. I’m fully prepared for the problem to just be me, by the way. And because I do actually like West Elm’s stuff, I think I need to hit up their big Brooklyn store. Another day.