Matey! This sailor sweater I’m wearing is accidentally and embarrassingly appropriate for Saltie, the tiny nautical-themed sandwich outpost in Williamsburg where salt is a major player (NYC’s salt war be damned). And my lunch date is wearing a navy pea coat and a wool beanie! Egads.
The lassi: Today it comes with quince and it is salty, sweet and sour (S.S.S.) Satisfying!
The sandwiches: I order “The Captain’s Daughter:” sardines, a pickled egg, parsley, salsa verde and dill and he orders “Scuttlebutt,” an even saltier technicolor combo of pickled beets, capers, squash, olives, feta, a hard-cooked egg and aioli.
Jarmuschian: A seat at the window a very square stool frames a scene of complicated telephone wires from which sneakers precariously hang. There are shadows of pigeons flying overhead. A man heaves flat packs of new pizza boxes into a cellar next door and the music playing reminds me of the Ethiopian jazz in “Broken Flowers.”
A four-shelf minimalist glass and painted steel case: Olive oil loaf, Eccles cakes, a pork and potato slice—it’s a little bit of England-in-Paris a la Rose Bakery, but in Brooklyn.
When you’re living in New York: How young is too young to be acting old (staying in, hosting dinner parties, eating a fiber-rich diet) and how old is too old to be acting young (leaving the house for a party at midnight, drinking beer at a venue that uses plastic cups instead of glasses, hustling work)?
And if one clocks in at either end of age-inappropriate activity spectrum, is it a sign of weakness or a victory of self-assurance? Or is it just sad?
This is not what I am wearing in the show, but there will be a fancy hat involved.
I’m participating in Jennifer Sullivan’s “Fall Collection” performance (a “runway show”) at P.S. 1 today in conjunction with the publication of her wearable art and fashion zine Threads, co-edited with Jenn Brehm. It’s part of the Printed Matter New York Art Book Fair, details here.
Whenever I hear an accordion playing, I think about what I’m wearing. Does it match the scene? Is the invisible cinematographer behind me thinking, “Yes, her fake Ray Ban sunglasses, red lipstick and sundress is perfect for this shot involving an accordionist playing the theme music to ‘I Dream of Jeannie’ with equal parts lilt and sadness.”
I’m not sure, however, what outfit is appropriate for the scene where the accordionist is sitting on a milk crate in Union Square wearing a Boba Fett mask and playing the theme music from “Star Wars.” A bathrobe covered in potato chip crumbs?
What a day, I lived this first day of fashion week as if it were my last (!). It went something like this: Woke up late (of course), dashed to the tents for BCBG (snooze…..everyone–models, the audience–had the energy level of zombies and I’m pretty sure the collection was designed in someone’s sleep). Jumped on the F train for an office fly-by where I vented to Dana about various serious and trivial matters.
Hopped into a taxi, Milk Studios-bound, for Vena Cava where I met Aileen; we were treated to shades of Katherine Hepburn, the French Riviera and Yves Saint Laurent on a starry holiday in Morocco (my interpretation of the collection, not necessarily theirs) while The Fiery Furnaces played an acoustic set that sounded like a young Patti Smith (she comes up a lot for me these days…Breedlove and I have a secret project in the works with her as our muse).
The Fiery Furnaces
I walked over to the Chelsea Hotel, a breath of fresh old New York air–the interior smells exactly like my first dorm room on 116th Street and Broadway. I would bottle it if I could and call it Nostalgia. In room 710, Tom Scott presented pulp noir tableaux
At Tom Scott.
where the sunlight dripped off curtains worn by both windows and models alike.
Tom Scott at the Chelsea Hotel
Ran into mon cherie Sarah and we dined on Japanese food at Haru while I quietly vented about various serious and trivial matters.
At Tom Scott.
Before L.A.M.B. I sat in a park overlooking the Hudson River and penned my assessment of BCBG and ate an oatmeal cookie from Billy’s Bakery.
L.A.M.B. suffered from cheap fabrics, silk cargo pants and denim shorts that looked like diapers. Some bonus points for its homage to Vivienne Westwood, but that was probabaly unintentional. However, any and all of it would work for either an outdoor M.I.A. concert or a Lady Gaga Halloween costume–lots of tribal prints, hoods and missing pants.
L.A.M.B.
Gwen Stefani has cute blonde kids with faux hawks, who were there with her husband, that guy Gavin from Bush.
Gwen Stefani and Child.
We sipped a glass of champagne and Aileen said she felt like she was in that episode of Gossip Girl when Taylor Momsen’s character has a fashion show at some society party. Yes, I said, that pretty much sums up nearly every fashion event in this town. Remember when the reference for such things used to be Sex and the City? Dinosaurs.
Another office pitstop, where I saw Godfrey. We talked about The September Issue and Fashion’s Night Out. I joked that I’d become a fashion conspiracy theorist. “Maybe fashion companies should fail,” I said, “until they can figure out how to give people what they want. Maybe people have stopped shopping because they have a low threshold for crap.” Yikes, do I tell you that it my low blood sugar talking? Quick, somebody feed me a purse.
At this point, my feet hurt. A lot. And my hair looked super frizzy.
Next stop, Fifth Avenue, Dior store. Charlize Theron would be signing her very own September issue of Vogue downstairs,
Charlize Theron signs her face on Vogue at Dior.
while upstairs legendary Vogue photographer Arthur Elgort conducted photo sessions with Dior customers who spent $2500 or more. He looked the part of “legendary fashion photographer” down to his knotted neckerchief and flirtatious winks. He buys his t-shirts from L.L. Bean, he said, but “I’m sure there must be somebody out there who buys this stuff.”
Arthur Elgort at work in Dior.
Anna Wintour showed up to say hello to Charlize, wearing a trench coat, its hem flipped up at the bottom the way a tag sticks out of a shirt. I was surprised that no one in her entourage had bothered to mention it to her or smooth it down. Maybe they were afraid to, but I think it’s probably because she moves too fast. A nice humanizing detail.
Charlize and Anna.
Marilyn rescued me at Dior and we walked arm and arm to Prada, where Arthur Elgort had tipped me off that “his friend Grace Coddington” would be appearing. Grace is my new personal hero after seeing The September Issue, but when we got there she’d already left. It was off to Barneys instead. En route Marilyn nudged me to look at a couple of dudes walking in front of us. What? Where? I had no idea who she was pointing at. Is it Ted Danson? I thought. (Dominic had a Danson and Jason Schwartzman sighting at Vinegar Hill House recently). No, it was Mark Badgley and James Mischka of Badgley Mischka. “Let’s follow them!” said Marilyn. “Maybe they’re going to Barneys!”
They were not, so we left them and crossed the street at Calvin Klein, where their designer Francisco Costa stood on the street and signed the official Fashion’s Night Out t-shirt for anyone and everyone who wanted him to. And posed for pictures! Marilyn took a few.
At Barneys we snapped photos of Waris (he’s a jewelry designer for his own House of Waris, but most people know him as the Indian guy in all of Wes Anderson’s movies). He would not smile for the camera, but smiled quite brightly immediately afterwards. He was there representin’ House of Waris, of course. Lovely stuff.
We went downstairs to look for my fragrance god Frederic Malle, but he had already left for the evening, so we stopped by the second floor to say hello to Isabel and Ruben Toledo, who are quite simply the nicest, most brilliant people in fashion. They were signing copies of the book that accompanies her exhibition at F.I.T. Ruben, fashion illustrator extraordinaire, even drew portraits of the person whose book he signed.
On the third floor, however, something quite special happened. Intrigued by some very loud salsa music playing in the corner–I can tell you with complete certainty I have never heard salsa played at Barneys. Wise Latina Women ahoy! Is it the Sotomayor effect? In from L.A. especially for the event, designer Juan Carlos Obando was all set to give salsa lessons, except, a sales associate sadly informed us, nobody had taken him up on the offer! Que lastima! So guess who decided to take a lesson? Pretty soon lots of ladies were joining in.
I think I could have cried right then and there, to be salsa dancing at Barneys. I felt so happy that I actually felt like shopping. Wow, so this Fashion’s Night Out thing might work after all.
“I wish they would do this every fashion week,” said Marilyn. “I feel like I’m going out clubbing!”
Of course, the fun could not last; we both had a long night of work ahead of us. And I have a plane to catch in a few hours. I made a fuel stop at Tiffany & Co. where they passed out free coffee from a cart on the street. Really, I just wanted the paper cup.
My dad seemed hopeful that I’d suggest an activity for us to do today—a hike on the mesa? Coffee in town, where we’d make fun of dippy Santa Fe types?— except that I was in the midst of some Michael Jackson-related work today. TV was on, Twitter was open to the LA Times and I periodically checked an AP reporter friend’s Facebook updates from the scene at Forest Lawn. He was skeptical of my interest in the media blitz, but, I argued, this was the first newsworthy event since his death nearly two weeks ago. He eventually chilled out and even turned up the volume when Stevie Wonder started to sing. Then, between Al Sharpton’s impassioned speech and Brooke Shield’s teary one, he made us something to eat. The funeral luncheon: Quesadillas filled with sauteed swiss chard with carmelized shallots; a salad of mixed lettuces, radishes, green beans and lemon vinaigrette and seared wild salmon. We ate in silence.
The radio plays almost continually at la casa, tuned to 101.1 most mornings well until the evening. Today, the repeated local news story was about a man killed by lightning, along with elementary tips (”Don’t take a bath during a thunderstorm, because water conducts electricity” and “Avoid using the phone” and “If you can hear thunder, you are close enough to be struck by lightning.”) “The national weather service said lightning kills more people in New Mexico than any other weather event,” reports KRQE/Albuquerque.
I want to visit Walter de Maria’s Lightning Field more than ever.
Este amor apasionado
Anda todo alborotado por volver.
Voy camino a la locura
Y aunque todo me tortura, se querer.
Nos dejamos hace tiempo
Pero me lleg el momento de perder.
Tu tenas mucha razon;
Le hago caso al corazon
Y me muero por volver.
Y volver volver volver
A tus brazos otra vez;
Llegar hasta donde estas;
Yo se perder, yo se perder;
Quiero volver, volver, volver.
—
This impassioned love
Goes on, compelling me to return;
I’m on the road to madness
And although everything tortures me,
I know how to love.
We parted ways some time ago
But the moment of loss arrived.
You had every reason;
I heed my heart
And I’m dying to return.
And to return, to return, to return
To your arms again
I will arrive where you are
I know how to lose, I can take it
I want to return, return, return.
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