The Year We Left New York

There’s a scene in the 2016 documentary One More Time With Feeling in which Nick Cave addresses the sudden death of his 15-year-old son Arthur. He talks about the idea of time being elastic—life marches on, but he is perpetually being snapped back to his son’s death, like a rubber band stretched too far. This is the most accurate description of trauma that I have encountered since the loss of my 37-year-old wife Kit and our unborn daughter Margeaux a little over a year ago, which left me a single parent to our 2-year-old son, Dash. No matter where I go or what I do, I will forever be tied to the day that my pregnant wife went into cardiac arrest at work and never regained consciousness.

There are times when I imagine this must be what it’s like to return from war. There is a sense of shell shock, likely some residual effects of PTSD. The work-around that I have found, the way that I can keep on going, is my commitment to happiness—both mine and my son’s. And I say this from the perspective of a man who also lost three siblings, all by the age of thirty-five. But I find strength in the fact that a woman of Kit’s caliber believed in me, and this propels my faith in the future: even though I see nothing, I approach it as if I can see everything. This sense of what lies ahead is what led me to uproot my life in New York and move my son and myself to Los Angeles.

By late May of 2018, I felt the walls of New York closing in on me. I had taken two rounds of leave from work and was about to take a third. My career was in free fall, and as a single parent, this was petrifying. After my twelve weeks of paid leave, I would need to find another job. I knew I couldn’t stay in New York. I was still living in the same universe that I had created with my partner of 13 years, even though she wasn’t. It was painful, each day and every city street and familiar landmark a reminder of what I had lost.

Even as I knew I was losing footing, I couldn’t avoid this innate feeling that everything would work out, that I was making the decisions that I needed to make, that Dash and I were going to be okay. I was crediting any sense of optimism I had to Kit. She would not let me fail. It was a familiar pattern: During the course of our relationship she had been hard on me, and I was always a better person for it. I continued to feel her influence at every big decision or turning point I made even after she died. Whether the question I faced was about parenting or professional matters, I would think about what she would want, and then plan accordingly. I felt like we were still a team, like she was still the one who made all the right calls and made sure we'd pull through. It took me awhile to acknowledge that this was all in my head. There was no angel on my shoulder. Kit was not there pulling for me—I was pulling for me. And for Dash's sake and mine, she would have been pulling for me to get on with our lives. The only way that I would have a life again is if I let go of her ghost.

There was a job offer out in Los Angeles, and rounds of interviews. The city of Manhattan Beach was the best school district and close to my new office. Everything clicked when my best friend from childhood texted me asking what my gut told me about moving to Los Angeles. I thought about a passage from Bret Easton Ellis’ Lunar Park: “He was returning to the land where every boy forced into bravery and quickness retreats: a new life.”

There was nothing left to consider. I had made a deal with myself a long time ago that there was a rhythm to the universe, one that I followed: you either move forward or you move backwards. I never would have thought that Kit and I would not be discovering a new city together, but that’s the way it would shake out. I would move forwards alone.

Life in Los Angeles is different. For one, it rarely rains. I can’t help but think of the dichotomy of both cities’ worst environmental fears. In New York, you worry about water swallowing the place whole. In Los Angeles this past November, it was the lack of water that accelerated two years straight of the deadliest fires ever seen in the area. Dating feels more natural away from the haunted house of New York, even though I still find myself bumbling through it. There is a relearning, but also a pause. I was so painstakingly in love and felt inordinately lucky to have grown together with Kit. In my heart, I know there is no margin in this type of thinking and that the past is just that: the past. But I can’t help the fear that lightning will not strike twice.

I returned to New York this past November for the sale of our home after having been away for a little over two months. The morning of the closing, I went to the apartment to address a couple of the buyer’s last minute concerns. I recalled my initial visit there with Kit, in 2009. At the time, the apartment hadn’t been updated in over 30 years and I couldn’t see our future there. But, Kit could see everything, and over the next year would redesign every square inch to her exact specifications. Before I left for the last time, I sat on the table in the kitchen that we got on a lark one weekend in Hudson. I thought about all of the incredible meals we shared together as a couple and with close friends. I thought about the way that wine tastes when you’re in love. I knew that a part of me had died in New York with Kit.

I know this time well; the part where you hurt for awhile. I used to say to Kit that you can’t appreciate the sweet without the sour. I was coming off of the death of my brother when she and I got together back in 2004. She got me through that and the deaths of my two sisters over the next 10 years. I knew that if I had her love, nothing could stop me. And for the course of our relationship, through every setback and heartbreak, she was by my side, balancing the scales.

Manhattan Beach, with its surf breaks and sunsets, sometimes feels like an elongated vacation. Sometimes I think the universe owes me, and this current existence is some sort of recompense. But, I know that’s not true. Dash was robbed of his mother, and I feel this loss every time I take him to his new school. It’s especially painful seeing the happy, whole parents of his classmates dropping off their own three-year olds, usually with another infant in tow. I can’t help but think that this should be us.

I know I’m not finished. I’m starting to recover my faculties. The sunsets and colors in the sky above Manhattan Beach floor me every time, and there’s a tacit promise there. I’m going back to the fundamentals, and allowing myself to be vulnerable. She was a dream that came true. And maybe having realized that dream is enough.

People ask me all of the time if I still feel Kit’s presence around me. Without hesitation, I say that I do not. But her impact and her energy is everywhere, and that’s what comforts me. This past weekend, I was crying in front of Dash, and told him it was because I missed his mother. He hugged me tightly and gently rubbed my back. He continued to do this throughout the day, his way of checking in on me. It was just like his mother.

Amber Heard Wears a Couture Bathing Cap to Aquaman

Talk about diving head first into a radical fashion moment. Today, at the premiere of Aquaman in London, Amber Heard stuck to the underwater, Atlantean plot of the film: The actress, who plays DC Comics sea queen Mera in the blockbuster movie, sported an algae green, gold-flecked décolletage-revealing gown from Valentino’s Fall 2018 Haute Couture collection along with its matching couture bathing cap.

To be clear, the headpiece was worlds apart from your average plastic bathing cap. (In fact, we doubt it was even water resistant.) Instead, the elevated brocade cap evoked the charm and whimsy of a 1920s flapper wardrobe and was fitted close to the skull with an elegant chin strap. Heard did a nice job of complementing her glitzy headgear with an gorgeous solo pearl-drop earring. And if you thought that flippers would make it into her black tie mix, then you’d be sadly mistaken. Instead, Heard rode the red carpet wave with a pair of beautiful gilded platforms.

Outdoor Voices Is Launching Fleeces That Are the Anti-Version of the #MidtownUniform

Chances are, if you’re close to someone who works in banking or finance, you’ve heard of the Instagram account Midtown Uniform. In its feed are memes of men walking in wolf packs wearing the exact same bland gray or navy fleece vest. Some belong to the cult of J.P. Morgan and others to money megachurches like Merrill Lynch or BlackRock. While some of their vests actually sport their company’s logo, many are of the lacrosse bro–favorite Patagonia brand. The guys in them are the Rajneeshees of Wall Street.

Midtown Uniform is followed by 77,000 people, most of whom are presumably the “Chads,” a common nickname for the vest clones, who started this trend in the first place. They’ve definitely changed the game as far as work-appropriate fleece gear goes, but, really, who wants to look exactly the same as everyone else in the office or on the street? What happened to variety?

Today, one popular and viral-in-its-own-way activewear company is providing the antidote to the ubiquitous midtown uniform, one that won’t make you look like a carbon copy of your peers. Outdoor Voices has announced the upcoming launch of its own line of stylish fleeces for men and women that come in a range of the label’s signature bold colors, like lavender, red, and green.

In addition to the fleeces (which won't be available on the site until October 30th), the company now widely known for its comfortable, cool, and highly Instagrammable pastel workout gear is launching new tech-knit fabrics for pullovers, leggings, and long-sleeved tops all under a debut category called OV Outdoors, all of which is for sale online starting today. “We were inspired by sunsets and wanted to make merino in bright, happy, and warm colors as it usually comes in darker neutrals,” says Outdoor Voices founder Tyler Haney. “Whether you’re in the office, at the Dia:Beacon, or walking to pilates, these are your go-to easy layers for when it’s cold.”

Layering translates to styling, and these pieces provide both professionals and athletes the ability to mix and match them with different items already in their wardrobes. Haney really had practicality in mind when designing the new fleeces, and while she aimed for her customers to wear them day-to-day, she also wanted to inspire them to get outside every once in a while. “Ninety percent of Americans spend their lives indoors,” she says. “We want to inspire people to get outdoors and into nature.” As far as the urban jungle goes, it sounds like we may be seeing a new kind of anti–midtown uniform out in the wild this season.

What the Saint Laurent Runway Just Taught Us About Beauty at Paris Fashion Week

Tonight at Saint Laurent, designer Anthony Vaccarello not only had his model girl gang walk on water—the pool-soaked runway inside the Trocadero was lined with white palm trees and glistened in the glow of the Eiffel Tower—but offered up an array of above-the-neck beauty statements as striking as his spring wares. Think: Model Marina Krtinic Cooper clad in a gleaming chainmail shawl with a heavily-fringed onyx mushroom cut; Anna Ewers in a 24-karat gold jacket and hot leather pants, her soft features punctuated with heavy winged eyeliner and a bright red mouth; and Sora Choi in a floaty, see-through black chiffon gown—her lids swathed in citrus yellow shadow.

Conveying a sense of individuality, while serving up distinct and directional hair and makeup, here, five beauty lessons straight from Saint Laurent’s spring show.

A there’s-no-turning-back-now hair transformation for a 15-minute-long Saint Laurent show? It was a no brainer for blonde-haired Anja Rubik and raven-maned Sarah Brannon, who boldly went two-toned, acid-bright red and white-hot platinum respectfully. But if a full-on dye job just isn’t in the cards, there’s always the ombré approach, as seen on newcomer Hanna Kamelina, whose dark blonde lengths were dipped in an iridescent ultraviolet hue for her exclusive debut on Vaccarello’s runway. In collaboration with hairstylist Duffy, colorist Lena Ott gave seven other girls the supernatural color treatment, riffing on everything from ‘90s-era Kate Moss pink to the kind of sun-bleached, Californian lengths you’d find in a non-fashion fashion photograph by Joseph Szabo.

A meager trim… a few layers… Not on hairstylist Duffy’s watch. No, if you’re in his pro-chair, or backstage at Saint Laurent for that matter, you’re committing to something a bit more radical. And this season, it was all about a curtain of full—as in eye-obscuring full—fringe and boyish, curvilineal bowl cuts that pair well with futuristic headbands in studded leather, twinkling tinsel, and heavy metals worn across the forehead to neo-hippie effect. “It was really about creating a strong, strong silhouette,” explained Duffy of the architectural styles, citing the mop tops of The Ramones among his sundry of retro references.

Beyond fresh complexions and groomed brows, uniformity was not a calling card for tonight’s catwalk. Makeup legend Tom Pecheux dreamed up a myriad of looks that ran the gamut from no makeup-makeup to punctuated pops of color. There were the ultra-saturated stamps of red lipstick that brightened up the porcelain complexions of girls like Cooper, while at eye-level, a tribe of women had vibrant, yellow pigment swept across the lids like urban war paint. And for a truly more-is-more moment, Ewers received graphic, heavy-handed flicks of kohl liner that catapulted her accompanied deep crimson pout.

There’s free, and then there’s nipples-on-the-Saint-Laurent runway free. Vaccarello did, after all, cause an Internet sensation when he sent Binx Walton out with that heart-shaped, rhinestone-encrusted pasty just two years ago. And from the sheer chiffon gowns to the diamanté netted tops, there were lots of nipples on display this evening. But the designer took areola adornment to a whole new level with up-and-comer Rossana Latallada donning a hip-hugging LBD that hit just below the chest to reveal sets adorned with swirls of breezy, delicate plume. Forget nail art, it’s nipple art that’s bringing the real show below the neck.

Sure, there was hosiery in the mix. But Vaccarello has proved season after season that lots—and lots—of sculpted bare limbs are to be expected. And the sumptuous, leopard print swimwear that appeared towards the end of the show only upped the ante. A non-negotiable prerequisite for exposed skin on the Saint Laurent runway? Exfoliation, and a veil of rich, high-shine moisturizer, as proven by the glossy physiques of Adut Akech and Manuela Sanchez. And not just for smooth, supple texture—but the kind of full-body strobe that can hold its own while out on the town in the City of Light.

Ruth Finley, Keeper of New York Fashion Week’s Pink-Sheeted Calendar, Has Died

When the CFDA was born in the early 1960s, Ruth Finley’s Fashion Calendar had already been in existence for well over a decade. The pink-sheeted schedule was an indispensable part of New York Fashion Week for seven decades, right up until the age of Instagram. In fact, the CFDA honored Finley with the Board of Directors’ Tribute Award in 2014, the very same year it presented its inaugural (and short-lived) Instagrammer of the Year Award to A Guy Named Patrick’s Patrick Janelle.

Finley dreamed up the industry clearinghouse as a coed at Simmons College in the 1940s. For years it was printed on a mimeograph machine, and her typist was Everybody Loves Raymond’s Doris Roberts. It was an entirely democratic operation. Any designer who wanted to show during Fashion Week needed only give Finley a call and name a date and time. And call they did.

By 2014, when Finley graciously received her award, she was spending as much time with her charities as she was negotiating scheduling changes—she raised more than $2 million for Citymeals on Wheels—but she still had plenty of zingers about New York fashion’s biggest players. In the lead-up to her CFDA tribute, Finley and I discussed the secret to her longevity. Excerpts of our conversation, zingers included, are republished here.

How did you get your start?

I met [fashion publicist] Eleanor Lambert while I was at college. I was her girl Friday for a huge fashion show she was doing at the Hotel Astor, which no longer exists, for the Red Cross. I had to stay at the Astor in a suite where the clothes were to make sure nobody stole anything. There was a song at the time, “She Had to Go and Lose It at the Astor,” and when my mother heard that, she was going to come and bring me right home. She didn’t understand the whole thing.

And you got the Fashion Calendar off the ground while you were still in college?

I met with two women in fashion, and they were complaining that Bergdorf’s and Saks were doing two shows—same day, same time. It gave me the idea that fashion needed a clearinghouse to avoid that kind of thing happening. I was doing that even before I graduated. Then I came to New York and took an apartment on 52nd Street, right across from the 21 Club. It was $55 a month, two bedrooms, but bedbugs! I lived there with my secretary. At night we used to go to the theater and usher to make extra money. She and I were selling a service, which is a difficult thing; we had to prove how important it was to become part of the Fashion Calendar. At that time, most of the shows were in the department stores. There were at least 50 retailers: Arnold Constable, Franklin Simon, Best, Ohrbach’s. An amazing number of stores. Of course, no designers’ names were published; that came later on. If you were buying a Bill Blass, you would get a Saks Fifth Avenue one.

When did that change happen?

That happened in the 1950s, after World War II, when American designers here were becoming more important. During World War II no one could go to Paris to buy clothes; that was helpful for us. Gradually the stores began promoting the designers. Eleanor Lambert was important in pushing that, in realizing that designers needed to get the credit that they deserved. American fashion has become more and more important over the years. We were very insignificant back in the ’40s; we were belittled by Paris. We’re certainly on their level now.

Do you have a favorite decade in American fashion?

I like the ’50s a lot. Pauline Trigère and I became quite close. She was sensational. I think she lived until about 92. She was a real designer, you know? She did the cutting and everything herself. My first wholesale dress was Trigère. I was so excited to have a designer dress. I was at that time probably 25. I wish I had kept it. A beautiful green cotton dress.

Did you know Charles James, the subject of the 2014 exhibition at the Costume Institute?

I did. I liked him a lot. We became good friends. Of course, he never made much money, but he was such a talent. I had one of his outfits once. Another designer whom I was really close to was Norman Norell. I liked him a lot. One time he ran into a terrible conflict with his show. After that he never let his secretary call me; he picked up the phone and called me himself to set his dates.

You’ve seen so much fashion over your 60-plus years in the business. What stands out?

It’s interesting to see even today how Marc Jacobs changes each season and does this fabulous extravaganza. You ask yourself, how is he going to outdo himself again, and every single time he keeps doing it. As you know, Marc Jacobs once kept people waiting two hours, and everybody stayed, nobody left, and of course there were a lot of complaints the next day. And since then he is the only designer who starts right at the appointed time of 8:00, and you’re out by 8:10. The first year he did that I arrived at 8 and I couldn’t get in. Now if he can do that, why can’t others do it?

Marc has always been until a couple of years ago on Monday night. Recently he’s changed to Thursday, but he never told us he was changing until a month before. Now it looks like he is [officially] changing. So several designers want 8:00 p.m. on Monday. Last season Donna Karan took it and it worked out. Who’s going to get it this season remains to be seen.

And that decision is up to you?

Well, most likely. I thought Donna might want to come back and keep it, but so far she hasn’t. We’ll just wait and see. We’ll know in a couple of weeks.

How do you keep it all straight?

We have grown from, let’s say, 100 shows a year, or 50 shows a season, which was the case in the ’40s, to this past season, in February, we had about 400, which is really huge and too many. But what are you going to do? I can’t tell you as a young designer you can’t show. That’s when I’ll try to talk them into doing a presentation.

So you don’t think there should be a barrier to entry, some sort of approval process?

How can you tell a young designer he or she can’t do it? Sometimes I’ll tell designers to wait until next season when they’re better known or selling more to stores, especially if they don’t have much money. Even to do a show at a small place costs so much money. I try to guide them and very often they listen to me, but sometimes they don’t. My personal relationships are what kept the business going. I showed no prejudice.

No favorite designers?

No, absolutely not. I scheduled shows in the order in which they contacted me, that’s the way it was done. And I watched them grow. I knew Marc Jacobs before he had a partner, when he was carrying his clothes around in a suitcase. And Diane von Furstenberg; I met her over the phone. When she showed her clothes to [Vogue editor in chief] Diana Vreeland, she called me from the hotel to say, “Diana walked out and said beautiful, these are great,” and Diane turned to the secretary and said, “What do I do now?” and she said, “Call Ruth Finley.” So she called me and remembers it very well. I suggested she contact editors and stores, and take appointments. I think it was at the Hotel Gotham.

What are some of the challenges you’ve faced over the years?

A problem I used to have with some people is their superstitions. One designer would never take a date with a 4 in it because that was a bad omen. Another designer, Arnold Scaasi, would not confirm his date until he consulted his numerologist, so I called him and said, “Let me have the number of your numerologist; I’ll solve this.” He refused. You just had to be patient. Another time, Oscar de la Renta was just so upset because he had booked a theater for a Monday night fashion show and found out that Bill Blass was showing that night. So he said, “Ruth, can you just call Bill and see what you can work out for me? I’ve already put my deposit down.” Bill—who was great to work with and whom I was friendly with—[and I] went back and forth. I changed Bill’s date, and they both had successful shows and it worked out fine.

Pusha T Marries His Longtime Love in a Dior Dinner Jacket and Tuxedo Pants by Kim Jones

Rapper Terrence Thornton aka Pusha T married Virginia Williams, his girlfriend of 11 years, at the historic Cavalier Hotel in their hometown of Virginia Beach on Saturday night. The rapper, who is the president of Kanye West’s GOOD music label, was ever the dashing groom in a Dior dinner jacket and black tuxedo pants designed by Kim Jones. The look is the first foray into wedding attire for the newly appointed artistic director, and Pusha was styled by Jason Rembert and Marcus Paul for this big moment.

Ever since the beginning of the wedding planning process, Pusha T knew that he wanted to wear Dior. “I’ve been a fan of Dior for a while now,” says Pusha. “And with Kim recently appointed as artistic director, it was a no-brainer! I wanted to keep it classic, but play on the time and location of the wedding so I paired my black tuxedo pants with an off-white jacket.” The feeling of admiration was mutual: “Pusha reached out to me about his wedding suit in such a nice way that it was a pleasure for me to make it for him,” Jones adds. “He knew exactly what he was looking for!”

This clear-eyed resolve extends to Pusha’s relationship, too. While the pair has been together for over a decade, Pusha remembers the first time he and his now-wife first met and how he knew she was the one. “I saw her from across the room at the Hell Hath No Fury album release party in Norfolk, Virginia, and the rest is history!”

The rapper, who has been referred to as one of the most important lyricists in hip-hop history, and Virginia said their vows before 150 guests—which counted Kim Kardashian West, Kanye West, and Pharrell (who served as best man) among them—and the intimate ceremony was officiated by the groom’s brother Gene “No Malice” Thornton. Wedding planner Victoria Holland was the mastermind behind a runway-style aisle that saw the couple meeting in the middle of the hotel’s Grand Loggia—a symbol of the couple’s strong partnership and their lives joining together.

The bride chose an embroidered Marchesa gown with a dramatic deep V for the ceremony and then changed into a strapless Reem Acra dress with an illusion neckline. She completed her looks with Lorraine Schwartz jewels and switched out her veil for a flower crown by Darling & Daughters at the reception. The groomsmen, like Pusha, were all in custom Dior also designed by Kim Jones, while the bridesmaids wore white dresses by Katie May collection.

After the service, guests sat down to a dinner of lobster, lamb, and short rib before sampling the Cognac bar and checking out the cigar roller set up on the patio. Everyone was gifted custom Adidas slides during the reception and encouraged to join the newlyweds on the diamond-shaped marble dance floor, where there were surprise performances by the groom and the rapper Fabolous. For a late-night treat, DJ Clark Kent took over music selection duties, which paired perfectly with the arrival of a food truck courtesy of Feather & Fin—one of the couple’s favorite local eateries—keeping the party going strong until well after midnight.

Remembering Gabriella Crespi, a Milanese Original

Gabriella Crespi, the Milanese designer who passed away at 95 last year, lived an exceptional life. Hers was an inspiring story of self-reinvention, one that included a 20-year spiritual sojourn in the Indian Himalayas bookended by fabulous success in the design world. Crespi made beautifully handcrafted objects and furniture, sensational Wunderkammern with a sleek, futuristic aesthetic smoothed by a profound sentiment for the cosmic power of nature.

Albeit not revolutionary, her vision stands out as unique, blurring as it did the lines between the haute bourgeois taste for expensive cosmopolitan decor and the rules of modern design. Her oeuvre exudes the allure and polish of an aristocratic grande dame and the soulful spirit of an inspired, gifted mind. Indeed, dichotomies define her work, which was both exotic and stylish, and pure and baroque—a perfect fusion of force and finesse. One could perhaps trace in her creations hints of Pierre Cardin’s space-age ’70s furniture, and Claude and Francois-Xavier Lalanne’s surrealist bestiaries, created in the same years, echo her fondness for rare animal species, translated in a decorative series of luxurious figurines. Yet Crespi’s antennae were definitely attuned to a different wavelength, picking up more elusive creative frequencies.

In 2018, when a certain soulless design aesthetic shows signs of fatigue, Crespi’s work is more relevant than ever. Her limited-edition pieces are sought after by collectors and dealers, and designers are crazy about her peculiar vision. “Her style is definitely inspiring,” says Dimore Studio’s Emiliano Salci. “She had extraordinary taste, and her work was deeply personal, stemming from her inner passions and lifestyle. She was modern and daring, almost radical in her propositions. From her innate allure to the furniture she designed, everything was sophisticated yet unconventional, with a warm, human, sensuous feel to it. She was genius.”

Born in Milan in 1922 to a distinguished family, she married the young scion of the aristocratic Crespi clan, owners of the Corriere della Sera daily newspaper. “My mother was a force of nature,” says her soft-spoken daughter Elisabetta, who was head of production and now guards her legacy through the Crespi Archive. A year after her mother’s passing, Elisabetta decided to celebrate her, opening the family penthouse at one of Milan’s chicest addresses. During Salone del Mobile in April, guests were allowed a rare glimpse into Gabriella Crespi’s private apartment. It was an emotional experience. “I wanted to honor and protect my mother’s creativity and achievements,” Elisabetta says. “I’d like for her work to be known and respected. Instead of a predictable exhibition, I wanted people to spend a day with her, having a closer, intimate look at her lifestyle, her spaces, her creations, as if almost feeling her presence.”

The beautiful, airy apartment is exactly as Gabriella left it. Her powerful bronze sculpture, My Soul, is still displayed the way she liked on the priceless first edition of her Ellisse table; her signature wide-brim hats rest on one of her famous Rising Sun bamboo chairs together with her treasured Indian embroidered coat. On an antique chest of drawers, the Lune lamp is surrounded by family portraits. Gabriella Crespi’s spirit is still very much alive.

A sophisticated, stylish Milanese womanMy mother’s style was always very spontaneous. She was naturally elegant and didn’t follow fashion; she favored a cultivated simplicity, utterly Milanese. During her many travels, she liked to shop for exotic finds, which she mixed with couture pieces. In the ’70s, she used to wear simple cotton tunics from Bali, embroidered peasant blouses, and ikat woven caftans and kurtas from India, paired with fashionable bell bottoms or long skirts, but she also indulged in elegant tenues de soirée, which her social life often required. I remember her in a magnificent haute couture Roberto Capucci long cape, which she wore in Madrid during one of her openings, where she presented her collections of objects and furniture to society friends and buyers. I had accompanied her there, and I have vivid memories of how naturally regal she looked, as if she were born wearing that cape.

She had a magnetic presence, great charisma, and she was blessed with a strong, beautiful body; even at 85 she was turning heads at the beach! She adored wearing theatrical hats, which actually protected her from the acute pain of migraines; they became her signature style. Being effortlessly soigné was part of her upbringing, and she couldn’t help but look immaculate, even when wearing the simplest white cotton sari for her daily meditations, up in the tiny village in the Himalayas, which for 20 years she called home.

A passion for art, architecture, and natureThe need for artistic expression was always very strong for my mother. My grandmother, Emma Caimi Pellini, was an haute couture jewelry designer and a woman of great creativity and taste, but my grandfather was a mechanical engineer. My mother was a perfect blend of artistic flair and technical exactitude; she had an eye for beauty as well as for functionality, a very Milanese attitude. She patented all the mechanisms that made her sculptural cabinets open like clamshells, and her tables extend elliptical wings, like futuristic spaceships.

She studied art at Milan’s Brera Academy of Fine Arts; then she decided to enroll at the Faculty of Architecture at Milan’s Politecnico Institute. It was a quite unconventional choice at that time; in the ’40s a career in architecture (or almost any career, for that matter) wasn’t really considered suitable for a woman of her social milieu, but my mother was very headstrong. She was very much her own woman. Even in her work, it’s difficult to trace overt influences from other designers. She loved Le Corbusier and Frank Lloyd Wright, though, probably because they both considered nature fundamental to their projects. In all her houses, my mother never let curtains or screens block the natural flow of light and air. She had a deep sentiment for the cosmic energy of nature. When asked what her inspiration was, she always answered: “My inspiration is the Universe.”

An aristocratic jet-setter and a spiritually driven designerMy mother never stopped drawing; her sketchbook followed her everywhere. She was inexhaustible, almost consumed by an impulse to create; she felt that she was channeling a higher form of energy, much stronger than herself.

In the ’50s, she started creating a series of small objects as gifts for her girlfriends, presse-papiers or boxes or tableware or decorative animals, expensive-looking and made in precious wood, velvet, and silver, often decorated with poetic phrases that she used to compose, on their surfaces. They were pièces uniques, very chic, a bit baroque, with a peculiar energy, and from the very beginning they turned into objects of desire, so much so that the Maison Dior immediately bought them for its Paris boutique. She then opened a showroom in Milan’s city center, which later on was moved to a fabulous space in Via Montenapoleone.

When my parents separated in 1963, my brother Gherardo and I moved to Rome together with my mother; she rented a magnificent apartment in the historical Palazzo Cenci, a magical place with frescoed walls and ceilings dating from the 15th century. She established her showroom there as well, which she decorated with a stylish, very modern eye, her objects and furniture making for a striking contrast with the sumptuous atmosphere of those divine rooms. She definitely anticipated a decorating trend which has now become commonplace. All the Roman aristocracy was in love with her, they flocked to Palazzo Cenci, intrigued by her creations as much as by her charisma and beauty.

She was at the center of an intense social life. Audrey Hepburn and Hubert de Givenchy were regulars, always visiting together. The sister of the Shah of Iran was partial to the most spectacular pieces, with which she decorated her brother’s imperial summer residence in Mauritius Island; she particularly liked my mother’s signature herons, made in bronze with the traditional lost-wax casting technique, then coated with a 24 karat gold patina.Gunther Sachs bought an entire army of miniature hippos, cast in bronze and ivory, their bellies hiding handblown glass eggs made in Murano. Gianni Versace also visited often, as well as Princess Marina of Savoy, Queen Paola of Belgium, and Qatari princes and princesses of all kinds.

She obviously loved all her glamorous friends and clients, but she was truly devoted to her skilled craftsmen, to whom she remained faithful and grateful for all her life. My mother was not an industrial designer; her production was intended for cultivated, sophisticated people with high taste; her production was limited, handcrafted, and niche. She became famous in the ’70s with her line of furniture, Plurimi, a series of tables made of polished, shiny golden brass. One of her most successful was the Ellisse table; created in 1974, its elliptical lines were extremely pure and sleek, a bit futuristic but graced with her typical sensuous feel. It really looked like an otherworldly asteroid. But she wasn’t afraid of contrasts. Hence her penchant for less precious, more flexible and humble materials, like the bamboo, which she used for one of her most coveted designs, the Rising Sun table, which had an almost Eastern feel to it, same as the bamboo and brass side tables with pivoting lotus leaves. Antique dealers and collectors now fight over these items at auctions, where they fetch astronomic sums; they were produced by artisans in very limited quantities, so the original pieces are very difficult to find.

A free, indomitable spiritWhen she was 65, my mother decided to leave for India; she lived there for 20 years, from 1987 until 2007. She was at the pinnacle of her success, everything was going extremely well. She had been celebrated in 1982 with an exhibition at Milan’s Museo della Scienza e della Tecnica. But the spiritual pull was too strong for her to abide; underneath her glamorous social persona, her spiritual life had always been profound. The quest for a deeper meaning for existence and her belief of belonging to a wider universal energy were reclaiming her.

She absolutely could not be stopped, and we respected her decision, even if obviously it was all quite discombobulating! In only two months, we had to shut down completely her everyday operations; it was tabula rasa. Even if I was in charge of the production of all her collections, we couldn’t have possibly carried on without her, it was out of the question. She was the force, the heart. She left, happy and with the enthusiasm of a teenager.

In India she started from scratch a whole different life, following a group of acolytes of the famous Hindu yogi Babaji, living in a small village in the Uttar Pradesh region in the Himalayas. There she met her spiritual master, Shri Muniraji, a reincarnation of Guru Dattatreya. Twice a year she visited us here in Milan, but as soon as she landed, she already longed to go back to her simple life of meditation, karma yoga, and silence. In normal families, the sons are usually the ones eager to leave the nest and travel as far as possible from it; for us, it was exactly the other way round! I know that for her it was a hard, high-spirited decision, which she never regretted or questioned.

She let her spiritual experience be known in a book, In Search of Infinity—Himalaya, first published in 2007, that traces her chosen path through her thoughts, poems, and meditations. A few days before her passing, she read it all over again in just one go. “After all, it isn’t too bad,” she said.

Her final journeyUp until she was 85, my mother always left for India with her backpack and sleeping bag as her only luggage. But unfortunately, during one of her visits here, she badly fell, stumbling on a pile of suitcases that a bellboy had accidentally dropped; she couldn’t travel anymore. She surrendered to her fate, as her long spiritual practice had taught her; but being indomitable, she started a new life here again, opening a new creative chapter.

She was back living in this apartment that she adored, decorated with her beloved souvenirs and with her furniture first editions. While continuing her spiritual practice, she worked on a series of limited reeditions of her most famous creations, experimenting with different materials: The Ellisse and Dama tables, the Z desk and the Yang Yin bar cabinet were presented in 2015 during Milan’s Salone del Mobile. She was 93, and spoke very little because of her vow of silence, but she was still beautiful, always wonderfully dressed in shades of white and pearls, her powerful charisma intact. Her urge to express herself artistically was still stronger than anything else.

She passed away peacefully on February 14, 2017, the same day that the Hindu yogi Babaji apparently passed away in 1984. Once, when asked what her greatest pleasure in life was, she answered: “Start anew from zero, this is my greatest pleasure.”

JW Anderson Gives Young Photographers a Future

As someone who won her career in a competition—the Vogue Talent Contest in British Vogue, many years ago—I’m all for open-call contests for newcomers. So is Jonathan Anderson of JW Anderson, who hasn’t forgotten that he got one of his early-start boosts as a designer from the NewGen sponsorship scheme in London in 2011. Seven years on, that memory was part of his motivation in launching the JW Anderson Your Picture/Our Future search: to galvanize a new generation of unpublished photographers and image-makers aged 18-30. “I felt as if we were given the chance,” he stated, at the launch. “It felt right to give somebody else that opportunity.” The prize is a significant professional break: a commission to shoot the brand’s Spring 2019 campaign and £5,000.

The winner’s reveal was on his Instagram earlier today, but after last night’s exhibition of the 50 short-listed talents at 13 Floral Street in London, and a long deliberation of the jury, three were chosen: Julie Greve from the U.K., Yelena Beletskaya from Russia, and Simons Finnerty from the U.S. “Seeing all this talent come together made it impossible to choose one winner,” reads the caption. “As such, we will have three photographers that will work on the same brief and campaign coming to you next summer.”

You could see why. Pacing around a party thronged by some of the hopefuls who’d been able to travel, Anderson said, “It’s been kind of amazing. We had nearly 2,000 entries from all across the world: Japan, China, Argentina, Russia, Canada, the USA, everywhere.” The diversity of imagery, viewpoints, and techniques—intense studies of teenage life, portraiture, reportage, raw documentary, manipulated digital collages—was striking. “It’s a really good split between fashion imagery and street imagery, but you can see a zeitgeist here, and how so many people start taking pictures of their friends and families.”

Anderson paused in front of Simons Finnerty’s series of self-revealing photographs of himself, in braids, with members of his family. “He used it as an idea of therapy. Someone out there in the middle of America—it’s so fantastic.” Julie Greve submitted her series of groups of girls in the woods and countryside, all of them model hopefuls she found on the internet, but shot naturalistically in their own clothes. Yelena Beletskaya worked with dramatic, enigmatic, black-and-white collages of found images and her own silhouetted portraiture.

The three go forward through the live challenge of producing work with Anderson, his stylist Benjamin Bruno, and the JW Anderson advertising and image team M/M. But playing the game is certain to prove a springboard and encouragement for plenty more of the applicants—that’s the nature of these contests. One is Toby Ziff, who drew local awe from Londoners for his work shooting scenes of the hilariously appalling reality of weekend nightlife revelers on the Underground. Aaron Laserna’s arresting entries, shot in Baltimore, showed him as a risk-taking proto-photojournalist with his powerful portrait of a drug dealer, contrasted with a tender shot of a young boy from the same neighborhood.

And then there was the youngest on the scene: 18-year-old Diego Holmes-Bonilla, who had flown to London from Arlington, Virginia accompanied by his mom. He had taken a teen-to-teen-boy series capturing stuff he wanted to say about the friends he’s known since childhood, looking tough but peering inside their fragile hearts. “They’re people dear to me,” he said. He may not have taken home the prize tonight, but unmistakably, that’s a future in the making.

Netflix Drama The Mechanism, Already Causing an Uproar in Brazil, Is Set To Be Your Next Binge-Watch

Is there too much on Netflix? Someone on a culture podcast I rely on recently described it as a weekly “trash dump” of new releases. He was griping about the original movie offerings, but there’s even more TV to pick through. It’s true that every time I open Netflix, I’m presented with another series I’ve never heard of. I try to guess the country of origin from the accents on the cast members’ names.

If you ask me, too much TV is a nice problem to have—even though it can feel a little lonely watching, say, supernatural goings-on in Belgium (Hotel Beau Séjour), serial murders on the French coast (Witnesses), or gangsters in sunny Spain (Crematorium) without knowing if anyone else is doing the same.

But so be it. I like the scavenger-hunt quality to Netflix right now—and I checked out The Mechanism in that spirit. This eight-episode police drama about corruption at the highest levels of Brazilian society slipped quietly onto the streaming service at the end of last month. It didn’t look like a water-cooler show, but, hey, worth a shot.

Turns out, this is superb TV, a complex law-and-order procedural in the vein of The Wire—and a useful primer to the headlines pouring out of Brazil. Would you like to know why the country’s former President Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva has been imprisoned following a massive graft investigation? The Mechanism is a good place to start—it depicts the early years of an operation like the one that has ensnared him. Some supporters of the leftist Lula, who was recently leading in election polls ahead of a vote in October, and was poised for a triumphant return to office, are furious at The Mechanism and its creator José Padilha for what they say are liberties in the storytelling. Former President Dilma Rousseff, who has also been caught by corruption allegations and was impeached in 2016, called the show “underhanded and full of lies.” With the left in disarray following Lula’s imprisonment, the stakes are high and a #DeleteNetflix campaign has erupted on Brazilian Twitter.

Padilha, who was a producer on Netflix’s hit series Narcos, has been unapologetic, acknowledging some liberties in the show’s script (a disclaimer opens each episode and names of recognizable politicians and business people have been changed) but also telling a Brazilian newspaper that the broader story the show tells is true. “The left was and is just as corrupt as the right,” he has said. “The Mechanism has no ideology.”

That was my takeaway. The Mechanism isn’t didactic or overtly political. Its mood is, rather, angry and melancholy, as it tells a David versus Goliath story about ordinary federal police officers in the southern city of Curitiba, Brazil, who want to take down a corrupt political and business establishment. The two leads are Marco Ruffo and Verena Cardoni, played by Selton Mello and Caroline Abras—neither of whom have much been seen outside of Brazilian film and television, but both are utterly convincing as down-to-earth cops who make barely enough to scrape by, even as they watch millions wash through the economy above them. As the series opens, their first target is Roberto Ibrahim, a currency dealer and money launderer who slides through the political establishment with impunity.

Ibrahim wins round one, destroying the career of Ruffo, leaving Cardoni to carry on his work with a team of underdog investigators. She builds her case slowly and methodically, battling with supervisors and prosecutors who show fickle interest in following dirty money. The scenes where she finally ensnares a wealthy oil company executive are thrilling. There are more pleasures here: Like Narcos, The Mechanism, which was shot on location, benefits from a vivid sense of place. The swooping aerial photography of Rio de Janeiro, São Paulo, and Brasília is jaw-dropping, and loving shots of sinuous Oscar Niemeyer buildings in Brasília are architecture porn of the highest order. Will The Mechanism be a water-cooler show? Some Netflix offerings take their time becoming hits (see Wild Wild Country). I bet this one will, too.

Model Lera Abova: ‘I would rather be risky than be everyone’s cup of tea’

Lera Abova’s big break came in 2016 when she shot with photographer – and 90s grunge legend – David Sims, who became a champion of her career. Abova describes herself as his muse which, she says, “is just amazing”. “He’s an artist. To know that he sees something in me … I’m always really honest with him, crying in front of him, telling him he changed my life, which is very true.” She has also worked with Sølve Sundsbø, Colin Dodgson and Mariano Vivanco.

Abova has shot covers and fashion stories for Vogue Ukraine, Vogue Paris, Vogue Germany, Vogue Russia and Vogue Australia. She has also starred in campaigns for Joseph, Acne and Sportmax.

She grew up in a Siberian village that is “so small they don’t have it on the map”. Now 25, she moved to Germany when she was 13, and divides her time between Berlin, London and New York.

When she first moved, she couldn’t speak a word of German. “I used an electronic translator,” she says. At first, that piqued the other kids’ interest, but not for long. “That first summer was really hard. I had no one, only my skateboard. You should have seen how I looked. The other girls were so fancy … they already had boyfriends. I had a pink Pokémon T-shirt and crazy, long hair.”

She quickly started to find her feet – she learned the language: “Then, I got to meet cool people and [become] cooler and cooler … then I was the coolest!”

I had no one, only my skateboard … I had a pink Pokémon T-shirt and crazy long hair.

Abova dropped out of school, “right before my exams, when I was 18 or 19. They didn’t understand my soul. I never regretted it,” she says. “If I had had a school education, I would never have had the life I have.”

She was discovered for the first time at 17, “by a woman who believed I could be the next Kate Moss”. That didn’t work out. “No one needs a second Kate Moss,” she says. “There is never going to be a second Kate Moss – and I don’t want to be second someone.”

Later, after working in bars, she met her “mother” agent, Peter, who is, she says, “wicked. He has helped me so much, on an emotional level. He never gave up.”

“It’s really important to have good people around you in modelling,” she says. “Every business where it’s about money, beauty and fame is always going to be dirty”.

Abova shaved off her hair in what she describes as “a Britney Spears moment, when I was in a bad relationship”. Her boyfriend at the time also had a shaved head. “We looked as if we had just come out of prison.” It did her career no harm.

She describes herself as “a character model”. Before her career took off, she says, “I was so fixated on not being skinny enough or tall enough, but I thank my booker because he never told me to lose weight. I was brainwashed by some people in the industry, who I met when I was 17 … it stays with you, in your head. But my mother booker told me: ‘No, you are different, you have everything.’ I always call him Dad.”

She has started acting, appearing in a small part with a big name director – a project that is still under wraps – with another, larger role, in the pipeline. “I have always had ambitions to be on stage,” she says. “Some people are scared of other people’s opinions, but I never have been.”

She didn’t grow up wealthy, and now she pays her 11-year-old brother’s private school fees.

Abova is not seeking Insta-fame, despite having 52,000 followers on Instagram. “Instagram is a really hard subject for me,” she says. “I see the whole thing as bullshit. Stop making stupid people famous! I don’t understand it. I want to have followers because I am someone, not because I post a picture of my face 10 times a day.”

Quick to laugh and outspoken, Abova has a theory about fame: “People should love you or hate you,” she says. “I would never be in the middle. I would rather be risky than be everyone’s cup of tea.”

Ssion’s Jeremy Scott After-Party Look Is “Slick Hillbilly”

You only need to watch a few minutes of the music videos of Ssion (aka Cody Critcheloe) to get a sense of his distinct style. There are the looks Critcheloe sports in his recent video for “Comeback,” the first single from his upcoming album, O, wherein a lookalike dons a zebra-print suit until Critcheloe enters the picture in a sparkling deep blue tank top (which he later swaps out for a sleeveless tuxedo dress and pants combo of the same color). Then there’s the flame-print button-down, red pants, and cowboy hat combo that he dons in his video for “Earthquake.” Clearly, Critcheloe’s not one for subtlety when it comes to his onstage wardrobe.

And considering these bold ensembles, it only makes sense that Critcheloe performed at the Jeremy Scott and MAC Cosmetics after-party last night at New York’s Public House in yet another kitschy look. Ssion wore a Moschino outfit comprised of a light blue denim vest and matching pants with animal-print details, cowboy boots, and colorful temporary tattoos covering his arms, a look that he describes as “slick hillbilly, like maybe Alan Jackson if he got to do a Vegas residency with a bit of Alan Vega thrown in.”

Most performers try to find onstage outfits that allow them to move comfortably and with ease, but that isn’t exactly Critcheloe’s style. “I always like to perform in clothes that are a bit too tight and shoes with a heel,” Critcheloe says. “I’ve been wearing my electric blue snakeskin boots onstage for six years now. They are so uncomfortable. I can barely walk in them, which makes me a better dancer on stage. It gives me the perfect slink . . . and they have good mojo.”

Ivanka Trump Tweeted in Support of Time’s Up, and the Internet Is Not Having It

It seems like whenever feminism flares up in public discourse, we hear from America’s least effective empowerment spokesperson: Ivanka Trump. Trump tweeted in support of the Time’s Up initiative after watching Oprah Winfrey’s speech from the Golden Globes on Sunday. “Just saw @Oprah’s empowering and inspiring speech at last night’s #GoldenGlobes,” Trump wrote. “Let’s all come together, women and men, and say #TimesUp! #United.”

Unfortunately for Trump, the Internet has a very long memory, and no one was quite ready to let her forget her history of hypocrisy when it comes to women’s issues and her very specific brand of female empowerment (which comes with a huge blind spot). The fact that Trump tweeted at all was shocking to some, as you might think that she would have understood the established pattern by now. Remember when she said that she believed Roy Moore’s accusers, as all victims should be believed? Remember when she gave a speech on women’s empowerment in Tokyo that hardly anyone attended? Each time, people reacted online in the same way: reminding Trump that her father has been accused of sexual misconduct by more than a dozen women and has a history of treating women publicly with contempt and disrespect. If time’s up for other men, it must be for him, too.