Tuesday, May 29, 2012


Flatiron Lounge Friday night, I'm seconds away from leaving with a Johnny Depp wannabe when Chloe stops me. "Look at his shoes" she whispers, "do you really want that on your conscience?" She's right, as always, I tell him I have an important business meeting, just to see his reaction, then turn around quickly to make sure he doesn't get a chance to reply.

Three drinks later we're back out on 5th going north, arm in arm. Chloe is the sister I never had and not the kind of girl who walks around with a can of mace in her purse. When she says that nothing stains a men's shirt better than bullet holes and gun powder, she means it.

Friday, May 25, 2012

A cure for insomnia

Whenever I think of calling him I imagine myself telling him everything I've been suppressing and him listening carefully, silently, without breathing. And in the end, when we've said our goodbyes and hang up, all the things that matter are always left unsaid. It's the way we dance around the fires instead of putting them out when we have the chance.

Chloe understands without asking, maybe she's been there too. "Let's get high" she says, "I have opium".

Mother is out, I heard her talking to Frank earlier but when I asked she said she was going to see someone else. Chloe and I spend this evening by an open window, smoking, waiting for the sunset. When it gets dark we might go out, I feel the urge to be touched, to touch and to leave someone behind in an unmade bed before the sun comes back up. To walk home across Manhattan at dawn, wearing black and smelling like spring flowers after a fire.

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Like a poison

Twelve hours ago now: I come home from a walk, Chloe is away working late on a case for a clothing company. The apartment is dark and silent apart from the little lights twinkling in the ceiling, traces of traffic and movement outside.

I step into my room and out of my dress when I hear the shattering of glass on the marble floor in the kitchen, and for a fraction of a second it flashes before my eyes, flickering images like in a dream: first a house, lit up and covered in ivy, then a forest and another house, abandoned, worn down and sad in the middle of a summer meadow. It's late at night, I'm not there but I know that someone is, the only sound I hear is from a wind rattling the tree tops. He should be screaming but he's not.

I stand there in my room, paralyzed, listening to my own heartbeats and trying not to breathe. I hear footsteps in the hallway and it's just mother, returned from her trip to LA. "You know I don't like pink" she says, looking at what I'm wearing, and the tension in my body dissolves like a rain cloud. I hug her, close the door, pick up the phone and start dialing his number. He always answers with his name."This is Carl".

Friday, May 18, 2012

Igniting the fire

He never told me about that train ride across Russia, my father. I didn't even know about it until I found mother's diary hidden away in the closet, and by then it was too late to ask. As a child, I always wanted to know things about him, and he would always take the time to tell me stories from his life, like little lullabies whenever I couldn't sleep at night.

There were sparks there, unspoken subtleties and traces of a broken man. I didn't see them back then of course, but years later they helped me puzzle the pieces together to understand him a little better. What worries me is the gaps, the elements he left out, and the more I think of it the more I worry. Why didn't he tell me, why could I never know what finally pushed him over that edge?

Chloe is consumed by the little mysteries, she knew my father too and wants to help me understand. She's promised me to find the lady in black, no matter what secrets it might uncover. When S came back on Wednesday she had other stories to tell, equally fascinating to a dreamer like Chloe. I won't share them just now, but I can tell you that after watching the Godfather triolgy last night we felt that even the greatest sagas sometimes just can't measure up to the absurdities of real life.

Monday, May 14, 2012

Blowing smoke

Chloe has taken a job writing copy for an ad agency downtown. "I only write for money" she says when I ask her if she's going to start a blog, her slender fingers gracefully wrapped around a fictitious whiskey glass. "That was my Don Draper impression".

Carl called her Saturday night, just as she was stepping into a semi transparent black Gaultier skirt, ready for free drinks and dancing. "She's here" I heard her say with a muted voice, looking in my direction. She walked around restlessly with the skirt around her ankles dusting the floors, listening more than talking. "I can't wear this now" she sighed after ending the conversation, changing into a summery floral dress. It was her way of saying I shouldn't ask, so I didn't.

We went out, got drunk and came back home as the first sunlight hit the walls in the bedroom. "Tell me a story" she said, "one that doesn't end well". I told her about a young couple and a train, about untold secrets and a diary with a few missing pages, one that ended when the story was just about to begin. 


I'm sitting alone in the hotel lobby, T left an hour ago without saying a word. I don't blame him, there's nothing left for him to do here, but I wish things had ended differently between us. More than that, I wish they hadn't ended at all, but maybe this is the way it had to be. I will never forget what he did for me, I guess in some way it proves that he actually loved me, like I loved him, and still do.

Thursday, May 10, 2012

This is not a fashion blog


This is not a fashion blog. I don't do today's outfit posts, I don't review foundations and lipsticks and I will never comment on the latest H&M collection. I may occasionally write a line or two about where they stole their ideas, but that's a very different matter.

It's not that I don't care about fashion, it's that I sometimes care too much.

It's not that I don't think it's important because I know it's one of the few things that really matter.

Fashion to me is so much more than clothes, accessories, styles and trends, it's something beyond brands, beyond the color of the spring or the length of a skirt. Fashion is a statement. It says that there is something more to life, something so much prettier than the ordinary and mundane. Fashion is a slap in the face of mediocrity and a finger to those who claim we must settle for less. Fashion is the dream of things that could be; the dream of things that could be is fashion.

Fashion is not about collective trends or being what everyone else already is or wants to be, and not about being different for the sake of being different. It's about breaking the rules and setting examples based on your own convictions and ideals. Fashion does not discriminate, it does not care about who you are, where you came from or what you look like. Fashion is knowing how to write "fuck you" on someone's bathroom mirror before you leave, using just the right shade of lipstick.

I remember a quiet funeral years ago, an aunt had died and mother insisted I'd participate in the mourning. I remember stepping up to the open casket, 6 years old, looking into it and seeing the beauty inside. I remember wanting to reach in and touch it, to have it for myself and to save it from destruction: the flowing raven black charmeuse miracle, a 1950's strapless Dior dress. That's when I first knew I love fashion.

Fashion is the only war worth fighting, a battle against the idea that life is and has forever to be subdued and gray.

Fashion is beauty, and that is what I write about. This is not a fashion blog but a blog about the things that make life worth living. It's never easy, sometimes it hurts so much you feel as if your going to fall apart, but that's the way it has to be. Without that pain we would never be able to know what it's like to be happy, and without the prosaic and banal we would never be able to know fashion.

If you feel the way I do then spread the word. Feel free to quote me or to do it in your own words, but this is my challenge: write about fashion in a way that goes beyond the outfit post, because if fashion is beauty then this is without a doubt a fashion blog.

Monday, May 7, 2012

Sunday bloody Sunday

I wake up on Sunday to the sound of ambulances on 5th, the sirens pierce through my ears like a laser. It's close to 2 PM, my head about to burst open, Chloe still sleeps in the arms of the semi celebrity she wore down the night before (I'm not naming names). I remember lights, arched backs under damp clothing and music, then a hazy fog and skyscrapers tumbling down on me while we fled somewhere in a taxi.

I get up, read wonderful things written about me, then spend the rest of the day wrapped up in a cashmere blanket awaiting the next episode of Mad Men. Chloe stretched out like a cat on the sofa, she took his number as a gesture but threw it away the minute he left. "I want to be Don Draper" she sighs, "only in lace".

And we start fantasizing about the lady in black. Chloe calls her Louise, she lives alone somewhere on the Upper East Side in an apartment dressed in empty bookshelves and dusty portrait paintings. She's afraid of the dark, consumed by a secret so terrifying that it kills everything that comes too close, including a spectacularly elegant Siamese cat named Coco, now buried under a Cherry tree in Central Park. If only it were true.

Friday, May 4, 2012

A silent spring

"It's late enough" Chloe says and pours more than a few drops of Jim Beam Black in her Starbucks cappuccino. She's about to ask me if I want some too when she remembers and excuses herself*. I tell her it's fine and we drink our coffees in silence while looking at pastel colored teenaged clones coming out of the Banana Republic store across the street, identical bags hanging from every thin little bracelet arm.  

Everything is a copy. I sometimes imagine that same straight line running between the men in my life, between Carl and my father, but if it's true then it must be my fault. I'm the one who insisted on listening to those songs in the car while driving away from the darkness into the dark, wishing it would feel the same way. I told him to wear certain colors and clothes and to talk in a certain way about certain things, so that the memories wouldn't fade too fast. Maybe he did it because he loved me, and maybe he just wanted to make me happy. Maybe it doesn't matter as long as it helped.

If you could relive any moment in history, what would it be and why?

*It's what my father had been drinking when they found him, one of those little details that have occupied my memory ever since.