Santa Sephora

Santa Maria Novella, Florence

Sephora, anywhere

I've always wondered about the iconography behind Sephora. It seems as thought they just sprouted whole and wholesale across the country one day and we all just accepted a new mecca into our hearts and battered sequined cosmetic bags. In class the other day, my professor showed a slide of Santa Maria Novella in Florence and it all became abundantly clear. It's rather hard to tell in the photo, but the place is festooned in horizontal black and white stripes! Somehow, in the magical afterglow of a summer spent in Florence years ago and the products I horded from Santa Maria Novella, I never made the connection between the Pharmacia that the Monks built and the Pharmacia that LVMH built. Silly Jezebel.

Scotch saves me.

I visited the recently openend Hotel Delmano last night. I was pleased by the ratio of brunettes to blondes (raven locks prevailed) though it did make me nostalgic for Saved, the defunct boutique/tattoo parlour that used to occupy the space. They sold Jezebel at a rapidly lovely clip to a dizzying array of inspiring folks. I've seen many stockists come and go, but the loss of Saved ranks up there with the shuttering of the equally perfect Three Turtle Doves.

Professor Faithfull.

I'm listening to a show on muses on NPR right now and just learned that Carla Bruni was schooled in English diction for her new album by the one and only, Marianne Faithfull. I'd like to sit in on those lessons. My English could use some refining, too.

The Male Mayle.

After we dropped the Jezebel tees off at the New Museum two weeks ago, Rachel and I ate some pizza in the midst of models off-duty from their Fashion Week responsibilities, tucked into Mayle for a brief, painful moment. I just went to have a look at Mayle's website, and ended up at a very different, though equally special, Mayle.

Oh, yes!

Christian Louboutin alpaca clutch, $1690

One of the many sorts of pets I would like to people my life with.

The New New Museum.

Rachel and I delivered Jezebel tees to the New Museum last week. They're available to purchase at their shop and on their website.

New friends and the Ugly Truth.

Now you all know. That is, those of you who have only seen my apartment on Design*Sponge. I never finished painting.

Inspired by Holly from decor8, I now have a Moroccan wedding rug draped across my bed. Mine is slightly less luxe than hers, but I love it nonetheless.

I've also brought home this black velvet and silk flower headpiece, after a year of lusting. I've taken to wearing it while watching films in bed, with my mink collar, of course. Recent viewings have included I Know Where I'm Going and Loves of a Blonde. The paillettes of the rug gleam subtly in the light of my laptop.

Whispering your secret emotion/Magic in a magical land.

If I dressed exclusively in Alberta Ferretti, could I channel the cool-tempered, warm-blooded, bed-headed goddess of Antonioni's world? Alberta makes me believe we all could.


Monica Vitti, L'Avventura

I've been devising an imaginary glass walled apartment, on the Ionian Sea, for said heroine.

wheat shaft wall sconces, an ornamental motif handed down to us by the Ancient Egyptians

a Missoni-esque chair for her to listen to Edda Dell'Orso in, patent leather Ferragamo heels dangling from her toes

a chandelier to tumble over her desk, in the spirit of sea water

a slightly industrial desk (our heroine is needs somewhere expansive to lay
her head and sprawl her bronzed arms and weep)

to sparkle over her every entrance and exit

upon which she will throw her keys

an Etruscan-inspired vase (shall remain empty more often than not)

someone to drink a morning americano with

a sky blue passport cover,
because you just never know when you'll be invited to Mozambique

My castle, my books.

I'm taking breaks from design work today with Wonderful Tonight: George Harrison, Eric Clapton, and Me by Pattie Boyd. What insight will Layla shed? I wonder. Even if the answer is none, I love the stories- particularly those involving Mick and Marianne. It's all too much to bear.

Larune tunes. Jezebel moons.

I am so so so excited to be working with Kamara Thomas, of Larune and Earl Greyhound fame, on some visuals for her profoundly transporting musical rumination on self-death and release, Bulgaria. Details will follow as details are available.

Before the mice gnaw at your bottom drawer will you say/ Yes, Mog, yes Mog, Yes, Yes, Yes.

A post on love, without endorsing or condemning in any particular manner, this particular day.

I am a draper mad with love. I love you more than all the flanelette and calico, candlewick, dimity, crash and merino, tussore, cretonne, crepon, muslin, poplin, ticking and twill in the whole Cloth Hall of the world. I have come to take you away to my Emporium on the hill, where the change hums on wires. Throw away your little bedsocks and your Welsh wool knitted jacket, I will warm the sheets like an electric toaster, I will lie by your side like the Sunday roast.
-Under Milkwood, Dylan Thomas, 1954.

Neon. Orange. Bicycles.

I had the very fun job of depositing bicycles all around Bryant Park last week with my new friend who works at the very awe-inspiring Bedford Cheese Shop. A girl in a vintage fur coat wrestling with neon orange bicycles in the back of an anonymous van sure does get some funny looks.

If I could, I would

wear this outfit by Paul Smith every day. With eyeliner and decolletage exactly as is.

(my style.com lookbook)

My castle, my books.

image from Salvador Dali's Dream of Venus Pavilion at the 1939 World's Fair

In preparation for a collaboration, I am steeping myself in Americana. Think Little House on the Prairie, Spoon River Anthology, and Little, Big. Oh, and Dylan's Desire. I'm reading Mayflower: A Story of Courage, Community, and War by Nathaniel Philbrick, and am particularly taken with the naming of Pilgrim children (Love and Wrestling were small brother passengers aboard) and a particular Stranger, Stephen Hopkins who crossed the Atlantic with the Pilgrims. In 1609 Hopkins was shipwrecked on the shores of Bermuda and it was this incident that formed the basis of Shakespeare's The Tempest. Which has me thinking all about Dali's Dream of Venus and that part of Matthew Barney's Cremaster that was full of Opera Houses, and Pearls, and nymphs and Ursula Andress. Cremaster number what? I can't remember.

My castle, my books.

Pattie Boyd and Eric Clapton

I completely forgot to inform you that I swiped Clapton: The Autobiography from KP and read it.

Bernice spoke Latin with alacrity.

bernice spoke latin with alacrity

Yesterday, I corresponded. Today, I correspond. Tomorrow, I will correspond.

Today's missives are being sent to Jennifer Jason Leigh, Babbette Hines, Poets House, and KP's cousin. Still on the list: a favorite photographer.

The Children's Hour

postcard of the unveiling of the Peter Pan sculpture in Sefton Park, Liverpool, 1928

A few months ago, as I spent some time making feather headdresses for one Peter Pan obsessed 4 year old, I thought to myself, "I could do this all day."

A few days ago, a singer in a red dress asked me if I work as a stylist.

A few weeks ago, I read this quote from Anna Wintour's introduction to Stylist: The Interpreters of Fashion, a book I had dismissed, which I now covet: "One thing that struck me is the degree to which the fashion editor's visual perspective is governed by his or her earliest years. The gardens, the schools, the neighbors, the light - all are signifiers that come back again and again in the work of the grown child."

Oh, Indiana.

Seventeen years, I've been waiting. Opening day of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull just happens to be the day after the last day of the National Stationery Show. In the cool, cool, cool of the moviehouse I will be transported away from the Javits Center. My beloved Vanity Fair has an inside look. Oh, and the blonde minx has been traded in for a bobbed brunette Blanchett.

My castle, my books.

Tonight I'll be bathing with Ava, by Charles Higham. So lucky to have a boyfriend with a bathtub as my own castle did not come equipped with one.

This is the first day in history.

ronnie + mccartney, 1979, from babbette hines's the found photo

The dear and wonderful Elizabeth Deull purchased me the dear and wonderful Love Letters, Lost. You ought not be put off by the lackluster cover. Everything on the inside is so very beautiful and I plan on plundering these missives for Jezebelian inspiration. I feel a kinship with Babbette Hines, the author, as curators and revivers of things lost, and also enjoy the kinship between this title and my favorite title from Shakespeare, Love's Labour's Lost. The message in a bottle letters made me think of Liz's night-swimming, starry sky paintings.

I Get It Now, Elizabeth Deull, 2007