Leandra Medine's Blog, page 676

It’s Hard to Be Lazy

I once declared my sweeping job “good enough” after I broke a vase. I’d collected the big chunks and the easier-to-see shards sparkling in the kitchen’s overhead light and was fully aware that a more thorough person would take a damp sponge to the floor, then Swiffer, wipe, rinse, repeat, alert the national guard, and sweep again. But because I operate on a unique degree of lazy, I told my roommate to avoid the kitchen, mandated a week-long shoes-on policy, and called it a day.

Being this lazy is exhausting. Completing menial tasks feels like a dedicated effort. Sometimes I think I should get paid for breathing.

Where “lazy” typically conjures up images of Homer Simpson — lounging on the couch in his underwear, head paralyzed toward the television, remote in hand, beer perched atop his gluttonous belly, my reality is that I can’t be bothered.

With anything.

Four years in the same apartment and I still don’t know how to switch from cable to Apple TV. If the screen is off, I let it be. If I’m truly desperate I text my roommate a picture of the situation, and he either writes back with instructions (that I ignore) or comes running. God bless his nimble feet: he’s helped me avoid a missed-show-emergency more than once. (Though many nights I just find myself watching the wall.)

At the office I am a different story. I spring to life, I’m efficient. Socially, I’m busy. Physically, I’m active. On Saturdays I’m up by 9 AM and when it comes to hygiene, I routinely brush my hair. However, while I’m someone who showers if I feel even slightly un-fresh, the process of getting myself into water requires inspirational talking-tos with the affected persona of a sports psychiatrist. “Be your own Nike,” I repeat. “Just do it.”

Putting myself to bed is such a production that I typically procrastinate until I fall asleep standing up.

I rarely shop online because there are too many steps; if something arrives that doesn’t fit, I’ll never return it. If I think I can make it from the car to my apartment with all the groceries in one trip — even if the law of physics says I definitely should not — I attempt it. (Fallen produce, we had a good run. I salute you.)

There are days when logging into Seamless feels as arduous as filling my own molars with sand. The thought of calling a restaurant and then possibly having to repeat myself — not to mention performing the accompanying act of locating cash or my credit card — seems so laborious that I often give up on eating altogether and nap instead.

…Which is exactly what I think I’ll go do now. Nap, that is; but I’m feeling kind of lazy.

Image shot by Colin Dodgson for Oyster Magazine

New York Closets: Stacey Bendet

If one woman can stand to vet for true and definitive dressing for oneself, it’s got to be Alice and Olivia’s own Stacey Bendet, whose style, for as long I’ve known her, has never wavered far beyond a balance stricken somewhere between the artfully spectacular (a ball gown skirt that can be mistaken for a piece of Rococo style art for parent-teacher conferences? No problem!) and the accessible (worn with a t-shirt, of course). With her signature milky skin, a thick layer of eyeliner almost always tattooed above her lids and some version of head gear frequently strapped on accordingly, Bendet has proven, through both the success of her brand and her own personal sense of self that to have style is concerned not at all with what you wear but, of course, how you wear it.

Monday: I have been really liking vests lately. This one (I’m calling it daisy beauty) was just dropped from our Spring collection. I’m wearing it with our washed wide leg bell bottoms with a vintage orange suede bag to visit my good friend, architect and appreciator of all beautiful fabric, Robert Couturier.

Tuesday: I love this old Trico Field t-shirt paired with our holiday floral ball gown skirt…this was my outfit for our day at a castle when we were shooting model Irina Lazareanu with Ruven Afanador for our Spring 2015 campaign.

Wednesday: Always dress to match a friend’s artwork, that’s what I say, at least. This coat served a dual purpose — for a visit to see the beautiful Francesco Clemente tents at the Mary Boone Gallery and then for another shot in front of a Vanessa Prager painting. Why not, right?

Thursday: Figured I would continue the Francesco Clemente India theme since I had to basically go straight from his dinner to the airport for a 6 AM flight to Boca — yes, this is what I wear on airplanes. The lace embroidered top and skirt are from our event with Saks Fifth Avenue and paired with a fun mix of vintage jewelry.

Friday: I’m wearing cat ears by Maison Michel with our fur cardigan, drop waist dress and thigh high suede boots. Everyone needs cat ears to visit their therapist, no?

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See last week’s New York closet with New York Magazine’s Rebecca Ramsey here.

The Secret Style of an Abandoned Cart

You know she’ll come back. She always does when it’s a slow work week or when she’s watching E! News on the couch. You’ve been sitting there patiently waiting to be revisited, zoomed in on and examined, just like when you first met. You’ve been pushed aside, slowly and methodically elbowed down to the bottom of her mind by those all too similar to you. You can’t help but take it personally.

She’ll never pull the trigger, though; she always ends up playing it safe. You deserve better! Your spark glows brighter than whatever she’ll end up settling for, probably something classic and tasteful that her mother will love. She won’t end up on cherry blossom blanketed Parisian cobble stones or under the epileptic lights of Tokyo’s chaotic streets — all the places where you shine. She’ll be flash-frozen in fear of reaching her full potential, politely smiling at acquaintances, always the picture of appropriateness, never making those around her loosen their collars or scratch their heads from bewilderment and confusion or possibly envy.

You are the outlandish item she’s placed in her digital cart that she will never buy. You are within reach, yet elusive; your singular design high above most people’s comfort levels. You outwardly disdain the heather crew neck tissue-tee that always gets called up for the big show while you wait on deck, bored, next to the flattering straight-legged dark wash jeans that will “check out” before ever going on sale.

You know that deep down her fashionably-closeted self is waiting to break free. Your dramatic buckles or neon embroidery or exaggerated shape could be the catalyst to unleashing her true style. Oh, that you were a garment upon her shoulders so that you might touch her closet. You are a pair of star-crossed lovers, destined for a glorious encounter one day, only to meet a disastrous end. Without intention, your inspired silhouette will dwarf her confidence even though she knows you could do wonders for her esteem.

Her styles lives in you, surrounded by the great, misunderstood pieces of our time, periodically being removed and placed into bolder consumers’ carts. Maybe it’s better this way. Her clothing can go on representing her daily truths: a pseudo-sensible young professional, balancing a limited budget and penchant for stain-inducing foods. Her style embodies safety and comfort; arguably chic in its simplicity. But you’ll remain a stylistic secret, forever hers, hidden in that cart just a click away.

Written by Kelsey Moody. 

Image shot by Kristina Yenko 

Age is Just a Number

I am an age chameleon. I work Monday through Friday in an office where I am the youngest person by 20 years. After work, I occasionally babysit a variety of children of whom I exceed in mileage by 10 to 25 years. I hang out with people in my own peer group, too — I myself am in my mid-twenties, and yet I can engage with the entire range in flying Reading Rainbow/Somewhere Over the Rainbow/Rainbow Loom colors. See? Generational versatility.

Introduce me to your 8-year-old, and within four minutes I can tell if she’s more of an Anna or an Elsa fan. Wanna build a snowman? Sure. Want to sing The Lego Movie song? Let me just warn you, I know it by heart. One minute I am eating dinosaur-shaped nuggets with a cape on, and the next I am weighing the pros and cons of infant self-soothing sleep techniques on the playground with a group of mothers.

I went to a Drake vs. Lil’ Wayne concert with my 16-year-old cousins, knew 75% of the songs and bought a t-shirt. At 8 AM the following day, I found myself in a joint-complaint session with a coworker on how hectic it is trying to exit a concert venue because the “kids” don’t pay attention to moving cars – and don’t even get me started on their outfits! WHO LET YOU DRESS LIKE THAT? Oh but I love this song. I love Drake. I’m going to Instagram this. (Hashtag best night ever).

Once, I chaperoned a One Direction concert, ended up scoring sick floor seats, then cursed out a 10-year-old girl behind her back when she wouldn’t move out of my way.

The other night I sat down with my 83-year-old grandfather and had a very earnest conversation regarding the volume level of certain bars. Why does the music have to be that loud?  What is that drug called that is sending everyone to the hospital? I bet they didn’t do that at Frank Sinatra concerts!

No they did not, Papa.

I found myself at one of those very loud bars a few hours later. I was drug free but asked the deejay to turn up the music way, way up. I requested Demi Lovato.

I’ve always been this way. Back in my kindergarten modeling days (we’ll talk about that another time), my grandparents came to pick me up from a “shoot.” When they arrived, I was sitting at a table with only adults eating lunch. I told my grandparents to go home because “we were discussing business.”

Sometimes I wonder if my birth-assigned peers enjoy talking to me, or if they secretly think I’m too young or old for my own good. Until I figure it out, though — and I never may — you can find me reading Fancy Nancy through bifocals, eating Dino Buddies, wishing Murder She Wrote was still on television.

Written by Courtney Jago aka CJ Keys

Original image via Fashiontrend Australia

Christmas Movie Wars

On Fri, Dec 19, 2014 at 5:18 PM, Amelia Diamond wrote:

I would like to start by saying that I took offense when you said, “You’re probably one of those people who cites Love, Actually as one of their favorite Christmas movies” with a tone of judgement that was instantly perceivable via G-Chat.

Love, Actually rules. It has everything: love stories, a Christmas lobster, Bill Nighy, that kid who grows up to be in Game of Thrones, British accents, “I hate Uncle Jamie,” THAT WEDDING SCENE. Why don’t you like it?

On Fri, Dec 19, 2014, at 6:38 PM, Kate Barnett wrote:

Ok. Yes. So, in college, I was right in the thick of my 20-year no-crying streak, and more or less thought I was too cool for feelings, which Love, Actually has lots of. I know. I sucked. As a result, I missed out on Colin Firth falling in love, which I always want to see. I would very happy if every film I saw henceforth featured Colin Firth falling in love. But also, the movie’s pretty sad. That spunky Brit who’s enormously respected but still flips off photogs ends up with a ruptured marriage. And the blond lady who’s usually in indie movies and doesn’t allow herself to enjoy life at all because she’s responsible for her brother? Gah. I get that this is the point. That it’s not all happy endings. But all the dudes in the movie got happier endings than that, at least. And also, I was pretty bummed out in general in college, so being more bummed out was not appealing.

But wait did I nail it???? Is Love, Actually your top holiday movie???

On Sun, Dec 21, 2014 at 1:42 PM, Amelia Diamond wrote:

Absolutely not. I have four Christmas movies that are absolutely required:

1) Home Alone even though it provides me with endless amounts of anxiety.

2) Dan in Real Life

3) The Family Stone

4) White Christmas

On Mon, Dec 22, 2014 at 1:29 PM, Kate Barnett wrote:

Oy. Ok, I want to respect your choices. Home Alone, fine. Fair. Good, we can agree on that. The Family Stone?! Really?! Worst Christmas Day Movie decision my half-Jewish family ever made. I don’t want to ruin it for anyone who might take your suggestion, but basically it was as upsetting as when I watched The Perfect Storm and didn’t realize it was based on a true story, and that the crew would not, in fact, make it back to the docks. Ever.

I don’t even know what to say about White Christmas.

Here are mine:

1. Scrooged

2. The Muppet Christmas Carol

3. Elf

4. The Family Man

On Mon, Dec 22, 2014 at 3:55 PM, Amelia Diamond wrote:

ARE YOU INSANE?

The Family Stone has every single component of a perfect Christmas movie: snow, tears, a picturesque New England town, familial drama on a level that is relatable if not aspirational, approachable dark humor that’s lightened brilliantly by Luke Wilson’s smile, a deeply satisfying ending, TEARS, laughs, joy, a jukebox moment, fantastic rugs, Diane Keaton — I actually ache that I am not a part of this family.

YOU “DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO SAY” ABOUT WHITE CHRISTMAS? HAVE YOU NEVER WATCHED THIS SCENE?!?!?!??!



It’s one of the few movies in the world where you don’t even question why these four people would be breaking out into song on a train, because of course they would. I’m actually mad at you right now.

SCROOGED?!?!?! Ok, I know that talking shit about a Bill Murray movie is considered blasphemy but I’m prepared to be smote for this:

First of all, it’s like, THE WORST re-imagining of the Dickens classic to exist, ever. Actually, even worse than that is there’s an equally bad take on the literal Dickens story WITHIN this bad story! Bill Murray the actor — not even going to get into his character — seems coked out the entire time, and while I think it’s messed up that he fires that nerdy dude, it’s utterly irresponsible that he hires him BACK at the end for the sake of his own conscience with ZERO REGARD for the safety of the company because that guy (who Filburt from Rocco’s Modern Life had to have been based off) is clearly unhinged. So is Carol Kane.

I’ve never seen The Family Man but it seems like it’s just a holiday-themed Liar Liar/yet another story of a man who works too hard and ignores his family then realizes family is all that’s important. I’m also not a Nicolas Cage fan, and Téa Leoni bugs me.

Elf. We can agree on Elf. Thank god.

Have you ever seen Meet Me in Saint Louis? It has to be the strangest (and yet most revered?!) Christmas movie of all time…

On Mon, Dec 22, 2014 at 4:39 PM, Kate Barnett wrote:

Why did you make me watch that nonsensical deli clip?

Of COURSE Bill Murray seems coked up the whole movie. He’s playing a TV exec in New York in the 80s. The fact that your biggest issue is the implausibility of Bobcat Goldthwait being rehired suggests that perhaps you’re a grinch. The secretary’s son as Tiny Tim is great, and there’s a cameo by Mary Lou Retton. Yes, Carol Kane is shrill, but I’d say that’s it’s only flaw.

As for The Family Man, I’m pretty sure it’s Nic Cage’s greatest work. It’s a modern take on It’s a Wonderful Life with Don Cheadle as the guardian angel and Jeremy Piven as the best friend. Highlights include a little girl who thinks her dad/Nic Cage was abducted by aliens and replaced with an extra-terrestrial dopplegangler.

Now, you want a classic? The Muppet’s Christmas Carol. Michael Caine plays Scrooge, Kermit plays Bob Cratchit, and Gonzo plays Charles Dickens, narrating the story with Rizzo the Rat. The music is legitimately good, and there are ice skating penguins.

I haven’t seen Meet Me in Saint Louis, but I’m starting to worry that you’re a musicals person. Are you a musicals person? Also, what about It’s a Wonderful Life and Miracle on 34th Street and all of those?

On Mon, Dec 22, 2014 at 5:55 PM, Amelia Diamond wrote:

I do apologize for not giving proper nods to Mary Lou Retton and her triple axel, Alfre Woodard (what a gal) as BM’s secretary and her adorable son who doesn’t speak.

I’m ignoring The Family Man. I don’t want Jeremy Piven on my television around the holidays. And I’ll probably get a lot of hate mail for this, but I hate puppets. They creep me out. I hate that their lips don’t move, but I’d be even more freaked out of they did. No puppets.

…But yes. I am a musicals person. It’s in my blood. If someone proposes to me in a non-theatrical manner I’ll probably say no. This is my terrible secret. But it is not so secret.

It’s a Wonderful Life is a SUPER depressing movie. The man tries to commit suicide at the beginning. He drinks and drives! Like Wolf of Wall Street! I should report my parents for allowing me to watch this at such a young age. Zuzu’s cute though. Zuzu and her dang petals.

Now, Miracle on 34th Street. Hmm. I used to love that movie, but it falls into the Home Alone category of What the Fuck? IMDB’s description:“When a nice old man who claims to be Santa Claus is institutionalized as insane, a young lawyer decides to defend him by arguing in court that he is the real thing.” Uh…

What do you think about it?

On Mon, Dec 22, 2014 at 7:02 PM, Kate Barnett wrote:

First off, calling The Muppets “puppets” is like calling udon or pho “noodle soup.”  It’s not wrong, but there’s something degrading in the deliberateness. And Kermit’s lips move! He has a whole range of facial expressions around his mouth/nose area. Do you also hate Snuffleupagus? Should I even ask?

Sidebar: Mary Lou Retton is a gymnast and a triple axel is an ice-skating maneuver.

As far as kids’ movies, I guess it’s probably a trade-off between wanting your kids to believe in Santa and not wanting them to get involved with institutionalized old men. Although, the premise of most children’s entertainment is pretty terrifying. Adventures in Babysitting. Goonies. Wall-E. Wait, these are really dark. Why are all kids’ movies so dark?

On Mon, Dec 22, 2014 at 8:05 PM, Amelia Diamond wrote:

I apologize to The Muppet community and the gymnast linguist community. No I don’t hate Snuffleupagus, he’s just a stoned wooly mammoth with eyelash extensions who’s trying to hang.

Stand by Me: a group of kids going in search of a dead body. Every Disney movie ever made: dead parents.

I think all kids’ movies are so dark because kids are kind of dark. Mortality is such an abstract concept when you’re young that it seems fantastical as opposed to depressing. In Meet Me in Saint Louis, the kids go fully HAM and light a house on fire. It’s fucking weird.

So what did we agree on out of all of this? That I’m a terrible, puppet-hating person and you clearly have no soul? That Elf is the one holiday movie that — if you and I both like it — transcends all demographics and could potentially be the answer to world peace?

We didn’t even get into Charlie Brown, or How the Grinch Stole Christmas, or Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, or The Santa Clause! But it’s almost Christmas. Let’s end this now before we start another fight.

Actually, let’s turn it to the readers…

Three Web Series to Binge-Watch Over Your Holiday Break

Winter vacation is officially here, which means you’re potentially knee-deep in eggnog, fanning the flames from a few torched chestnuts and juggling texts from every guy you ever flirted with in middle school. If you’re home, then you’ll later retreat to the comfort of your childhood bedroom to enjoy the luxury of your parents’ HBO as it dances across the TV screen.

But if, like mine, your parents have joined the ranks of cord-cutters — a.k.a., you’re staying put at your apartment with no cable to your name, you might want to explore the world of web series. (Especially if you have the cinematic attention span of a fruit fly.) I’ve rounded up three of my current favorites, which, incidentally, are all available online, free of charge. Thanks mom!

High Maintenance

High Maintenance is the brainchild of husband and wife team Ben Sinclair and Katja Blichfeld, who co-write and direct each episode. Sinclair plays a blasé weed delivery guy catering to the camp of typical Brooklyn residents. With a guest star list that includes Hannibal Buress (Broad City) and Greta Lee (New Girl, GIRLS) each 5-10 minute episode is pee-your-pants hilarious, but Season 1’s “Heidi” takes the gold.

(You can stream Season 3 now for the price of $7.99.)

 Charles, Your Hangover

“I’m Charles! I’ll be your hangover today!”

Charles is the physical manifestation of your worst hangover. He will — quite literally — pour kitty litter down your throat, spin you in your chair and run his nails down a chalkboard. Episode 1 stars Lauren Lapkus as an elementary school teacher suffering through the aftermath of a wine-soaked grading bender. With an average run time of four minutes, this Above Average production is the ideal hungover-on-a-Sunday watch.

Downtown Girls

Written by Jessica Lamour and now in its second season, Downtown Girls can perhaps best be described as, “the more relatable version of GIRLS.” The series approaches the onslaught of adulthood in a fresh and funny way, and has garnered praise from fellow comediens Ilana Glazer and Casey Wilson. Season One’s “Prada Cakes” chronicles a group of NYU students as they navigate the campus drug scene. Watch it here:

What are you currently watching? What will you watch? What should I watch? I’ve finished these, so I either need you to tell me below, or provide your parents’ HBO Go account.

Happy Holidays!

The Texting Ghosts of Exes Past

Nothing says happy holidays quite like the shrill “ping” of a person you haven’t thought about in years who is suddenly thinking about you, but nostalgia is a shameless texter –primarily around the holidays. The Texting Ghost of Ex-mas Past.

There’s something about sparkling lights and cold weather, tartan blankets and the promise of (or at least songs about) snow, not to mention warmed whiskey and spiked cider that makes everyone a little bit more romantic than usual. Combine that with the boredom of being home plus the sentimentality of sleeping in childhood bedrooms and suddenly everyone begins scrolling through the Instagram feeds of ex relationships and hookups with the kind of tenderness that hasn’t been accessed since their respective honeymoon stages.

Perhaps the first apparition appeared to you around Thanksgiving. The text likely said, “Happy Thanksgiving.” (Creativity never was his strong suit.) Your reaction could have been one of three things:

1) He sent this to everyone.

2) He’s attempting to secure a cold-weather hook up. Ass.

3) Weird. But how nice!

If option number three occurred, you likely shot a text back: “Same to you!” or, “Hi to your fam!” Then you put your phone away and carried on with your life, a.k.a. commandeering the crunchy bits of stuffing.

Except, depending on your personal history, it’s likely that you received more than just one “Remember me?” on this day.

Round Two of the holiday spooks probably started right after day five of the televised advent calendar. Exes around the world who enjoy basic cable programming were suddenly flooded with a bevy of Christmas (and non-denominational, though equally festive) movies of which you probably watched at least one together. Classics like Home Alone and Elf have been known to trigger emotions that haven’t been unlocked since first kisses, especially when six-packs of eggnog-flavored Natty Light are involved.

“Remember that time we went ice skating in Central Park?” Uh, yes I do. That was last month before we broke up — haven’t completely lost my memory yet, thanks.

“Just walked by that place we used to get hot chocolate at together, made me think of u.” …Starbucks?

And you can always tell it’s getting closer to the actual date of Christmas when you receive this one: “Hey stranger.” Oh boy.

By the time the night of the 24th arrives and you’re either eating Chinese food or putting a star on top of the tree, your phone becomes a handheld Tim Burton graveyard replete with ghosts in bad suits and giant, bobbling heads; each unopened text a howling reminder of relationships you thought you’d buried in the past.

Those who believe in ghosts say that spirits who haunt are merely looking for closure (which is confusing, seeing as these phantoms in particular seem to be opening up cans of have-you-lost-your-damn-mind worms). The best solution is to keep your response polite, kind and short. Avoid getting sappy, absolutely no “I miss you.” Then put your phone away, and stare at your dog. Stay away from old pictures and for heaven’s sake, don’t go on Facebook. It will be New Years before you know it and you’ll be kissing a stranger…the Ghost of Christmas Future. Bah humbug.

NY Closets: Rebecca Ramsey

Show New York Magazine’s senior fashion editor a rack of clothes ranging in designers, colors, patterns and trends, and she’ll select the pieces she deems important without a moment’s hesitation. Rebecca Ramsey’s an editor in the truest sense of the word that way: she knows exactly what she’s looking for, and anything superfluous gets cut. There’s no room for sentimentality. There is, however, room for experimentation and fun.

Ramsey’s own personal style is unassuming and quiet — she favors craftsmanship and quality over tell-tale branding. Back when I worked at NY Mag (and spent about 50% of my day avoiding the fashion closet, which you’ll see above) she instilled in me the importance of a uniform, as well as a reverence towards turtlenecks and investment coats. Ramsey’s aesthetic is such a trademark of her personality that you imagine she has the type of closet where she can close her eyes, grab whatever, love everything and pair it in a way that instantly makes sense — which actually may be the case, seeing as on day 1 she realized that she’s been getting dressed in the dark this whole time. Now that’s skill.

Day 1

I wake up to natural sunlight, so it’s really hard for me to get out of bed on a darker, rainy day. After I took these photos, I went out and bought a lamp so that I don’t look like a literal example of getting dressed in the dark. I love playing around with silhouettes, and these are a great pant to break out and do just that. I know you can’t see it here, but I’m wearing Adidas sneakers.

J.Crew turtleneck; old Maison Martin Margiela pants

Day 2

Here’s a sneak peak of our slightly “lived in” fashion closet, former territory of Amelia Diamond. I hate the color brown when it comes to clothes (something about my brown hair with brown fabric has never been attractive to me), but I don’t scoff at camel, and I’ve tried to explore a little more with these suede boots. (The color is called “luggage,” which sounds super fancy.) I’ve always been a big supporter of the turtleneck: fun to wear, hide your hair in, cozy — really nothing needing a defense on my part. This skirt is one of the easiest things to wear, and while it dresses up any look up (I often wear it with a t-shirt), it isn’t fussy, and it’s really easy to mobilize in.

Gap turtleneck; Comme des Garçons skirt; Gianvito Rossi boots

Evening of Day 2

I was heading uptown from the office to the Dior party at the Guggenheim (picture taken in the fashion closet again — best full length mirror!), so this is me in my idea of cocktail: a tailored jacket, a fun but not loud skirt and a little, exciting bag. I am one of those people who thinks Dries Van Noten is just genius, and I received this bag from my fiancé last Christmas, so I guess he is a genius too. I love the little gold chain and the fact that it holds my Cadillac-sized Mophie.

Acne Studios jacket, Dries Van Noten skirt and bag, Céline shoes

Day 3

I really scored at 10 Corso Como in Milan when I found this jacket. My flight was delayed so I had an extra hour to pop over there — I’m pretty thankful about that. I love a moto-style jacket, as well as a houndstooth, so I get a lot of wear out of this. It’s starting to fray on the edges, which I actually think makes it look even cooler.

This was a big deal because, well, socks and sandals. It was the first time wearing socks with my Céline platforms; I’m getting the most wear out of them until I basically run them flat, which is close to happening.

Sacai jacket, Balenciaga pants, Céline shoes. 

Day 4

Here I’m off to meet my friend on a Saturday afternoon. This coat is a prized find from a Balenciaga sale. It’s from the Nicolas Ghesquière era, and while I normally never wear pink, I love how the hot pink pops from my typically dark or gray wardrobe. I’ve been into fancy sweatshirts for some time now, and this neoprene Erdem one has become the torch-bearer for prints in my closet. I just love that man.

Balenciaga coat, Erdem top, Alexander Wang pants, Gucci shoes, Céline bag

Day 5

Okay, so here I am about to venture out shopping for wedding dresses with one of my best friends, who is also engaged. Why I chose to wear this many layers when we were about to be in a constant state of undressing escape me. This outfit is very basic, and almost a uniform to me — slim jeans, thin cashmere sweater, tailored blazer and my chelsea boots. I jazzed it up with a silk scarf, which to me, works just like a turtleneck.

Hermes scarf from my grandmother, Stella McCartney jacket, Frame jeans, worn-in Saint Laurent chelsea boots — they’re the best shoes.

Day 5, slide 2

I’m a sucker for outerwear; my coats are possibly the crown jewels of my closet, and this one is my true favorite. I had just watched Woody Allen’s Interiors, and there are so many great coats in that film. This photo kind of reminds me of the ’70s art direction in the movie (or maybe it’s just my love for Diane Keaton).

The same outfit as above, topped off with a Dries Van Noten coat

Day 7

Just trying on bags at Céline in Soho. Ever since it opened downtown and slightly closer to my office, it’s a really dangerous game changer. What’s funny is that I found this sweater at work (it’s Aritzia) and the sales people all asked if it was Céline.

Worn-in Paul Smith shoes, Uniqlo shirt, Balenciaga pants, Céline bag

Day 8

If you know me, you know I gave up on heels a while ago but sometimes I’ll “shockingly” wear them. Here I am going to work. I didn’t have too many appointments and wasn’t shooting that day, which is definitely the rationale for the heels.

J Brand jacket, A.P.C. shirt, J. Crew jeans, Gianvito Rossi shoes 

Day 9

When I was an assistant back in the day at W, we did a shoot with Madonna wearing all of these chic, black Givenchy looks and shot her with horses. I was reminded of it when I got dressed this morning. This is a fun one, because to me, it’s just a black outfit, but because of the pussy bow, people in the office think I’m dressed up to go somewhere fancy later. I have a lot of old Yves Saint Laurent because it was the only sample sale I used to stalk out hard. I often find myself blending old YSL with the new Saint Laurent and finding that it does, actually, work very well together.

Stella McCartney jacket, old Yves Saint Laurent blouse, Gap jeans, Saint Laurent shoes

See Rebecca Ramsey’s work for The Cut and NY Magazine here. Follow her on Instagram, too — lots of sparkles.

Untitled.

In the genuine spirit of wanting to say goodbye

In wanting to say I’m sorry and I forgive you

I had a lot of dreams mixed up in the meaning of love

And a lot of projections mixed up in loving you

When I loved you

I was young and had hoped you would love me

I didn’t know what that meant but knew I wanted it from you

I didn’t want to ask you for it, because I wasn’t sure if I deserved it

Maybe I didn’t think I deserved it in general, but I wasn’t sure

If I deserved your love

I would have been more honest with myself, more honest with you

I would have been more willing to listen and relate to you

Which I wasn’t ever convinced was possible.

You once asked me about truth a couple years ago in a dive bar

I remember these things because I poured meaning into our moments

I notice this now after having watched others do the same thing to me

I was aware of the concept of truth, I thought it was funny you were

Searching for truth

Your engagement often felt like tests to me,

Life in general felt very black and white at the time

I was afraid to be wrong in your eyes

What I had meant to say years ago was “inherently there is truth in all of us.”

Truth within the present moment

And overtime we lose our truths, either to our egos or intellect

False memories, attachments to the past or excitement for the future

I don’t know why honest engagements with you were so hard

All I wanted was for the energy to work in our favor

The resistance was fun at first, provocative, frustrating, ultimately too exhausting

I think the only time I could surrender to you was drunk, with my head in your lap, speeding up the FDR.

In That Empire State of Mind

New York, concrete jungle where dreams are made of

There’s nothin’ you can’t do

Every time I sing karaoke, this is my ballad. I’m as in tune as Cameron Diaz in My Best Friend’s Wedding, but I belt out Alicia’s refrains with the impassioned gusto of a Limoncello-soaked Italian crooner. I imagine that my jeans and basic tank are actually a breast-skimming, sequinned jumpsuit and that my pearl studs are fierce gold bamboo door-knockers. I rap the Jay-Z lines with intensity, throwing ninja stars and doing Back-Up-Off-Me hands with every beat. I’ve got flow. I’ve got swagger. I’m legend enough for Queen Bey to want to bear children with.

Yeah I’m out that Brooklyn, now I’m down in Tribeca

Right next to DeNiro, but I’ll be hood forever

It’d be pushing it to say that these lines apply to me. I’m a middle-class Korean-Australian girl; as urban as Urban Outfitters (harboring similar quantities of unicorn sweatshirts and Grumpy Cat paraphernalia), and as chill as Eliza Thornberry mid-asthma attack. I’ve visited New York exactly once, for 5 days when I was 11 years old. I chased squirrels in Central Park, hid amongst the Beanie Babies in FAO Schwarz and vomited after stuffing myself with peanut butter-flavored sweets at Dylan’s Candy Bar.

I used to cop in Harlem, all of my Dominicanos

Right there up on Broadway, pull me back to that McDonald’s

Took it to my stash spot, 560 State St.

Catch me in the kitchen like the Simmons’ whipping pastry

I can’t pretend to know the city’s gritty side (until I googled the lyrics I didn’t even know you could cook crack; the closest anyone’s come to offering me drugs is slipping me Pez in the playground and beta blockers pre-spelling bee), and yet this song resonates with me. It’s about Dreaming Big and Living Large, while remembering where you came from.

I’ve always been one to romanticize places and to yearn for the big city. I moved from Canberra to Sydney (Australia’s “big smoke”) because I imagined life there to be flashier and faster-paced. But New York — that glistening metropolis of success and excitement — stands as a world unto itself.

How many times have I imagined myself as Jessica Alba in Honey, the sweet but street-wise New York dancer with the rippling abs and heart of gold? And that scene in The Devil Wears Prada where Anne Hathaway steps out in thigh-high leather Chanel boots and glamazon glory? I’m one of the million girls who would kill for that job. Growing up I yearned for the Manolos and panache of Carrie Bradshaw, the borderline incestuous friendship group of Friends, the meet-cutes and intrigue of every Meg Ryan movie ever made (culminating in an Empire State Building rendezvous, naturally) and the flighty insouciance of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

Much of what I aspired to I now recognize as vapid and ridiculous, and yet I still believe in the magic of a place (or at least a frame of mind) where anything is possible. And so for 4 minutes (less if I’m ejected from the bar for disturbing the peace with my caterwauling) I rap my heart out…

One hand in the air for the big city

Street lights, big dreams all looking pretty

No place in the world that can compare

Put your lighters in the air…

Written by Elodie Cheesman