I just purchased my very first pair of ballet flats. I know. How could I have made it this long without this sartorial staple? The mind DOES boggle. In any event, whilst shopping for wedding dresses and rings and such for my sister’s upcoming nuptials, I found a pair of Anniels at the very cute Rand + Statler boutique on Hayes in San Francisco. They were perfect. Buttery soft leather, just the right amount of toe cleavage, and a bow that actually tightens the shoe on your foot. And they weren’t the usual glossy black. Don’t get me wrong — I don’t go for color. But they were a perfect, soft anthracite…a faded, inky color that forgives the variations in one’s dark wardrobe.
In general, I think there are three real contenders in the ballet flat world. You know, the actual, real deal, dance shoe companies that make street shoes. I’ve tried them all on. Audrey and Brigitte loved Porsellis. “It” girls seem to love Repetto.
Me, I like Anniel.
Lot’s of stylish people have lists of things a well-heeled woman should have in her closet. Trench coat, check. LBD, check. Striped mariner’s shirt, check. Tons of scarves, check. And most have a recommendation on the kind of bag one should carry. Satchel, tote, minaudiere…whatever.
Unsurprisingly, I have strong feelings on the subject, too. In my case, I love the classic simplicity of the Mulberry Baysweather bag. Clean lines, iconic shape. It’s at the top of my list.
A strong and more modern contender is the 31 Hour bag by 3.1 Phillip Lim. Reconceiving classic lines in even more modern terms, it has become my favorite of the recent spate of “it bag” offerings.
I’ve always had a soft spot for footed furniture. Not just typical rolled claw feet, but actually FEET. Witty, exotic and eye-catching, I like how it adds an air of old-school eccentricity to a space.
“Traccia” Gold Leaf Bird Leg Table by Meret Oppenheim
Myra Hoefer A la Reine stools with goat’s feet
Oly Studio Ajax side chair
Wedding fever has overtaken my family. My sister is getting married, and while some may say that it’s a disadvantage to be the last of 3 to get married, I’d argue that it is a great, great advantage. Having seen the foibles, the misplaced energy, the general low-grade anxiety of earlier weddings, my sister has not only selected the most stratospherically beautiful location, but she’s retained the services of a wedding planner. Brill.
3 generations of Kanan-Corrêa ladies (plus fiancé) went up to Campovida yesterday to meet the wedding planners and begin organizing in earnest. It’s a jaw-droppingly beautiful place. Hills all around. Sustainably grown vineyards and surrounding gardens. 52 varietals of apples in the orchards. Figs, lavender, kale, swiss chard, towering cyprus. Everything well-taken care of, but not sterile. In short, as close as a girl can get to Provence without heading to St. Rémy.
But it gets better…the chef will be vegetarian wünderkind Leif Hedendal and the creative bombast of Elena Zhukova will ensure unforgettable photography. Throw in some of NYC’s most fab musicians, a few glittering food folks from the Bay Area, a sprinkling of Ph.D.s and about 30 kids…well, you’ve got the makings of either a great time, or an epic food fight.
They are ritualistic and virile, sure. But there is even more fundamentally inexorable about Picasso and his fascination with bulls and their mythological counterpart, minotaurs. It’s sensual and brutal, all at once.
There are some who think that shaving should be a perfunctory part of the day; an act simply on par with brushing one’s teeth, or cleaning one’s ears. However, shaving could — and I’d argue should — provide a moment of pleasure in the day. As a young girl, I remember my father kissing me goodbye in the morning, and his skin was smooth, with the unmistakable scent of shaving cream. The olfactory memory is inextricably linked with the stability of family life, with the ritual of days as a young child and its attendant small pleasures. As an adult, the pleasure of a man’s shave has become more complex.
I bought for my husband, before our child was born, a brush, razor and some very hoity-toity shaving cream. Not the chemical-ly Barbasol in a can — which he had been using — but rather the accoutrements for a slower, more luxurious process shaving with a brush, a Mercur razor and some unusually lovely but subtle shaving creams. Now, some chains have tried to capitalize on the joy of shaving in this fashion…but the products the manufacture seem like shadows of the real thing.
At this point, most of the kerfuffles in our house center around whether Musgo Real or Proraso — “of the people” shaving creams if there ever were — reign supreme over the Trumper’s and Taylor of Old Bond Street offerings that exist in the bathroom. It’s a lovely conundrum to face (no pun intended) in the morning. And our daughter, hopefully, will remember the lovely, vaguely lavender-y smell of her father as he hugs her on her way out the door.