Sad as though it may be, you truly never leave high school.

There will always be the pretty girls, the guys who have the world at their fingertips because they can catch a ball, the geeks, the art freaks, the granolas, and the inevitable wannabes.



Life is compartmentalized and clique-ish in New York. There is a status, a membership, a label attached to everything. You are either in or you're out. There are neighborhoods, bars, floors, and even sewing machines that restrict entrance/use.



After proving my ability in turning paper patterns into prototypes, my days seem to be spent listening to "Livin' La Vida Loca" in a hot, sticky sewing room. For the first couple of weeks I was shunned by the sewers and forced to sit in the corner sewing on a rusty Juki with feed dogs so ravenous so as to eat my fabric.



As if the language barrier wasn't excluding enough, I sat in the corner in a somewhat wannabe state of mind, with my back towards the professionals, the locals, the geeks you befriend so you can stay eligible for the Friday night game. The sewers are the heartbeat of fashion. So often forgotten and overlooked. They turn your vision into reality, your failing trig grade into the winning touchdown with no recognition. Their name isn't on the garment, or the MVP trophy you walk away with at the end of the season.



After doing my time as the "new girl in school" desperate for acceptance, I was finally allotted a seat next to Louis, master sewer, valedictorian. I felt oddly validated, and terrified of failing to deserve such a sacred seat. As I began loading my bobbin for winding at my shiny new Juki complete with a personal fan, Louis looks over at me and shakes a pre-wound bobbin in my face nodding at me to use it. He just gave me a sharpened pencil before the final.



He might not be the quarterback or voted most likely to be famous, but he is the one cheering you on at the big game, or voting for you so you can receive coveted yearbook space.



He is the one sewing the labels into your clothes so you can feel constant indulgence. He winds your bobbin so you can sew. He holds the seams together as they are falling apart.

People often say there is beauty in the breakdown. But I find the beauty to be in the formulation.

The formulation of relationships, seams, and Spanglish.

Confucius says: You cannot open a book without learning something.

The New York Public Library. Home to books, pictures, and dust.

I find libraries to be completely fascinating. Getting lost in a sea of books helps you stumble upon something you would have never sought out, quite like the adventures a directionally challenged girl finds in a city like Manhattan. The air is filled with knowledge waiting for someone to absorb the information like skin absorbing sunshine. People can feed off it. Long for it. And feel quite pale and unwell without it.

Libraries are also quite tragic. The lost books that sit on the shelves waiting for someone to choose knocking off dust over a shiny cover. Waiting for someone to turn the pages and let the smell of old wise words intoxicate them, breathe life, and infuse the lessons of yesterday into the present. Such an un-tapped resource.

Books and people are a lot alike. We put on clothes to get attention, draw people in, and entice them to know us more- just as the cover of a book does. We categorize and define ourselves by key words and phrases. We do not share shelf space with those who do not promote the same level of knowledge, passion, or glossy printed pages. Some even find comfort in the multiple check out cards placed in their cover pocket to solidify their pretentious nature -their checkout cards scream "I'm important. See everyone else thinks so too."

The fashion industry is a genre all its own. Shelf space is a hot commodity. Do not expect to sit next to Gianni Versace or Donna Karan. Don't even expect to sit next to those anonymous designers who design for them. Interns are all in a bin waiting to be revised before placing on some obscure shelf.

Perhaps that is why I enjoy the art of getting lost in a library. Finding those shelves behind bathrooms or in dark corners, that house those books that have something important to say but didn't make Oprah's book club making a prime library locale impossible. Lost words, forgotten wisdom, undiscovered genius paint the pages of a deserted book.

Sometimes the arrows in life point you to what you think you want. But choosing opposition and defying the direction others choose for you, is what you need to find yourself nestled in a corner hoping no one finds your secret. Your hidden gem of a book. Your garage sale Yves Saint Laurent blouse.

Sometimes you have to get lost to feel at home.

Boarding an elevator in New York is like trying to get into the Crillon Ball.







If there is one thing I've over-indulged in throughout my time in the City, it is observation. I'm a self-proclaimed glutton. I notice all the small things. Sometimes it is at the expense of missing the big picture, or the bus headed towards me. But I notice the lucky pennies, the makeshift gardens, the names carved into the Brooklyn Bridge, and the "door close" button rubbed raw on elevators.





The "door open" button, due to its seemingly virginal appearance, is unexplored territory. Threatening to those who fear the unknown, question dark spaces, and search for a crutch when pushed out of the nest.

I will admit, elevator rides are chronically awkward. For those days when you are packed into a freight elevator like sardines, you watch the floor as if it is a Broadway show, and long for a solo ride in which your nose isn't pressed into the delivery boy's armpit.

For those who shut the doors on others, deeming themselves worthy of a ride in solitude, there is something prestigious and magical about elevators. The carriage rises up the spine of the building and drops them off into an unknown abyss. People see them get on, but where they escape to is a mystery.

Riding alone to the top affords those who do the notion of importance. Like walking in glass slippers. You can't very well walk up stairs in glass slippers. Alas your carriage awaits you, and only you. It lowers to cradle you and your fragile shoes high into the sky into a land of make-believe.

You have reached the ball on the penthouse floor, in you fabulous shoes nonetheless, but at the expense of what?

Just like Cinderella couldn't have finished her chores and made it to the ball without the help of mice, designers couldn't make it to Bryant Park, let alone the showroom floor, without the vermin that are interns. We haul samples, swatches, and patterns around the city like mice with crumbs. We lurk in the corners when fabulous people arrive, as if we don't exist.

But those unfortunate things, coupled with freight elevators, and running errands in the rain, make seeing a garment you had a hand in on Style.com worth every pin you picked up, every armpit you had your nose in, and seam you ripped.

Cinderella enjoyed the ball more, because she worked to get there. She scrubbed the floor on her hands an knees. She appreciated the pumpkin transforming into a carriage. She didn't expect it, or deem herself worthy of it.

But just like Cinderella, your magical carriage, that is your elevator, turns back into a pumpkin at midnight, and your glass slippers suddenly become impractical and debilitating.

Think about all you are missing when you choose an elevator ride in solitude. You miss the laughs on the way up, the meaningless conversation that turns into a life-long friendship. You miss the opportunity to be the first finger to grace the "Open Door" button.

Instead you are choosing solitary confinement. All you are missing are padded walls and you've got yourself an asylum.

People always wonder why it is so lonely at the top. Because you choose the "close door" option. You wouldn't share the ride with anyone else. You let mice help you do your chores, but when it came time for the ball they were nothing more than an infestation.


Cinderella shared her experience with the mice that helped get her there. Granted, if memory serves me correct, mice were merely horses that drew her carriage, but at least she wasn't ashamed of her help.

That infamous night Cinderella didn't ride alone.

Clearly Cinderella was doing something right-She ended up with Prince Charming and killer shoes.

Stepping out onto the street, rather than waiting on the curb is so New York. One small step for locals, one giant leap for a newbie.

I often find myself with my heels pressed against the curb as if it is some safe place in a game of tag, no one can touch me, I can't be it. From this place I can calculate my next move, get my bearings, plan my attack.


Red light.
Green Light.
Heel.
Toe.
Curb.
Street.

It has become devastatingly apparent that even when a New Yorker stops, they are still going. Odd as it seems, the notion of breaking, stopping, coming to a halt is as foreign to a New Yorker as a street without a Starbucks.

Life is in constant motion for New York. Stopping would throw off your balance, lessen your feelings of importance. If you can't order a latte while simultaneously emailing on your blackberry, reading page six, and confirming your reservations dinner- pack your bags you belong in Jersey, or anywhere else but Manhattan taking up precious space, for that matter.

Inhabiting this island is an art form. There is a method to the madness. A disillusionment of ease, like a splatter painting hanging in the MET. But behind that painting, behind that "glamorous" city life, is a sad story of a truly tortured soul married to their work. An insomniac with all the signs of corporate spousal abuse.

In city where some people have the depth of the ocean and others that of a puddle, I'm in constant search of a truly happy face, a face with laugh lines and forgiving eyes that pay homage to the joy found in the balance of life.

It has been a month since I landed on this planet, and with people in constant motion, I have only managed to capture one truly happy face.

She had blue hair, opaque skin, and shoulder pads. She had the swagger of someone who had been there, done that, and has a story to prove it. She was pretentious in just the right way. Pretentious for protection; if you look feeble people will chew you up and spit you out. She stood behind me at K-mart, in a line that could have put the Jonas Brothers Today Show crowd to shame. But her smile never wavered.

As we moved closer to the cashier, I noticed she only had one item for purchase and it was cradled in her veiny hands, held tight as if someone might try to take it.

Never one to take exclusion from a secret well, I couldn't leave without knowing her secret. Whatever she had in her hands made her smile, made her wait in line, made her day worth living.

Alas, there it was. On the counter. Clear as day.

Red lipstick.

How ironic, that the one thing that motivated a woman to stand in line, was red, the color of impedance. After over-analyzing the purchase of red lipstick, I came to determine that true happiness comes from the things in life that force you to stop. Creates in you a desire to dwell, meddle, and dissolve in the emotions that come with it.

That afternoon, as I stood in the Model as a Muse exhibit at the MET, I couldn't help but feel as if I was sinking into the floor as people passed by me. I didn't care if my mouth was open, I didn't care if I was drooling. It was as if the world kept moving around me and I somehow got stuck in limbo. Just like the woman with the red lipstick, I was content being still and reverent. Unconcerned with the squealing girls who salivate over designers and use hair flips in exchange for drinks. I was fixated on vintage Yves Saint Laurent, and ancient Harper's Bazaar, Vogue, and litany of other things that paralyzed me- just as red lipstick created a paralysis for the woman longing to feel the power red lipstick gave her as it stains her cracked lips.

Regardless of what others might think or say. It is not what your passion is that matters. It is your ability to have passion. It is the implication that passion has on your life. It is your ability to leave the safe zone and save the heels of your shoes by moving away from the curb and into the street. It is your ability to stop when everyone else moves on. It is your ability to accept a red light as just as much of an adventure as a green light.


Let your passion stain your lips and speak of it often.

I hate to break it to Pat Benatar, but she got it all wrong. Love is not a battlefield. The city is.

When the sun rises in New York, it is as if the city, who spent the night doubled over, rises slowly, one vertebrae at a time. A movement so subtle and so contrived so as not to disturb the inhabitants before it attacks. The clouds seem to lift higher as the skyline takes their place. The sky-scrapers act as watch towers, where those who have deemed themselves important and convinced others to do the same, can watch as soldiers wage war on the streets of their enemy.

Soldiers leave their posts every morning in full armor. Their faces are hostile and cold. Breaking their concentration could be lethal. Their guard is up from the moment their soles hit the pavement, until they return to their makeshift campsite of a home.

As I walked past a fallen soldier on my way into a building that en-housed so much beauty and "glamour" I couldn't help but spend my day thinking of the harsh realities in such a hostile and brutal city.

It is a war in which camaraderie does not exist. It is every man for himself. If you fall in the streets, someone will pave a new path right over you. If you run out of ammo, good luck and asta la vista.

No matter which way you slice it, you can't help but feel personally attacked by the city and the people in it. To make it out of this city alive, you have to dress for the occasion.

Upon entering this city I was cashmere, an innocent bystander, destined to the feel the wrath of a roadside bomb as it tears through my delicate exterior. The veterans playing chess in the park are leather. Tough, all knowing, hardened in a beautiful way.

I am a cadet, they are captains.

I might not have earned my leather jacket yet.

But, if Spartans can fight a war in skirts and no shirts, I can fight in cashmere.

His helmet was stifling, it narrowed his vision. And he must see far. His shield was heavy. It threw him off balance. And his target is far away." Dilios (300)

Watching the entrance/exit to the subway station is like watching a chest rise and fall with each breath. Hordes of people going in and out. All together. In one motion. Choreographed to perfection.

Subways are the heartbeat of the city. The tracks, like viens, disperse life throughout neighborhoods and parks.

The pulse that beats beneath the streets, beats to a tune all its own. Encompassing each and every culture found in the city. A place for all who can turn numbers and colors into neighborhoods and boroughs.


Decoding is your initiation. The turnstyle, like the gatekeeper in Oz, can deny you entrance.
You may not pass go. You may not collect $200.



Breathing life into inanimate objects is a rather embarassing habit of mine. A habit I should have let go of along with my Barney and Baby Bop stuffed animals. But I quite like the thought of the turnstile playing the gatekeeper in Oz. Deciding whether or not to let you enter into the presence of the Wizard.



The somewhat heartless world of fashion, has forgotten subways, and instead turned to black town cars. Cold. Lifeless. Devoid of any unrefined beauty or any unguided style. There is no game in having someone open a door for you to slide across black leather seats, made of what feels like butter, with the latest issue of Vogue waiting for you inside. No turnstile to reject you and eat your dignity as people groan behind you, awaiting their chance to see the wizard.

Upon acceptance into the hollows of New York City subways, you are witness to life in its most raw and uncut form. A singular jazz band echos throughout the subway tiled halls. If you push back the tears that naturally form in your ducts from the strong aroma of urine and body odor you can see the real fashion world.



An ugly world, one without photoshop and glossy prints. A world where you put on what you want because it feels right. You wear what you need to wear with confidence because you know it will get you where you need to go.

Just like a subway car. In fashion you must find a style that defines you, a number, letter, or color subway car that craddles you before dropping you off at home. You have to have confidence in the style you choose, knowing it is for you and no one else. The subway system is confusing enough, do not muddy it with someone's elses style or direction. And most importantly you have to be accepted by the almighty turnstile. A metaphor for you. You ultimately hold the key to your happiness and acceptance, not Anna Wintour, or the gatekeeper in Oz.


Invest in a subway map. Study it. Know yourself and your streets.
Forget a cab, or town car.


Let the turnstile become a turnstyle. Turn the platform into your runway. Impress the wizard by wearing what you want to wear, not what the vogue sitting upon smooth leather town car seats tells you to wear.

Lurking in the corner of Yigal's lobby, nose-deep in a blackberry message, waiting to enter the showroom, a fashion magazine writer of self-defined importance made a New York faux pas. She let me see the white in her eyes.

As she retreated and looked at her blackberry begging it to give her a reason to break eye contact, I realized she was just as lonely and small in this city as I was. Her clothes screamed confidence, but her eyes, her soul, sent me on an Alice in Wonderland adventure of unexpected twists and turns only to see that she was nothing more than feeble and timid.

I've come to notice one of the most sacred things to a New Yorker just after their closet-sized apartment is eye contact.

To them, eye contact is like a custom-made gown. Stored and only revealed on special occasions. The act of connecting with someone is far too inappropriate for day to day purposes.

Such a lonely way to live. Shutting out any human connection besides the people you deem worthy. Like a kettle screaming, and no one pouring the tea. The warmth that can build up inside you, the delicate emotions, the pungent aroma that only you give off.

Just think of the stories that lie behind the glazed-over eyes who have experienced the desperation of sleeping on steam vents and lonely park benches. Those stories are so deeply rooted within ones soul that their eyes can't help but draw you in to their tragedy. Perhaps that is why they hide their eyes. Never look up, just shake a cup knowing you won't drop a dime in. Why should they share their stories with people who don't appreciate the triumph and sorrow their eyes could share?

It seems fashion has become the New York form of eye contact. With fashion we can control the depth in ourselves to which someone sees. We can tell our story through silhouettes and color, labels and excessiveness. It is the ultimate way in which to control all perceptions.


Vulnerability lies within us all. The unfortunate desire to hide it and cover it in designer labels and bug-eyed sunglasses is shameful. It is the mis-perceptions of confidence and security that lead us to wear another layer, a scarf, or bag twice our size.

The more you have the more important you are. So being brave enough to bare your soul and make eye contact is like walking through Times Square naked. It is unforgettable, unexpected, unlike any other form of intoxication. An eye-catching drunken stupor.







Walking the Brooklyn Bridge is just as wonderful as it sounds.
Don't judge the headband. Not my finest choice.

And feel free to comment! I rather enjoy a good comment!

While some live and breathe for their art, others just pass it by. What we create in silence, speaks volumes.

I walk to the beat of change bouncing around in a cup. As the rain falls down once again, it all plays out like an symphony. It is a song so overly-orchestrated and over-powering that I can feel the vibrations radiate in my chest. A musical piece that sends you soaring before crashing down as 3-inch heels chime in with someone's only dime to create a deafening masterpiece of irony.

I can't help but notice the juxtaposition of deprivation and indulgence that lingers on every cross street in the Garment District. Hollow eyes full of stories. Empty pockets full of hope. Broken hearts holding on. Half-filled cups of change dancing around on crowded streets.

It seems 12 blocks of numb toes creates a delirium of metaphors and similies between fashion and the city as it lives and breathes. You see, interns are really no different than those hungry, hollow eyes sitting under awnings. Both are begging for something. Opportunity. Acknowledgement. Understanding. Fishbowl eyes and open mouths, waiting for someone to throw us a line and pull us out of a masochist state of being.

The things humans do to achieve their idea of success is almost revolting. We "pay our dues" to justify our success. We forgo lunch breaks to earn an ironic "brownie point." We slave away on something that someone either throws away or calls their own. We are subservient to those who probably have a hard time spelling their own name. We shove our feet into shoes that allow us the discomfort of feeling our pulse in our toes. We put our dignity aside and shake our empty cups waiting for someone to fill them with our hopes and dreams.

We have been trained from a young age to feel as if one day all things deserved will be handed to us on a silver platter. When we were finally potty trained, we graduated to big girl panties, when we ate our vegetables we got desert, and when we mastered kitten heels we move on to towering stilettos.

Whether it true or not, I find it encouraging that even those sitting high up in a studio watching interns run mindless errands in a monsoon had to shake a figurative cup of change at some point. Had to beg someone to notice. Convince someone to care.

I have settled on the idea that in order to "make it" you have to shake a cup of change, create a sensation , a noise, a symphony. Your noise can be harsh or subtle. Steady, or swift and fleeting. It can be a sweet melody or a suspense prelude.

Your noise can be a cup full of change or heels against the pavement. It doesn't matter. As long as you make a noise. As long as you are heard. No one can take your passion, your dreams, or your chance to shake change into the world.

Umbrellas opened in a mushroom-cloud effect.

It is amazing the sense of empowerment an umbrella can bring. As if you are protecting yourself from something truly life-threatening.

Standing under the overhang just far enough to release my almighty protector, I saw homeless people across the street laying on a muraled bench. Face-up, soaking in every ounce of rain that fell from the sky. It was if there was something magical about the rain, some devine revelation falling from the sky.

Umbrellas popped like popcorn on the way to work. Up and then back down like kernles do as the fluffy white substance forces it's way out. This is first time I witnessed a New Yorker acknowledge a human soul on the streets, by a simple raising of their arm.

I find it fascinating to watch the faces of people under each umbrella. I find it my obligation to decipher just what it is they are trying to protect. There are those protecting their clothes, their bag, their shoes. Then there are those protecting each other, huddled together as if to face the world as a united force. Those who are protecting their ego, walking through the streets without raising an umbrella for a single person, because their protection and safe-cover is all that really matters. Then there are those protecting their souls, white-knuckles clutching the stem as if they fear moisture melting their facade.

It seems finding my place as an intern puddle in the fashion industry, something to walk on, something to find a conceivable annoyance has finally let me feel the rain. The week has stripped me of an umbrella and forced me to feel the realness in a rain drop as it makes contact with my skin. It is tactile sensations, after all efforts to avoid them that bring you back down to reality.

Much to my dismay, I have realized fashion is not saving the world. It is protecting our skin, keeping us from feeling anything real. The euphoria of cashmere agaisnt your chest. The coolness of silk as it passes under your fingers. The feeling of defiance an open-back blouse can bring you. All beautiful illusions.

What is real is a rain drop on your forehead, a dimple-inducing smile, and sustainable passion when people try to break you down. That is real.

oh, sunny days in Little Italy.

And miniture cupcakes in SoHo

People pour out into the streets as the sun dips behind clouds. Strange how the sun hides as people come out.



Rod iron gates disappear into oblivion. Lights flicker on. The day is here to stay.



Like clockwork people go in and out of hiding. In a city so over-inhabited, over-indulged, and over-stimulated the idea of hiding is ludricous. In Manhattan, your personal space is all you have. You treasure it, protect it, carve out places for all each and every one of your favorite things.



As I unpacked carbon-colored washed lamb leather jackets I felt as if the jacket had a life way beyond my years. It is the kind of jacket you live in. The kind of jacket that has a history. A jacket that is a part of your journey, today, tomorrow, 10 years from now. It is the kind of jacket that makes you feel safe enough to come out of hiding and brave the city alone.



Fashion is no different than a favorite blanket, a stuffed animal, or a lucky charm. Something about the inanimate object breathes life into you, protects you, and speaks you to.



Vulnerability festers in this city. Thats why people hide. Everyone is compensating. Life in Manhattan is like a battlefield, everyone sizing you up, beating you down, forcing you to realize just how insignificant you really are. Nothing beyond a New Yorker's hole-in-the-wall of a home is important. To them, the holiday sweater stashed in their oven is more worthy of concern than you.



Whether the stoop you stumble out of is on the Upper East Side or the Bronx, the wind created from people walking by seems to steal every ounce of protection lingering from your safe haven. The city sucks you in and spits you out.



Fashion has become a defense mechanism. As humans we crave to envelope ourselves in an armor. Whether that armor is knowledge, an umbrella, or a washed-leather jacket, we seek cover from the storm.





The more pretentious and important you feel you are, the more protected you become.



Let fashion craddle you, lull you, save you. Without it, you are barenaked against the elements.

The streets were wet this morning- perhaps symbolizing the cleansing of yesterday's transgressions. After rain I always feel unashamedly hopeful.

As I sat atop a cosy studio wedged between fabric stores putting style numbers on the Resort Collection for the showroom, I saw light shine down in the foot and a half alley. It was at that moment that I felt the pulse of the city. The city had come alive again. The rain had spilled into the streets only to forgive what was unforgivable, to heal was was broken, and to rekindle what may have blown out.

As many people say, only two things in life are certain. Death and taxes. Does this mean we all hold the eraser? I know we write our own stories, but can we edit them as well?

Making patterns on the work table newly lit by the narrow alley, I drew the lines so deliberately. But I always knew I had the power to erase the unwanted line if it strayed. I always had the option to make a curve deeper, a hemline shorter, a grainline cut on the straight of grain rather than bias. Though all those decision had been made by someone else already, I ultimately held the power.

In the end, we can choose to write our story, our legacy, our history in a language only someone with that immense amount of passion can read. Or we can choose to let someone else have the byline. We can crumple it. Edit it. Doodle till it is nearly illegible. Or we can erase and start all over.

The sad part is that people forget the beauty, the opportunity, the genius that lies in a mistake, a rainy morning, or an uneven hem.


Upon pondering the brilliance found in mistakes whilst I sat on a cold metal stool at a wooden work table, I turned the pencil to erase a line only to find the eraser was no more.

The line screamed at me. Scorned me. Reminded me of the imperfections that simmer within humans. An eraser had become my protector instead of my nemisis.

At the end of it all. Accidents turn into art. Imperfections turn into an unexplained beauty. And a rainy days escort sunshine into alleys and gutters where brokendown men with no hope can find the strength to write their own story without erasing their past. Just as rainy days come and go, patterns are worked and re-worked- our past is, and will always, be a part of us, but it does not have to define our future. It is human struggle that makes you real. It is the imperfections that keep you out of Madame Tousseau's wax museum.

To be unashamed is to be beautiful. In understanding the shortcomings you can appreciate talent, the drive, the ambition, and the heart.

Not every story is beautiful from start to finish. The fashion industry is tediuous, strenuous, exhausting, and unglamourous. The process is not beautiful- it is only the final product, in it's entirety, that is beautiful.

Today. I write in pen.

The brisk wind this morning should have been some clue as to how hectic my day would be. The streets were packed and my feet still sore from rummaging in China Town yesterday .

First days are always tricky. There's that crucial first impression, firm but not bone-breaking handshake, and the illusion of confidence you portray so as to not appear completely incompetent. All the way up on the 7th floor in an old warehouse type studio sits the most eccentric and quaint design house with old wooden floors and full of dusty books, worn in leather shoes and bags, corroded metal signs, weathered shelves and odds and ends you can only find at the estate sale of someone with a sharp eye for hidden beauty.

The entrance is calm and quiet. But behind the white door that reads "leave closed ALWAYS" lies the hum of a cutter, the clink of a hanger on a garment rack, and the swoosh of an empty skim non-fat latte with three shots of god knows what from starbucks hitting the stainless steele trashcan.

Forget the disillusioned stigma of glamour and fabulousness that comes with all who live and breathe fashion. The fashion industry doesn't wait. Not for anything. The fashion industry abides by the wisdom : "use your resources." And for those who abide in Manhattan, the city is your resource, your playground, your enemy. Not an evil enemy, but an enemy who holds the key to something you want, nay something you need. Because you see a button isn't just a button, red silk shantung isn't just red silk shantung- it all holds meaning and value and speaks to people who choose to listen.

As I pounded the streets of the garment district delivering fabric, sourcing fabric, taking garments to Yigal's photoshoot, I realized something. Though not profound, in the midday heat and on a stomach begging for a lunch break, I realized the fashion industry is just like life, decisions must be made in the spur of the moment, you always hurry up to wait, someone is always higher than you on the totum pole, and you always put in so much work to seem effortlessly chic.

As for my place notched out on the totum pole...sitting pretty at the bottom, knowing it takes years to become an "overnight success."

Lunch on the steps

Chinatown.