Lux Lotus

On Practicality

One of the best ways to learn how you've changed is to do things exactly the way that you've enjoyed doing them in the past, and see how you feel. My vibe in London this year was very different than last year, when I changed my ticket three times to extend my stay. I still love London, but I live in New York, for the moment.

Yesterday, I was walking with my sister, and she said something to the effect of liking my new "relaxed, natural" look, which consisted of a black knit suit, white blouse, and sandals. I could see what she meant, although I think of it as an evolution, "soft glamour," versus "hard glamour." After I went through my meditating-in-the-woods phase a few years ago, it seemed to the outside world that I went in the opposite direction. Not really, though; it was just a different kind of solitude. I took a chance on love and got my heart smashed into a thousand pieces, and really did feel as though I wanted to go live on a distant star in a different era; no one talks to you when you look as though you're made of diamond ice with sequins trailing to the floor. I enjoyed having the distance that I needed at the time, and whatever I needed to get out of it, it's done. Glamour was a beautiful cloak.

Now, I face my birthday in June, and I think about the direction of my life, as I always do, as I am not getting any younger although I am grateful for the experience and the life I have been fortunate to enjoy thus far. Every day is a gift. And I remind myself of Jenny Holzer's maxim, printed on a wooden postcard a dear friend gave me long ago: Turn soft and lovely, any time you have a chance. I've put the furs in the back of the closet, for a few seasons, maybe forever. I'm open to an array of new possibilities now. And I do.

Windowlicker

Last night I arrived home, vases of peonies and lilies comprising a most gracious setting, and as I was falling asleep in my own bed, so unbelievably soft and cloud-like I couldn't believe I'd never thought of it in precisely that way, I actually thought, maybe I'm so content that I'll never want anything again... and then I woke up and saw the Petrossian catalogue and that one of the baskets is devoted to "elevenses." Given the day that I've had, intended to be a soft landing, and electric and opposite, a civilized little break for pleasure has never sounded nicer. Thank heavens for Fridays.

[Aprés-Midi basket, $170 at Petrossian; caviar, et al, additional]

Windowlicker is from the French for browsing: faire du lèche-vitrine.

Postcards From Mayfair

Letter From London

Today it rained, and after a foray for bubble bath supplies, and, as luck would have it, a cut-price orchid, I listened to the particular tap of the cool rain on the skylight of my room under the eaves, turned on Chet Baker, and napped on and off all afternoon, intermittently dipping into 'Dreaming in French: The Paris Years of Jacqueline Kennedy, Susan Sontag and Angela Davis,' before ambitiously branching out to a cozy leather chair in the library with a pot of tea, a cucumber sandwich and 'Cold Comfort Farm.' My favorite passage from the former: 'Living on Paris time, six hours later than their friends back on campus and their families at home, they would experience, over a period of many months, an isolation from much that was familiar, and a particular form of solitude. With that solitude came the greatest luxuries: the time to read, the opportunity to wander, and the chance to think new thoughts.'

Letter From London

I haven't written much lately for a number of reasons: too much visibility, a newfound interest in private affairs... and I am afraid my feelings in Manhattan will apply to Mayfair, too. So I apologize in advance to those checking in daily for news of my adventures. There are indeed gowns and palaces still to come, and last night, I was shown a secret door disguised as a bookshelf in a billiards room (hint: look for the hiccup in the molding, not the books). Today I am grateful, in my girlish American way, for the competent heroism of English men. A shadow was cast over my weekend with regard to my accommodations, and just when I thought things were most dire, my phone began ringing at 8:30a.m. and crisis was averted. It is nice to be thought of so well, and so often, as I've discovered since I've been here. And with that, off I go.

Postcard From Mayfair

There's nothing that champagne with Claire at the Ritz at six won't fix.

On Departures

Lovely work night at MoMA with Publication Studio, where we revelled in the gaffe that I made (Portland, Oregon vs. Maine) that led straight to one of the most beautiful connections of my life. Now at home, I'm still swanning about in my red sweetheart dress complete with crinoline: swish, swish, swish. Packed for London in ten minutes, my sister, at first, "Are you sure you want to do that after cocktails?" –– soon after, mightily impressed. I have it down to a carry-on, formalwear and all, per usual. Sure, sacrifices must be made. I'll fish the pounds out of the cookie jar, and then I'm off to dreamland, and England tomorrow for a week.

On Resolutions

Lately I have been pondering where to go for my birthday. Despite it being the most important day of the year in my calendar, I have seldom had it to myself, as most years as an adult I have been obligated to work that evening. This year, however, I have decided that I would like to take a true vacation while I turn thirty-three. I would like more than anything to go to Morocco but I don't think that would be a fun trip to take alone. What then? That old Ljubljana-Trieste-Venice route I've fantasized about? Or, perhaps most usefully of all, I return to a wistful post of a couple of years ago: "Today was my birthday. Did I get everything I wanted? Sure, in that I didn't want anything... I made myself two promises at midnight a few minutes ago: one, create a life where a maxi Alhambra necklace materializes like the most natural thing in the world, and next year, wake up, slowly, in Saint-Tropez."

On Rebirth

Lately, I've been thinking about the possibility that comes with each new season as a way of understanding what might be possible at the dawn of each new day, in its full array a beautiful cycle of darkness and light and a microcosm of our lives at their peak potential. This weekend has been utterly magical, in the coziest and most charming, and promising of ways. Friday night, two friends, endearingly smitten with each other, came over for dinner and brought with them the glorious abundance of a freshly-baked pie and very thoughtfully chosen digestifs. All evening was a wonderful exchange of ideas and enthusiasms, and at one point, I brought up Caresse Crosby's memoir of bohemian-heiress-Paris, and had to read the first few sentences aloud, although it's the very first that I think of most often: "I'll never forget the day I was born -- born to myself, that is." Last night I took the subway, which I've decided to favor in lieu of taking cars everywhere, so that I may work less, and went out to dinner at a Himalayan restaurant that adjusted my thinking in all the right ways, and reminded me of many beautiful memories. This morning, I declared my intentions early on: to spend the day in bed, and so I have. Tonight, another dinner party with friends uptown. Tomorrow, more. Later this week, London, and then...?

On Oversight

I had to be reminded tonight, how nice it is to be called baby, baby, while assuredly tugged by the hand through the private entrance.