I am, by nature, a superstitious person. I suspect at its root that most of humanity is. Life is too unknowable, and has probably always been too harsh and unpredictable to not look for explanations. I don’t mean “superstitious” in a neurotic Woody Allen character way: I step on sidewalk cracks and walk under ladders when I have to; I don’t throw salt over my shoulder (most of the time), and I always forget to say “rabbit rabbit." (I did used to hold my breath when we drove past graveyards, but I think everybody in my elementary school did that—blame New England, with its puritanical roots and lingering wisps of witchiness.) I like to think that in my work and life I project an air of calm rationality. But in my heart of hearts I am somewhere in the ancient world, scrabbling around for direction in shards and feathers, peering at the stars.
I know that this isn’t logical: if you flip a coin, your chances are always 50/50, even if you broke a mirror, or put your purse on the ground, or a raven looked at you, or you’re wearing the outfit you wore when that guy broke your heart. The idea that we can control our fates through small acts and secret signals is silly, really—a (deeply understandable) pipe dream for a terrifyingly unpredictable universe. But in a time when dumb luck seems to really run the table, from these ongoing FAA frights to what does or doesn’t fall into the path of a fire, I don’t think I am alone in seeking a little extra support from my immediate surroundings, even if it’s more symbol than sense. And nothing is more intimate or more personally immediate than jewelry, the small talismans we carry every day.
I only really wear personal jewelry, with any regularity anyway. I wear two of my late grandmother's rings every day, and have since I got them, as a teenager, in the years after she died. My finger has grown around one of them, a pale indent marking the size I was when I got it, age 16. Presumably life only got better from there, because I never stopped wearing it. When my friend and I were pickpocketed at a beach club in Sardinia during summer break from university, I had first taken my rings off to swim, and then immediately felt some undertow to put them back on before turning my back to our belongings. My mother likes to say that was the ghost of my grandmother. (It’s true that she would not have liked my losing her jewelry. She was a big believer in the life-changing power of glamour, of which she was living proof.) Though you might well say that it was something else inherited, i.e. common sense: don’t leave your jewelry on the beach, no matter how nice the beach club. But I knew that losing the rings would’ve been different than losing my credit cards. They were irreplaceable—even if there had been duplicates out there, they would never have connected me in that way to my grandmother, from her skin to mine. Wearing them makes me feel close to my family, to history, to myself. They serve as an anchor, even if one suffers the daily indignity of brushing up against an Oura ring, for which I have a different kind of devotion. My family jewelry was the only stuff that I asked Jason to pack when he was fixing up the go bags during the fires. Everything else I could imagine a life without.
I know that many of my friends have similar attachments to the pieces they wear every day, even if they don’t put so fine a point on it, or not out loud. Where the superstition comes in? It’s dumb but here goes: if I wear a new piece of jewelry and something bad happens, or I have a markedly bad day, I won’t wear it again. (Unless, in the case of the JAR rose petal earrings I somehow never seem to have a great night in, they’re really some earrings, meaning I will continue to try at intervals that are unpredictable, even really to me.) I hadn’t really thought too much about it, it was just a (slightly embarrassing) part of my personality, like preferring certain kinds of novels or dogs or the BBC Pride and Prejudice box set to the later versions. And then I met a jeweler late last year who told me that she works with an astrologer in India who can tell her—sometimes even just from seeing a photo, over the phone—whether a stone is “good” for her or not, meaning whether its energy is good for her or not. Apparently she once bought a fabulous antique diamond ring at auction before asking, and when he saw it he told her to perform a cleansing ritual and then bury it forever. She got a second opinion and the second guy told her to throw it in the ocean. So presumably, it wasn’t good for anybody. (She said she got rid of it.) It made me wonder about what exactly it was about a certain stone that magnetizes or repels us. Even without the potential for accidentally inherited good or bad juju, what makes us want to put a thing next to our skin, and keep it there? Does it ground us, or lift us up? Is it to remind us, to reinforce, or to reinvent?
When I first met Starling Jewelry’s founder Chelsey Bartrum late last year, we bonded over a shared love of signature jewelry (she has great taste), dogs, and life as recent-ish LA transplants (me more recent than her), and when she asked me a few weeks ago if I wanted to guest edit her brand's custom gem drop for February, I was thrilled. Starling releases a set number of one-of-a-kind stones every month, and you can pick the ring or charm setting, color, and size, and make it totally your own. I thought it was a brilliant idea: the one thing I never want—especially in something as personal and in my case, often permanent, as jewelry—is something everyone (or really anyone) else has. I have found that all the chicest women I know have this in common. Lucky for us, her stones are totally unique.
"Sometimes, I'm able to have a lot of information on the stone, including the exact mine it came from and when it got mined. And sometimes they're post-consumer, so they're recycled. Sometimes, they're newer stones. They're all one of a kind,” Chelsey told the Coveteur last year. "I think that's beautiful.” She’s also drawn to stones with visible inclusions (rare for a fine jewelry line, who tend towards optimal clarity, though now in the age of lab-grown stones, personally I think pure perfection can now look fake). The pear shaped grey Tanzanian sapphire I picked, with its pair of subtle earthy flecks at the edge, reminded me of images of celestial bodies seen from space, the iris of an eye, a dinosaur egg; something natural and ageless and ancient. Chelsey’s said that she likes the inclusions, too: “I think it tells more of the story of how the stone's grown over millions of years; you can see those patterns and those pictures in the stone, and it can tell your own story about the gem and why you love it. There's some beautiful poetry in it.”
So I let instinct lead, and the stones I was drawn to were not what I had expected: I had gone in thinking about bristling clear diamonds and rich green emeralds, and I’d come out with cool blues, a fresh leaf green, some glowing gold, a deep, explosive orange filled with what looks like gilded confetti. They all made sense together, somehow; they told a tight little story that was about this time and place but also far beyond it. We agreed they were perfect for February. And then when I got home, lacking an astrologer to FaceTime, I looked them up.
The cabochon citrine so perfectly round it looks like a lozenge or a dew drop from heaven, is a stone that in ancient times was carried as protection against snake venom and evil thoughts. The gilt-flecked cushion cut imperial topaz would make the perfect amulet to hang from a trusted chain (I think horizontally, but dealer’s choice)—and the Ancient Greeks, too, believed it gave the wearer strength. The perfect deep dream of an oceanic blue of the London Blue topaz is prized for clarity of thought, peace, tranquility, and self expression. And the sapphires, from the grey and amber flecked pear shaped treasure from the bed of the Umba river in Tanzania that reminded me of the cosmos to the pair of leaf green and teal Sri Lankan stones (that I think belong together as a deeply special toi-et-moi) historically represented a deep goodness: trust, loyalty, and sincerity, protecting the wearer from envy, attracting divinity. Ancient Persian rulers believed that the earth rested on a giant sapphire, and its reflection is what made the sky blue. They’ve been believed to bring spiritual enlightenment and devotion to Buddhists, or used as offerings at Hindu temples. When traveling to the oracle’s shrine at Delphi, I read, the Greeks wore sapphires for wisdom.
I guess what I was feeling was that we could all use some peace, some protection, some new talismans and treasures to have and hold and eventually even maybe pass on. Go check out the bespoke gems dropping at Starling, if you’re interested, and see what speaks to you. I think that you’ll find something special there. I did. Maybe you’ll never take it off. Maybe every time you look at it you’ll think about the soft sweetness of the past and the deep joys of the present and where you want to find yourself in the future, who you want to become. Maybe it’ll change your life.
A FEW OTHER QUICK DELIGHTS WHILE YOU’RE HERE:
[RE]READ: The Girls Guide to Hunting and Fishing by Melissa Bank. I hadn't read this book in years, and I had forgotten how absolutely wonderful it is. Shades of Cassandra at the Wedding and I Capture the Castle, with a touch of my beloved Laurie Colwin and Nora Ephron thrown in…everything good. A perfect escape from reality to the not so distant past (young adulthood!) and you can read it in an afternoon. I also read Adam Ross’ Playworld, which is a bildungsroman set in New York and its immediate environs during the Carter administration (it continues through to the Bush sr. years) and does that incredibly hard thing which is to get a place as complicatedly enormous as New York City perfectly right. He does it by drilling down into the deeply lived in and personal parts. I recognized it all, even though I wasn’t born yet. I feel like I’d been in all those apartments, I could smell the hallways of his prep school. Recommend.
WATCH: Bridget Jones’ Diary: Mad About the Boy on Peacock (shame on them for only streaming it) is an utter delight. A blissful return to form after the discouragingly dumb two films that followed the first. It’s silly, it’s warm, it’s wonderful, the whole cast is back, with some excellent new additions, Hugh Grant is a gift. I think you’ll love it. I did.
Asura (Netflix): The great Hirokazu Kore-eda directed a limited series about four strikingly different sisters in 1970’s Japan. It’s a family drama (infidelity! suppressed trauma! envy! endless things left unsaid!) but surprisingly light, and it captures something ineffably true about family, sisters specifically. Also every food scene (of which there are many) made me unspeakably hungry. Genuinely soothing, and great acting.
EAT: The best cookies in Los Angeles are at Fleurs et Sel in West Adams. I’m almost sorry to tell you about them, because they are so good it’s almost life ruining. The owner runs the shop and will walk you through her unique flavor combinations and can make recommendations, but the oatmeal cookie with chocolate and walnuts is a bonafide showstopper. I am also still thinking about the shortbread. Sweet but not too sweet, and ultimately probably too generously sized. Go with the intention of buying a box to share or else you’ll leave wishing you had.
WEAR: I love this little lady bag from Hunting Season in Brick. Just the right size and blissfully not stupidly priced. These excellent suede trousers are the perfect color and make me feel like Marianne Faithfull (RIP— and how funny that The Economist had the best obit?). These pull-on twill pants by TOAST are comfy, flattering, far chicer than sweats or yoga pants and feel vaguely Japanese in a way that makes me feel 60% cooler when I wear them. (Great for now in LA or for proper spring everywhere else.) The wonderful Jane Herman (of the great denim-minded Substack, Jane on Jeans) is a true blue bonafide denim expert, and makes great jeans under her label, The Only Jane. She recently designed a pair inspired by the great and iconic magazine editor Sally Singer, who I had the great honor and pleasure of working under for years at Vogue. So, naturally, I got them. (I also love the Georgia Jean, and the jumpsuits, which are perfect.) For those in L.A., today and tomorrow (Feb 20-21), Jane and a few fellow L.A. designers (including Jamie Haller, who makes perfect penny loafers and simple sandals that everyone loves [including me] and cool pants they should know more about, and beloved jewelry wizard Danielle Sherman) are doing a pop up at +COOP on Beverly blvd today and tomorrow; 10% of proceeds are going to fire relief.
SEE: you at Frieze, probably, which begins today here in Los Angeles, and as always has lots to recommend it. Or at Felix Art Fair, which began yesterday and runs through the 23rd. It is always a kick to take in the visiting art world taking in LA, as well as seeing how people dress up for the occasion.
FINALLY: this wonderful reminiscence about the critical value and importance of editors at The New Yorker (and in general), nails something I think when I read most Substacks (including, sigh, my own): god, I wish there was an editor involved.
Thanks, as always, for being here. It means the world. More soon.
xx ATC