Paris, Paintings, Party Skirts
And a Hawaiian recommendation or two.
A strange thing about being alive these days, among any number of strange things (a list of which would likely be both utterly harrowing and endless) is that everything can be totally gut-wrenchingly awful, and the art can still be great. Why yes, I’m bastardizing Kurt Vonnegut, and yes, it probably wasn’t even that original a thought when he said it, but look, it felt especially the case last weekend in Paris, when I slipped past an anti-war protestation and waited in the drizzle outside the Musée d’Orsay for 20 minutes to see a new exhibition by Nathanaëlle Herbelin.
The show is called Être Ici est une Splendeur (“Being Here is Everything”) after the Marie Darrieussecq book of the same name on Paula Modersohn-Becker, a German painter who in 1906 between pal-ing around with Rilke apparently became the first woman in the history of art to paint herself pregnant and nude, and whose work may have played a crucial role in Picasso’s famed painting of Gertrude Stein, among other uncredited or just under-sung feats. Her pregnant self-portrait directly inspired Herbelin’s own, and though neither artist was actually pregnant at the time of painting, they both were shortly after; in the show notes Herbelin even credits the painting with manifesting her pregnancy, a little. (That’s where the comparisons end; Modersohn-Becker died shortly after she gave birth, at 31, and never got much in the way of recognition.)
Herebelin’s paintings (on view until June 30) are intimate and lovely and proudly indebted to the works that usually hang at the d’Orsay, paintings by the likes of Pierre Bonnard, Édouard Vuillard, and Félix Vallotton who so beautifully depict domestic scenes and daily life—just hers feature the odd aux cord, laptop, electronic kettle, standing fan, discarded sneaker, or ashtray. The lovely junk that makes up real life, in other words. In the painting Jeremie au Bain, 2023 she captures her husband, sloe-eyed and fully nude and partially submerged in the tub, and the piece he wrote to accompany it in the show notes reads in part:
“I know that, one day, they will all see me without my stomach pulled in, the good and the bad. It might feel like the sting when you graze your knee during the summer when you’re twelve years old. Maybe it will cause the silent devastation of older children’s laughter. Or no more than just a burning on my cheeks, serene as night… I don’t think about it. For the moment I float, my skin wrinkled; it’s my birthday. On the floor is a book and a coffee that has barely been touched. We are born blind to ourselves, alone in only ever being able to see what we look like in images. I lend you my body so I can see what you see. So I can become your eyes. Just for a moment, I’ll know what the snow and the sea is to you, love and eating dates. Then I’ll let the water out and we’ll go for a walk.”
And look, that may be the most romantic thing I’ve ever read, but it occurs to me that all of these paintings are love letters, too, in their way. Even the ones of the light shifting across empty bedrooms or dining tables or cat faces or night swimming or just cracked oeufs à la coque. Maybe especially those.
“I like painting the sincerity of all that makes up the world, from major events to minuscule anecdotes,” Herbelin writes in the notes that accompany the exhibition, which charmingly incorporates passages from her friends and subjects, fellow painters, critics, museum curators, and her mother. “Painting is such a strange thing to do, isn’t it? To take oil, pigments, to build an image stroke by stroke, despite the fact that today we can do it so much more easily on a computer. The fact that it still exists is really quite incredible… It’s nice to think that something is irreplaceable!” Agreed!
Anyway: go see the show it if you find yourself in Paris before the end of June. It’s worth the unfortunately inevitable queue (buy a timed ticket in advance online, but still be prepared to wait).
Paris? You’re thinking. Didn’t you say you were going to Hawaii? I did, didn’t I? Well I didn’t lie. We went to Hawaii right before, to the newish Rosewood Kona Village, which we loved, even though the weather only partially cooperated. (No matter: all that black volcanic rock looks good with a dramatic sky.) We saw baby whales breaching one morning while out on an outrigger canoe. (And a sea turtle and a happily rolling seal and a fair amount of fish, too, via snorkel—a pursuit I avoided for ages because of how dorky it looked, and I’m so relieved I got over myself, it’s so fun.) I highly recommend the brand new [1-year-post total rehaul after being flattened by a tsunami in 2011] Kona Village if you’re looking for a good spot on the big island. The rooms are beautiful and chic and so comfortable, the views are spectacular, the hotel’s spa is a dream, the staff is perfect, and the restaurants are top notch, including a brand new sushi bar by the pool. It still feels like the kind of place my friends who used to come here told me about, where you came to unplug and unwind and reconnect and consider whether or not to move to Hawaii. (I would like to!)
One night I wore the Ulla Johnson party skirt above and greatly enjoyed it, even at a particularly moody and windswept sunset. (As usual, we didn’t take enough pictures, so, sorry mom, for the hair in my face.) Really, I can’t recommend party skirts enough for a vacation. (I’m not sure “party skirt” is a real term but I’m going for it for the obvious reason that you almost certainly know exactly what I mean.) The kind of thing you can wear them over a swimsuit during the day to lunch or town, or with a nicer top to a night out, or like I did, with a moth-eaten shrunken cashmere sweater from high school to dinner at the excellent Moana restaurant, where a man soon revealed to be will.i.am sat nearby, drumming on the table with his silverware as accompaniment to the live music. Was he picking up on the party vibes from my skirt? Who can say! (I posted some more island vacation outfit ideas on my ShopMy, along with updated skin-care and all that jazz, if you’re here looking for that kind of thing.)
Home, I dumped the sand out of my suitcase, threw on a true goes-with-everything-everywhere long black cashmere coat, and turned around and flew to Paris for a few days for Saut Hermès, the annual showjumping competition hosted by the iconic French luxury house. I will admit that I have not followed showjumping much: I had no idea that an equestrian event could be so… high octane! I will now be tuning into this summer’s showings (the equestrian events will be held at Versailles!), and I will be rooting for specific horses when I do. I will be watching on television, however, not least because Paris itself will be insane. If you’re going, let me know, I want to know what your plans are, and how much extra time you’re factoring in to get around. (Whatever it is, maybe double it?) This time I stayed at the Hotel Lutetia and it was pretty near unimpeachable, as always, from a service perspective especially, though years of fashion weeks mean that all my favorite haunts remain staunchly on the other side of the Seine. But being in the 6th after so long gave me a chance to explore a little, do the whole Saint Germain flâneuse thing, cafés and cruise through Le Bon Marché. We ate at Dragon one night, it was fun! (Dim sum in a plush, sexy spot, red fringed lampshades, you know the deal.) And look, I made a friend:
But perhaps MOST importantly, I picked up a new travel hack! The morning of a flight, send yourself (or whoever is picking you up at the airport / gives a damn) a text of just your flight number (e.g. DL1234). It will automatically become a link that leads you to the most updated flight information, including up-to-the-second gate and departure intel. Extremely handy! Especially when, I don’t know, Delta/Air France decides to cancel your flight for absolutely no reason the morning of?
In happier news: there are very few things in this world as noble and important as good teachers. I myself can fervently remember nearly all of the ones that I loved, from age 4 on up. I think we probably all can, which is part of why Quinta Brunson’s Abbott Elementary is so beloved. (This recent New Yorker profile of Brunson is terrific, too.) I really enjoyed this NYT story about the excellent novelist Tommy Orange (There, There) visiting a 12th grade classroom in the Bronx at the behest of one such hero: Rick Ouimet, an “energetic, pony-tailed” English teacher (“the kind of teacher students remember”) who has worked at Millennium Art Academy for 25 years and reached out to Orange as a kind of hail mary, writing: “In our 12th-grade English classroom, in our diverse corner of the South Bronx, in an under-resourced but vibrant urban neighborhood not unlike the Fruitvale, you’re our rock star. Our more than rock star. You’re our MF Doom, our Eminem, our Earl Sweatshirt, our Tribe Called Red, our Beethoven, our Bobby Big Medicine, our email to Manny, our ethnically ambiguous woman in the next stall, our camera pointing into a tunnel of darkness.” Orange, in the midst of a 24-city tour for his new novel, moved mountains to make a class visit work. It’s a nice restorative hopeful read about the power of good teachers. ("Through it all, Ouimet stood quietly at the side of the room. He shot gentle stink eye at a gaggle of chatty girls. He used a long wooden pole to open a window. Mostly, he just beamed like a proud parent at a wedding where everyone is dancing.”) My heart!
More things I am loving: Spalwart sneakers. They’re understated, they’re just a little sporty, they feel both Scandi and seventies in a good way. They’re not cheap but they are seasonless and you will wear them a lot. Endorse! Re_grocery; organic refillable dried goods (including, pivotally, home cleaning supplies! which typically involve SO MUCH PLASTIC!) at three locations in Los Angeles. I’m obsessed with it, and with a vision of myself as the type of person who has a pantry full of perfectly monitored glass vessels only and definitely not a body half made of microplastics. Baby steps, I guess. Joanna Czech’s skincare line (and new LA studio!). Joanna is a genius, and so is everything she touches. Very glad she’s on this coast now. Susan Orlean’s Substack, the latest edition of which is literally about clothes hangers but somehow still a treat. This very cute and super soft new workout set, which is encouraging me to keep up good habits and get my ass to pilates despite travel wreaking havoc with my routine. If I were putting together an Easter basket for next weekend, would I include this frog prince sugar egg? I might! I would also advise skipping the Cadbury Creme Egg (which I’m sorry, are and have always been truly and deeply foul, I’ll die on that hill) and go for one of these babies instead. I’ve been re-watching Lisa Kudrow’s The Comeback on Max, and my god, that show was so brilliantly ahead of its time, and just so, so funny. Finally, this carry-on, which I’m sure I’ve mentioned before, whose subtle straps attach to my other carry-on, has been a lifesaver, especially post-red-eye when you can’t handle another single moment being in the airport, let alone stopping to readjust your “smaller personal item” because it keeps sliding off and twisting around. Mine has my initials on it in big red letters, so if you see me in the airport, say hi. (Unless I’m running, or it’s after a red-eye, in which case let’s maybe pretend you didn’t.)
Other news: my profile of Ayo Edebiri is in this month’s Vogue. You’re right, it does feel like you two would be best friends! (She’s great fun to get omakase with, I will say.) A part of our conversation that had to be cut for space was about how tricky it is navigating fame in a digital media landscape where people are writing fan fiction about your dorky middle school yearbook page and stopping you for selfies when you’re crying with a friend on a park bench. I hope she makes room to explore that, as her particular star shows no signs of fading fast and her inherent “relatability” (a term which Quinta Brunson, actually, made me consider in a whole new light when we spoke for this piece) makes her especially prone to that kind of attention, and its pitfall, possible subsequent resentment.
I also wrote a flowery little ode to IRL retail and Carmel, California for La Catena:
Transcendent shopping experiences like the kind that have for years shaped my sensibility — as a dresser and a fashion editor but also as a person in the world, a sybarite, a sensualist, a lover of things and an appreciator of someone else welcoming me into their vision of how best to see and experience those things — have become truly few and far between, if not utterly unsustainable. As a person of several decades of shopping experience, it gives me no pleasure at all to report that excitement around retail is at an all time low. It’s no one’s fault, really, or no one entity in particular. Thanks to the internet, things became wildly widely available, and soon everyone began to stock and sell the same things, and then no one went anywhere to get anything at all, and when they did, they felt dumb, because they could have gotten all of it online, from home, without putting their shoes on. So when La Catena asked me to venture a few hours north of my home in Los Angeles to visit and celebrate Carolina Bucci’s new shop inside a Fourtané jewelry store in Carmel, I was intrigued. Could such an adventure, ogling jewels in a storybook Californian setting, rekindle my long simmering love of shopping in person?
Spoiler: it did! I love real physical stores! I wish there were more great ones around. I wish I was brave (and financially backed) enough to open one! If you think about it, when it’s done right it’s just a different kind of storytelling…
That’s all I have for you at the moment! With upcoming travel schedules being what they are I’m considering taking this show to a monthly newsletter, rather than over-promising/under-delivering weekly/fortnightly/whatever we landed on last. (See what I mean?) What do you think? Maybe it’ll just come when it comes and we won’t judge each other too harshly. Also no one took me up on personal agony aunt advice last time, which is a good hint to mind my own business. Note taken!
Love you. Thanks for being here, it means everything. As always, I’m just an email away. More soon. xx